The two figures are getting off the gondola behind me, and this time, they’re not empty-handed. Snowboards. Not tourist rentals—they’re geared up, sleek and professional. Their movements scream one thing: pursuit.
“Shit,” I mutter, bending lower to pick up speed. My poles dig into the snow as I swerve, cutting a sharp line across the slope. They’re faster than I expected, closing the gap with every turn.
The snow sprays behind me as I cut another sharp turn, the path ahead narrowing through a grove of trees. I lean into it, legs burning with effort, but the wind in my ears carries more than just my breathing. The unmistakable sound of board edges carving through the snow—closer, gaining.
I push harder, my muscles screaming in protest. The world blurs as I carve a path between the trees, ducking low to avoid a branch that nearly catches my goggles. Another glance back—mistake. The first man is close now, too close. He raises an arm, a glint of metal catching the sun.
A gun.
“Fuck!” The curse rips out of me as I twist hard, my skis skidding against the snow. The first shot cracks through the air, splintering a tree inches from my shoulder. Splinters spray against my jacket, and I bite back a scream.
“Focus, Clara,” I growl under my breath, cutting through a tight turn that nearly throws me off balance. Another shot rings out, and the snow beside me explodes in a spray of powder.
Motherfucker. Too close. Too damn close.
My breath comes in ragged bursts, the slope ahead opening into a steep drop. I don’t think—I just take it, my body moving on instinct. My skis hit the incline, and the world tips forward as I rocket downward, the wind tearing at my face.
The sound of pursuit doesn’t let up. They’re riding the edge of control, fast and reckless. I glance back just as one of them lifts his weapon again. My foot catches on an unseen bump, and suddenly, I’m airborne, tumbling down the slope in a tangle of limbs and gear.
The impact rattles through me as I hit the snow hard, sliding on my side until I finally stop. Pain shoots through my ribs, mygoggles askew, one pole missing. The mountain is spinning, the sound of board edges screeching above me.
I try to get up, but my legs don’t cooperate. The first man slows to a stop a few feet away, gun raised and steady.
“This is it,” I whisper, my breath fogging in the cold air. My hand scrambles for anything—my other pole, a rock—but I’m exposed, helpless. He takes aim.
The shot comes—but it’s not his.
The man screams, clutching his leg as he collapses into the snow. A second shot follows, and his partner drops his weapon, falling with a grunt.
I blink, stunned, my ears ringing from the echoes. A figure emerges from the trees above, gun raised. Leonid.
He moves with the precision of a predator, his steps deliberate as he closes the distance. His face is a mask of cold fury, the gun in his hand still trained on the downed men. One of them reaches for something in his coat, but Leonid kicks him hard in the ribs, sending him sprawling.
Leonid’s men appear from the shadows like wolves closing in on wounded prey. Three of them, dressed in black, their expressions as cold and unrelenting as the glacier. One yanks the gun from the crawling man’s hand while another cuffs the second, pinning him to the ground.
Leonid spares them only a glance before speaking, his voice low and venomous. “Pizda. You are so dead.”
The man groans under his boot, curling in on himself, and Leonid finally turns to me. His gaze sweeps over my crumpled form, his jaw tightening.
“You hurt?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I manage, though my ribs scream otherwise.
Leonid doesn’t wait for clarification. He strides over, his arm sliding under mine with a firm, unyielding grip. He pulls me tomy feet as though I weigh nothing, steadying me with a hand on my arm. The world spins briefly, but his hold anchors me.
“What about—?”
“Elijah’s safe,” Leonid cuts me off. “You shouldn’t have been out here alone.”
I don’t argue. For once, I don’t have the energy.
53
Clara
“Everything hurts,” I mutter, wincing as the nurse presses a hand lightly against my shoulder. And I meaneverything. My ribs scream when I breathe, and shifting in this oversized armchair sends needles of pain down my spine.
The nurse doesn’t respond. She’s tall, broad-shouldered, and built like she could take a ski slope down in one stride. Her scrubs, a pale green that does nothing for her complexion, fit like they’re about to give up entirely. Her hair is scraped back in a tight bun so severe it makes me want to wince in sympathy.
