I regret the danger heading his way, but I can’t regret the time we spent together. It was cathartic, and I’ve come out of it stronger. Fiercer. Unlike Ben, who I sure as shit regret my time with, but all these experiences, however painful, have shaped me into who I am today.
The old Dahlia never would’ve rushed off into the Himalayan mountains to save a Yeti. But the new Dahlia does. Because I’m Dahilia fucking Wilde.
But what if this new Dahlia is still not enough? What if I can’t find the cave? What if Eryon won’t forgive me? What if I’ve led Sita to her death? The questions swirl in a chaotic vortex in my mind. A tornado of fear and worry until the anxiety is coiled deep in my center.
I stare at the roof of the tent, my breath curling in the cold air, doubts settling over me with the weight of that damnedavalanche. I’ve come so far, changed so much—but is it enough? Will it ever be?
A gust of wind rattles the fabric, and for a second, I swear I hear something outside. The snap of a branch. The whisper of something moving just beyond the edge of camp.
My pulse jumps. Could it be Ben, lurking in the shadows? Has he found us already? Or could it be Eryon? Hope flares in my chest, that he’s out there, watching, waiting. That he sees I am coming for him.
The wind stills. The night holds its breath, and I hold mine, too. But nothing happens. Ben doesn’t break through the tent walls, and Eryon doesn’t scoop me up in his arms. Sita shifts beside me, her breathing deep and steady, and as I count the thudding beats of my heart, they slowly calm. I take myself back to the quiet and dark of the caves and the stillness there. With one last slow deep breath, I close my eyes, and let exhaustion finally win.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dahlia
Sita wakes me in the early dawn when the sun is just a whisper on the horizon. We roll up our sleeping bags, our movements stiff from the cold, hands fumbling over frozen fabric. The air is thinner at this altitude, biting at every exposed inch of skin. My breath curls in the breaking light, ghostly wisps vanishing into a paling sky.
Sita hands me a steaming cup of tea, and I cradle it between my palms, letting the warmth seep into my frozen fingers. The first sip scalds my tongue, but I don’t care. I need the heat, the illusion of comfort before we begin another grueling day.
The morning is silent but for the rustling of fabric and the distant groan of shifting ice. The mountains are waking, stretching beneath the weight of the cold.
I pull on my gloves and move to break down the tent. That’s when I see them. Just outside the perimeter of our small encampment are impressions in the snow. I blink, the breath stilling in my lungs.
Bigger than any human boot print. Too deep to be from the wind.
I crouch, pressing my fingers to the edge of the indent. The snow is packed firm, the print deep—whatever made this was big. Heavy. A flicker of warmth blooms in my chest before I can stop it. A pull, sharp and aching.
I swallow hard and shove it down. It could be anything. A trick of the snow, a settling drift, or even an animal. Probably the latter.
But still, my fingers linger over the edges of the print, tracing the symmetry of it. A gust of wind kicks up loose powder around me, and I shiver, but it has nothing to do with the cold. Something in my bones hums with awareness, and I know Eryon has been here.
Sita zips up her pack and glances over. “Dahlia?”
I startle, snatching my hand away from the print as if I’ve been caught touching something sacred. The hope is too fragile to voice it out loud, but my heart knows it was him despite my rational mind denying it.
“Yeah,” I say quickly, standing and brushing off my gloves. “Just zoned out for a second.”
She eyes me, then the ground where I was crouching, but doesn’t push.
“We should get moving as soon as you finish your tea,” she says, and I nod, forcing my feet to move. Forcing myself to leave the proof behind, but not the hope. I hang on to it like a lifeline.
As we shoulder our packs and begin our trek upward, I feel it—the weight of unseen eyes. The feeling is burned into my memory, returning ripples along my skin with delicious awareness, and gives me the strength I need to keep going.
The air thins further as we ascend, each step a battle against the mountain’s relentless pull. My thighs burn, my lungs ache, and yet I push forward, refusing to slow. The trail grows moretreacherous with every passing hour, and as I dig my boots into the frozen ground, a thought strikes me.
Eryon carried me down this. What had taken him less than a day is taking us, two determined women, a damned eternity. It’s humbling.
I picture his massive form moving through the snow, effortless and swift, his white fur blending with the storm. Twice he had held me, shielding me from the worst of the cold, never once faltering in his steps. My fingers tingle with the ghost of his velvety skin deep under the fur.
I press a hand against my chest, as if I can still feel the lingering warmth where our bodies had pressed together. Instead, a gust of wind cuts through my layers, and I grit my teeth, pulling my scarf higher over my nose. The world around us is nothing but white and gray, a never-ending blur of snow, stone, and sky. The silence is vast, broken only by the crunch of our boots and the occasional howl of the wind.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any harder, the squall hits. It comes without warning, a violent roar swallowing the world in a matter of seconds. Snow whips through the air, turning the trail into a blind, white abyss.
“Down!” Sita yells over the wind.
We press ourselves into the mountainside, huddling close for warmth. My heart pounds as the wind shrieks, tearing at us like unseen claws. My fingers go numb almost instantly, my thick gloves no match for the ferocity of the terrain. The cold is merciless, insidious, creeping into my bones.
