6. Santi #2
Right now, the only thing that matters is the woman shivering on the cot.
I flip the power toggle on the radio. A tiny red light flickers, then glows steady.
The battery array connected to a solar panel on the roof is still functional. The system has power.
I twist the frequency dial. Static hisses out of the speaker. Violent, crackling white noise. I begin to tune the dials, searching for an emergency broadcast band, a ranger frequency, anything.
"Is it working?"
Reese's voice is stronger. The heat from the stove is reaching her.
I turn around. She is sitting up on the edge of the cot. She has pushed the wool blanket down to her waist. Her curves are outlined by the tight thermal shirt. Her hair is wild, tangled, and drying in the warmth. The bruise on her temple is a dark, angry purple.
She looks like a battered warrior. She looks fierce.
"It has power," I state. "I am scanning for a signal."
She stands without waiting for permission and crosses to the desk, her socked feet silent on the dusty floorboards. She checks the drawers beneath the radio. The first is empty. The second holds something.
She hauls out a thick, plastic-wrapped bundle. Topographical maps.
She drops the bundle onto the desk beside the radio. She pulls a pocket knife from the pants drying near the cot and slices the plastic open. She spreads the large, creased map over the wood. She leans over it, her eyes tracing the contour lines.
"Here," she points to a jagged peak marked on the paper. "This is where we went down. The coordinates match my final dashboard reading."
She drags her finger north.
"And this is us. Blackwood Ranger Station. Elevation eight thousand feet." She taps the paper. "We’re thirty miles from the nearest logging road. And that road’s closed for the winter."
She looks up at me. She does not show fear. She presents the data like a tactician.
"Nobody is driving a snowcat up here," she says flatly. "And nobody is flying in this weather. We’re stuck."
"I will establish contact with my family," I reply, my voice a low rumble over the static of the radio. "If I establish contact, they will send extraction when the storm breaks. We wait."
"Your family." She studies my face. "You mentioned them on the helicopter. The business you were chasing."
"Yes."
"Are they coming to rescue you, or are they coming to finish the business?"
She is too perceptive. She sees the sharp edges I try to hide.
"They are coming for me," I say. "And they are coming for you."
I step away from the radio. I close the small distance between us. I crowd her against the wooden desk.
I do not touch her. I do not need to. My presence fills the space between her and the desk. I plant one hand flat on the desk beside her, anchoring myself. I lean down. Our faces are inches apart.
Old paper, gunmetal, cold wind, and aviation fuel crowd the air between us. The cabin feels smaller with every breath.
I look down at her. I catalogue each detail. The stubborn set of her jaw. The slight flare of her nostrils. The rapid, visible thump of her pulse at the base of her neck.
For years, I have calculated every human interaction like a threat assessment.
Standing in front of Reese, the distance will not hold.
The sight of her hits like something physical. The breath goes out of me. It is not lust. I already know what she tastes like. I already know how she shatters in my grip. This is something else. This is a permanent shift in the tectonic plates of my reality.
I do not name the feeling. I refuse to name it. Giving it a name makes it real, and real things can destroy me.
She catches me watching her.
Most people look away when I stare at them. My brothers avoid my gaze when I am still. Enemies flinch.
Reese refuses to flinch or look away.
She lifts her chin. She meets my gaze with unwavering defiance. She sees the ruthless, possessive monster hiding just beneath my expensive watch and my tailored restraint. She sees the violence I am capable of. She sees what I cannot hide.
And she stays where she is.
"You're staring," she says softly. The sass in her tone is gone, replaced by a low, rough heat.
“I’m cataloging,” I reply, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
"Cataloging what?"
"Everything."
I lean in a fraction of an inch closer. My chest brushes the soft swell of her breasts. She gasps. A tiny, sharp intake of air that hits my eardrums like a gunshot.
"You survived," I say, my gaze dropping to her bruised mouth. "You flew a dying helicopter into a mountain, you walked through a blizzard, you faced down a wolf pack, and you survived."
"We survived," she corrects me.
"No." I shake my head slowly. "You do not need me to survive, Reese. You are perfectly capable of walking out of this wilderness alone. You proved that today."
I lift one hand from the desk. I trace the line of her jaw with a single, calloused knuckle. She shudders at the contact.
"You are choosing to survive with me," I state the fact. It is the most terrifying truth I have ever spoken aloud.
She swallows hard. Her eyes lock onto mine. The bravado cracks just enough to show the vulnerable, lonely woman beneath the armor. The woman who decided long ago she would never need anyone again. The woman who just realized she is bound to a Costa shadow in the middle of nowhere.
"Maybe I am," she whispers.
The static on the radio behind her suddenly pops. A sharp, rhythmic squeal of interference breaks the silence of the cabin.
I pull back instantly. The watcher slams back into place.
I step around her, grab the plastic microphone attached to the rig, and hit the transmit button.
“This is a priority broadcast on an unsecured channel. Do you copy?” My voice is flat. Operational. Dead air answers.
Silence. Just the hiss of dead air.
"This is a priority broadcast. Do you copy?"
The static crackles. A faint, distorted voice leaks out of the speaker. It is heavily warped by the storm, practically indecipherable, but the cadence is human.
I tune the dial. I sharpen the frequency.
"...peat... coordinates..." the tinny voice bleeds through the noise.
Reese steps up beside me. Our shoulders brush. The contact grounds me.
"Broadcast received," I say into the mic. "We are stranded at Blackwood Ranger Station. Elevation eight thousand. Coordinate lock to follow."
I release the button. We wait.
The voice comes back. Sharper this time.
"...copy Blackwood. The weather is impassable. Sit tight. We are tracking your signature."
I recognize the protocol phrasing. It’s not the forest service. Not a civilian rescue operation.
I look at Reese. She reads my expression instantly.
"Who is it?" she asks quietly.
"My family," I reply. "They found us."
The extraction is coming. The real world is coming to breach the walls of this frozen sanctuary. The family, the old lead, the blood, and the long war are about to breach this cabin.
I look down at the gold watch on my wrist. The seconds tick forward. The pause is over.
I turn my head and look at the woman standing beside me. She is staring at the radio, her jaw set, her mind already calculating the next move. She does not look afraid of my world. She looks ready to conquer it.
Mine.
That is all there is to it.
I slip the Glock from my coat pocket and set it on the desk within her reach.