No matches.
He hadn’t seen any in the shed either.
Damn it. He turned slowly and looked at Nadia, still shivering on the bed, her skin pale and tight, her breath shallow and uneven.
She had curled onto her side and was just shaking on the bare mattress, small and tight, arms pulled in like she was trying to fold herself smaller.
“Hold on. We’re close,” he growled. He spun and ran back outside, the door slamming behind him. Snow blew sideways, stinging his face, and clumps of ice dropped from the trees to explode at his feet. The wind roared through the camp like it had its own soul.
He ran for the main lodge and kicked the door open. Cold rushed out to meet him. The place was empty and dark, the air stale and sharp. He sprinted into the kitchen, yanking open drawers one after another, hands clumsy with cold and shaking too hard to be precise. Finally, he found one of those lighter things, the kind you had to push the button down hard to get it to spark.
He clicked it.
A flame bloomed, bright and steady.
“Yes,” he muttered.
The lodge was just a gathering place for meals, but maybe there was storage. He ran behind the kitchen and found a few cans of soup and grabbed them blindly, then tore into another storage area and halted for half a second.
Sleeping bags.
Hope careened through him, sharp enough to hurt. He grabbed three of them, and a first aid kit hanging crooked on the wall. He then ran back through the lodge and out into the snow. His feet and legs were numb now, all the way up to his thighs. He stumbled once and caught himself.
That wasn’t good. If he was this cold, he couldn’t imagine what Nadia felt like.
He burst back into the cabin and tossed the sleeping bags onto the bed, ripping them open as he crossed the room. He dropped to his knees at the fireplace and worked fast, stacking the logs he’d brought in. He struck the lighter.
Nothing.
The wood was soaked. Too wet. He snarled under his breath, turned, and grabbed one of the sleeping bags, tearing strips of material away with shaking hands. He shoved the stuffing under the logs, slashed at it with sparks until the smell turned acrid and thick. Smoke filled the room, burned his lungs, and finally the fire caught.
The logs began to burn.
Good.
He moved away from the fire and looked back at her.
She hadn’t twitched.
“Come on, Nadia,” he said quietly. He gently rolled her to check her hip. Blood had soaked into the mattress, dark and spreading. “All right. These aren’t healing and you’re losing too much blood.”
He grabbed the first aid kit and flipped it open. “I’m going to stitch these. It’s going to hurt. I need you to hold your breath.”
“It’s okay,” she said faintly. “I’m numb. I can’t feel much.”
She screamed anyway when the needle pierced her skin.
“Sorry,” he winced.
“It’s okay,” she gritted out, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut. “You can finish,” she whispered.
His hands were sure despite the shaking, warming as he worked, every stitch careful, gentle, fast. Finally, he finished, and his body relaxed. That was tough. He glanced at the cuts on his chest, already healing, then at the blood-soaked mattress.
Slowly, he lifted her to her feet. She winced as her bare soles hit the frozen floor.
“Hold on,” he said.
He tore the remaining piece of the ripped sleeping bag flat and spread it over the mattress to cover the blood, then picked her up again and laid her back down. He unzipped the other two sleeping bags, climbed in beside her, and pulled them over both of them. “Come here.”
