one
Rue fucking Bristow.
He was going to kill her himself… if she didn’t die first.
The rope in Elliot Wilde’s hands burned through his gloves, the friction eating through leather and skin alike. His shoulders screamed from the sudden weight, muscles locked in a death grip that was the only thing standing between her and a very permanent solution to their problems.
“I’ve got you!” he yelled into the wind, though he wasn’t sure she could hear him over the howling storm. Hell, he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. The anchor point he’d managed to set felt solid, but everything felt solid until it wasn’t.
His boots were planted wide in the snow, every muscle in his body straining against the pull of gravity and one very stubborn woman. The blizzard had come earlier than forecast, turning their carefully planned trek into a nightmare of whiteout conditions and hidden crevasses.
Of course Rue had insisted on taking point. Of course she’d been the one to step on the snow bridge that looked solid but was apparently made of ice crystals and wishful thinking.
The rope jerked again, and he felt the sickening give of his anchor shifting. Not good. Very not good.
“Rue!” His voice cracked on her name. “Can you get any purchase down there?”
The answer came back faint but colorful enough to make a sailor blush. The woman knew how to swear, which he imagined she picked up from her former Navy SEAL dad. At least she was still conscious. And apparently still had enough energy to question his parentage and suggest anatomically impossible activities.
Good. He could work with pissed off. Pissed off meant she wasn’t giving up.
“I’m working on it!” Rue’s voice floated up through the storm, strained but determined. “The walls are slick as hell!”
Elliot gritted his teeth, feeling his stance slip another inch. The burning in his hands intensified, but he didn’t dare adjust his grip. Not when one moment of weakness could send her plummeting.
“Keep trying!” he shouted back, blinking away the ice crystals that clung to his eyelashes. “Find anything—a ledge, an outcropping, anything!”
The rope shuddered as she presumably searched the crevasse walls with her boots. Each movement sent jolts of pain through his shoulders and back. His muscles were already approaching their limit, fatigue setting in where adrenaline couldn’t compensate.
The wind shifted, driving snow directly into his face. He turned away, squinting against the assault, and that’s when he felt it—a subtle but unmistakable give in the snow beneath his right boot.
Shit.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The entire ledge was compromised, not just the section Rue had fallen through. They were both standing—or in her case, hanging—on borrowed time.
“Rue!” The panic in his voice was impossible to hide now. “I’m going to try to pull you up. When I say so, I need you to help. Climb the rope if you can.”
“Well, that sounds ominous!” she shouted back. “What’s wrong?”
Of course she’d pick up on it. Even in a blizzard, dangling over a void, Rue Bristow was nothing if not perceptive.
“Just a slight change of plans,” he lied, shifting his weight carefully to the left, testing for more solid footing.
There wasn’t any. The entire section was a death trap of snow-covered nothing.
His mind raced through options, each one worse than the last. If he tried moving backward, he risked destabilizing their precarious position further. If he stayed put, they’d eventually both go down when the snow gave way completely. If he tried to haul her up quickly, the sudden movement might trigger the collapse.
He made his decision.
“Rue, listen carefully,” he said, voice steady despite the fear clawing at his insides. “On my count, I’m going to pull. You climb. Whatever happens, don’t stop climbing.”
“Whatever happens?” Her voice had lost its playful edge. “Elliot, what aren’t you telling me?”
“Just trust me.” He tightened his grip, ignoring the raw agony in his hands. “One... two...”
The snow beneath him shifted again, more dramatically this time.
“Three!”
