I strip off my glove and press two fingers to the pulse in her throat. Weak, but there. She mutters something—my name, maybe. Or just a ghost. I scoop her up and sling her over my shoulder, her limbs limp as thawing meat.
The cabin's a half-mile downhill. Not far. But in this storm, every step feels longer.
The place isn't much to look at from the outside—just logs and snowdrift, masked by time and overgrowth. But inside, it'ssomething else. Too quiet. Too clean. No photos. No clutter. The kind of place built for disappearing.
She's barely conscious, but I can tell she notices things as her eyes flutter open. They flit to the knives above the doorframe. On the boots lined in a perfect row. On the bed in the corner. She struggles briefly, but then succumbs to the exhaustion and cold.
The wind howls through the trees as if it remembers her too. Like it carries the echo of that first night—years ago, when I should've left her to fate and frostbite. But I didn't. Couldn't. Something in me had already decided. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe obsession. Maybe the kind of madness that creeps in when you've been too long alone with your own darkness.
I told myself back then it was a one-time act. Just a rescue. Just a woman in the snow. But I watched the news for days after, waiting to hear her name, see her face, know she was all right. I memorized every scrap of information I could find—interviews, rescue reports, even the blog post she wrote afterward, trying to make sense of what happened. She never mentioned me. Not directly. But I was in every line between the lines. And I couldn't stop reading them. Pull her out, disappear, let her forget. But I kept the memory. And when I hear that wind now, it sounds like a warning I ignored and a vow I never made out loud.
I don't believe in fate. But I believe in patterns. And this one? This one's starting again.
She opens her mouth, then groans, a shiver racking her body as the cold tightens its grip.
I kneel beside her, breath fogging as I assess how bad it is. Skin pale. Fingernails bluish. Her clothes—soaked through,sticking to her like ice-laced cloth. I run a hand down her arm, testing the rigidity. She's not gone yet, but she's close. Too close.
My jaw tightens. This is the part I told myself I wouldn't do again. Not with her. But the mountain doesn't care about promises. It only cares about what you're willing to sacrifice to survive.
My fingers find the zipper of her coat. It sticks. Frozen. Of course it is. I peel off her gloves, then pull the scarf away—same one, still frayed. Still hers.
Every layer I remove exposes more of her heatless body. Damp fleece. Soggy cotton. The line of her throat, vulnerable and smooth, rising with shallow, fluttering breaths. I work mechanically, the soldier in me cataloging movements, cataloging threats. And still...
My hands aren't entirely steady.
It's not just duty anymore. It hasn't been since I saw her name. Since I recognized her through the scope.
The first time, she was too young. Too lost. I told myself I was protecting her. But now? She's a woman. And I'm no longer trying to be a good man.
I push past the instinct to stop—to look away—and remove the last damp layer from her thighs, exposing her fully to me. Her skin is smooth and decorated with goosebumps, flushed with the edge of frostbite. I wrap the heavy fur around her, tucking it close, my fingers grazing her skin, careful and slow, like it makes a difference.
But I'm not thinking about the cold anymore.
I'm thinking about the way she arches slightly into the warmth, her back curving as she seeks heat, practically begging for my touch. About the way her lashes flutter when my hands brush the dip of her waist, fingers dancing over the curve of her hip. Her body trusts me in this vulnerable moment, and though I tell myself it's for her safety, her survival.
But I know better.
Some part of me wonders if she'll remember this—if her skin will hold the shape of my touch. If she'll wake up with the ghost of my fingers digging into her hips, my hand sliding between her thighs and feeling that familiar, silky wetness, or my palm exploring the natural curve just beneath her ribs.
I crouch beside her. My hand moves without permission, cupping her breast, feeling its weight and warmth. Her lips part slightly as if letting out a soft moan while I tease and stroke her nipple with my thumb.
She doesn't wake. The fire crackles. Outside, the wind howls, but in here—wrapped in my furs, breathing steady—she's safe. For now.
We trade a few quips when she notices she's naked, but she falls silent and doesn't speak for a few moments. Just watches me. Her gaze burns between my shoulder blades, sharp and assessing. I don't need to turn around to know the expression she's wearing—eyes narrowed, lips parted just slightly, not from fear but from thought. Calculating. Curious. Maybe even intrigued. There's no panic in her silence. No hysteria. Just the heavy weight of a woman who wants answers and doesn't like not having them.
But there's something else in it too. Heat. She's trying to hide it, but I feel it—see it in the tension of her jaw, the way she grips the blanket tighter, not for modesty but for control. It's not just suspicion in her stare. It's something electric. Something primal. And it's feeding the part of me I've kept locked away for too damn long.
"You remember me." I don't phrase it as a question.
She doesn't answer right away. "I remember the storm. And I remember a man pulling me out of the dark."
I turn. Meet her eyes. "That man was me."
"Was?" Her voice is dry. "So what are you now?"
"Something else."
The silence stretches.
