She shook her head, clearing away the thought.
Ugh, this right here was the problem with amazing sex. It made you think crazy things. Made you forget who you were.
She pulled the blanket tighter around herself and limped toward the kitchenette. Her ankle was still swollen, but Elliot’s wrapping job had helped. The pain had receded to a dull throb that she could push to the background with minimal effort. She’d hiked out of the Andes with worse.
She found a jar of instant coffee and set about making it, needing something to do with her hands.
And once again, the thought struck like lightning?—
Maren was dead.
Logically, she’d known it for the past year. But knowing and seeing were two different kinds of devastation.
She braced for the overwhelming punch of grief to hit her again, and it was there, but underneath it was a burning need to understand why this happened.
And to make someone pay.
But… who?
Atlas?
No. She instantly discarded the thought. Atlas Frost was a lot of things—narcissistic, megalomaniacal—but he wasn’t suicidal. He’d known about the black filaments in the ice, known what happened to Maren and her team, and it scared him. That was why he told Davey and Rowan to send someone to Antarcticawith her. That was why he was helping—if it could be called that—Wilde Security take down Praetorian.
It all came back to them.
So Alexander Stirling and all of his minions would pay for Maren’s death. He’d watch his precious private army crumble, watch all of his investments collapse, see every asset seized, every plan for world domination ruined. And while Wilde Security made sure every last Praetorian bastard paid for their crimes, and she’d make damn sure Stirling knew Maren had started it all.
The thought buoyed her. Maren would love that.
She added three heaping spoonfuls of instant to a mug, poured boiling water from the kettle, and slurped it black. It tasted like battery acid, but it did the trick, warming her from the inside out, jump-starting muscles and nerve endings that were almost at their limit.
Outside, the snowcat’s engine rumbled to life, the growl vibrating through the floor under her feet, and she couldn’t help the smile.
Even at the ass-end of the world, Elliot Wilde made things work.
The engine cut off, and a moment later, the door to the station swung open, bringing with it a blast of frigid air that stole her breath. Elliot stomped his boots on the threshold, brushed snow from his shoulders, and then looked up, surprise registering when he saw her standing there. His cheeks and nose were red from the cold, and a layer of frost clung to the stubble on his jaw.
“You’re up,” he said, unwinding his scarf. “How’s the ankle?”
“Functional.” She held up her mug in question. “Coffee?”
A smile twitched at the corner of his lips. “Does it taste like stale motor oil?”
“You know it.”
“Better than nothing.”
As she prepared him a mug, she watched him shed his outer layers. The jacket wasn’t the ripped one he’d arrived here in, and the thermal shirt underneath was a size too small, clinging to the muscles of his arms and chest. He must have scavenged the rooms for more clothes while she was sleeping. He was also moving stiffly, favoring his left side. He’d hurt himself worse than he’d admitted yesterday. But of course he had. He’d walk on broken legs before admitting weakness.
“Snowcat’s operational,” he said, hanging his jacket on a hook by the door. “We don’t have a lot of fuel, but I mapped the route back to Thwaites, and it should be enough if we’re careful.”
Dammit, she should’ve thought to do all of that—it was her job, after all—but she’d been too wrapped up in her own head.
Elliot crossed to the kitchen and accepted the mug she held out for him. “Thanks.” He took a sip and winced. “Ugh, that’s bad.” He set it down and nodded to a pile of clothes in a nearby chair. “I found you some gear. Snow pants, jacket, new gloves.”
“I’m starting to get the sense that you’re better at this resourceful survivalist shit than me.”
Elliot shrugged, but a flicker of pride passed across his expression. “I grew up competing with brothers and cousins who could field-strip a sniper rifle before they could drive. Improvisation is our family brand.”
