Ophelia
The drive winds up through pine forests and white ridges until the small village opens below the mountain, dotted with chalets, ski shops, and a coffee bar with smoke curling from its chimney.
We park the cars and walk down to the ski boutique at the foot of the slope.
Cedar and wax hang in the air, racks of gleaming kit line the walls.
The proprietor gives us a courteous nod. A staff member comes over to take our sizes and ask what we prefer, skis or snowboards.
“Snowboard for me,” Adelaide says before anyone can answer.
Isaak’s eyes gleam. “I’ll have a snowboard as well,” he adds, in a flat voice, they’re competitive to the point of farce.
Octavia and Milo end up with matching skis. It looks accidental until Milo’s grin tells a different story.
Arlo, Hunter, Piper and I all choose skis.
I’ve never tried a board and don’t intend to start now, skis suit me.
I kneel to fasten the buckle at my ankle, the cold metal biting through my glove, then stand and gather my skis in my hands.
Piper fusses with her woollen hat and tugs her goggles up onto her forehead, fingers lingering in the auburn hair she tucks away.
When our eyes meet she offers a hesitant, genuine smile.
“Ready?” she asks, in a soft voice.
“I still owe you a rematch from last time,” I tell her, already grinning.
Her lip quirks. “You mean the time you swore you’d win and ended up face first in a snowbank?”
Octavia explodes, laughter spilling out until she’s wiping at her eyes. “Oh my God, I remember, you were two turns from the finish, took the corner completely wrong and went straight out of it, Piper just sailed past you.”
I catch Arlo’s eye, there’s a small, almost soft smile on his face and my chest threatens to burst.
For a beat I let myself imagine what we might have been without the heat and hatred that burns through him.
I shake the thought off and decide to enjoy this side of him while it lasts, until he inevitably decides to ruin it.
Call me na?ve, but I still hope, that one day we might put the bad blood between us to rest.
We leave the shop with skis in hand, but as we step outside Arlo takes them from me without so much as a word, not giving me the chance to protest.
The boots are cumbersome and heavy, it’s awkward to walk in them.
We don’t have far to go, a member of staff collects our lift passes and nods toward the open four seat chairlift.
We queue, fasten our boots into the bindings, and when the lift arrives we take our places, me, Arlo, Octavia and Milo, settling in for the slow, steady climb.
Nobody speaks much. I take a photograph of the pines, heavy with snow, and the slope laid out below us, a clean, untrammelled white that takes the breath away.
The chair doesn’t pause at the top, it keeps moving, and we step off while it glides.
Octavia lets out a whoop and charges down the red, Milo is on her tail.
I push off after them, and Arlo follows a beat later, and we give ourselves to the slope.
We do a few runs, up and down until the muscles warm and the cold loses its edge, and somewhere between lifts we lose Milo and Octavia to the faster line.
We catch Piper and Hunter on the next queue, the staff check our passes, we sling our skis under the bar and take the same open four seater.
At the top we slide off and head to the run. Piper pauses at the lip, takes one quick look back through her goggles and gives me a small, almost shy smirk, then points left, toward the black run.
I hesitate for a heartbeat. I’ve skied every winter of my life, my father insisted on private coaches when we were small, so I know my turns and my speed.
I’m certain I’ll get down in one piece. But Piper isn’t just skilled, she lives on the ice.
Skating is her world, skiing is little more than another surface she owns.
She pushes off before I can make up my mind.
Hunter snaps from behind me, “For fuck’s sake, she didn’t just take the black.”
I grin and push off, slotting into Piper’s line. The wind hits my face, and the world narrows to speed, ice and the low rasp of skis on snow.
Arlo falls into place a beat behind me, then pulls level. His voice drops, dangerous. “You’re going to pay for that.”
Hunter surprises me by passing and actually pulls level with Piper.
When we brake at the bottom, Piper is first, Hunter second, Arlo hasn’t bothered to race, he’s beside me when I slow and matches my pace when I pick up speed.
We don’t hang about. We queue for the lift again.
At the top, Adelaide and Isaak are already waiting, Octavia and Milo with them.
Milo rubs his hands together. “I’ve worked up an appetite,” he says. “There’s a restaurant up here, looks decent.”
There are a handful of mountain restaurants up on the ridge, smoke curling from chimneys and low beams glowing through the windows.
We prop our skis outside, flick snow from our jackets and step into the warm hush.
A fire snaps in the hearth, heat edges into my fingers and my toes finally begin to feel again.
We shrug off gloves and hats. A waitress takes our orders and, before long, plates arrive.
For a little while the conversation is ordinary, easy.
After the meal we pull our jackets tight, shrug back into boots and click our skis into place.
Dusk is already draining the light from the ridge as we gather our poles and move toward the lip of the run.
Adelaide narrows her eyes at Isaak. “One last run?” she asks, smirking. “I might let you win this time, wouldn’t want to bruise your pride too badly.”
She snaps her board into place and pushes off.
Isaak rolls his eyes, shoots us a look, and says, “As if I haven’t been letting her win all day.” He pushes off and follows her line. We fall in behind them.
We return the skis, and by the time we reach the car park the sky has already gone dark.
Adelaide argues with Isaak, his voice cuts across the lot, flat and final. “A deal’s a deal. You’re driving with me. Don’t argue, viper.”
She says nothing and slides into the car as he holds the door open.
I cross to the other vehicle. Hunter opens the passenger door and Piper slips into the front seat. Arlo holds the rear door for me and I slide in, I take the back, and he follows. Hunter takes the wheel.
The drive back is quiet, just the low thrum of the engine and a soft radio the only sounds.
Back at the chalet everyone drifts to their rooms to shower and change into something more comfortable.
I make straight for mine, aware of Arlo a pace behind. In the bathroom I peel off my layers and step under the hot spray, letting the water cascade over my skin.
A presence settles at my back, Arlo’s heat pressing in, his hand finding my hip as he draws close.
I feel the firm pressure of his arousal against me, and his hand comes to rest at my throat in a decidedly possessive grasp.
He lowers his head, and his lips brush the column of my neck.
While one hand remains at my throat, the other finds its way to my slick, wet core, his fingers tracing slow circles that draw a soft moan from my lips.
His grip on my neck tightens slightly as he growls, “Hands on the wall.”
Complying, I brace myself just before he drives into me with a single, forceful thrust.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice ragged, “you feel so good. I could get lost in this pussy and never find the way out.”
Lost in a haze of pure sensation, I succumb to the bliss as he moves with unrestrained fervour, until we are both left breathless and spent, trembling in the aftermath.
He kisses me once more, soft and absurdly gentle, then reaches for the shampoo and begins to wash my hair.
I say nothing, I simply let his hands move over me. He’s so careful it hurts.
We rinse, I step out of the shower and let him finish. I pad into the wardrobe and pull on lounge trousers, a fitted knit and thick socks.
At the vanity I dab on moisturiser and towel my hair dry. I reach for the brush and, by the time my hand closes around it, he’s there behind me.
When I look up our eyes meet in the mirror.
A towel is wrapped at his waist and rivulets of water still cling to his chest and abs.
He sits on the bed behind me, takes the brush from my hand and, without a word, begins to comb through my hair.
After he loosens the tangles his fingers move careful, and he gathers my hair to braid.
A strange, soft ache spreads in my chest, I feel suddenly as if I might cry, because it feels, impossibly, like home.
I do not ask how he learned to braid. I am too afraid of the answer.
He finishes and rises without a word, a surprising softness in his gaze.
He moves to the closet and, within minutes, returns in lounge trousers and a jumper.
We go downstairs together.
Most of the others are already below. I drop onto the sofa beside Milo.
Before I can even blink, Arlo’s hand lands on Milo’s shoulder and, with a single shove, Milo tumbles off the sofa and onto the carpet, laughing outright.
“I’ll let that slide,” he wheezes between laughs, “but if it’d been anyone else, I’d have killed you.”
Arlo’s mouth quirks, I only shake my head. “You’re impossible,” I murmur.
Octavia appears next, only in fluffy shorts and a loose tee, ridiculous oversized elf slippers on her feet, she drops down on the carpet by the fire.
The television drones on with some sentimental Hallmark film. I know Adelaide put it on intentionally.
I might not remember the past two years of my life, but I do remember how she’s always despised those films, claims they kill brain cells just watching one, and yet no one bothers to reach for the remote.
“This is dull,” Octavia announces after ten minutes. “Let’s play something.”
She springs up, yanks open the cabinet, and begins pulling out games.
“Monopoly, chess, Cluedo, Cards Against Humanity, pick your poison.”
Adelaide arches a brow, already assessing the options. “Cluedo. At least that one requires a trace of intellect.”
Isaak’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Excellent. You’ll have no excuse when you lose.”
Her reply is smooth. “Do try me, Markev. I’d enjoy watching you struggle.”
We start the game and lose all sense of time. At some point, drinks appear, some alcoholic, some not, and a scatter of snacks covers the table.
By the end, Adelaide wins. Isaak looks positively affronted, almost ill with disbelief, and they fall into another round of bickering.
As we gather the pieces, Adelaide speaks suddenly. “I’m going heli-skiing tomorrow. Anyone keen to join, be ready by nine.”
Surprisingly—or perhaps not—everyone agrees.
Arlo and Milo mention they’ve done it before, several times in fact.
I suppress a yawn and stand from my seat on the sofa. “Goodnight. I’ll see you all in the morning.”
They each murmur something in return, as I make my way towards the stairs.
I’m halfway up when I hear footsteps behind me.
When I glance back, my eyes meet a pair of midnight blue.
Arlo.
The hunger there makes my pulse skip.
He doesn’t speak, just tilts his head slightly, his eyes dark and steady.
I smirk. I’m not sure where the impulse comes from, but I start to run.
“Don’t run, ma lune,” he calls after me, his voice low, and edged with warning. “You know I love the chase.”