Chapter Thirty-Three
Jax
Warmth.
The first sensation is warmth. Then comes sound.
Low voices. The soft whir of heat lamps. The rhythmic beeping of a monitor keeping score.
I blink, eyelids glued together with exhaustion, then try again. When I turn my head, tiny hairs lift on the back of my neck.
Violet.
She’s curled up in a too-small chair beside my bed, blanket tucked around her shoulders. Soft snores puff past her lips. Her backpack is clutched to her chest like she’s guarding treasure.
Alive.
Relief hits so hard I have to shut my eyes again.
“Jax?”
The voice comes from my other side.
I turn my head—slower this time, careful—and there she is.
Ava.
Eyes swollen from crying, cheeks flushed from worry. The second I look at her, she stands—so fast the chair behind her skids.
“You’re awake,” she breathes, hand flying to her mouth, as if she’s afraid saying it too loud might undo it.
My throat is sandpaper. “You… look like hell.”
She laughs a broken laugh, and then she’s leaning over me, hands on either side of my head like she’s afraid I’ll slip back under if she doesn’t anchor me here.
“You scared the life out of me,” she says, voice shaking. “Do you have any idea—”
“I was more scared for Violet,” I rasp.
Her gaze flicks to her daughter, asleep and safe, then back to me—fear melting into something deeper. Wilder.
“She’s okay,” she whispers. “She’s okay because of you.”
I exhale, long and slow. Good.
“I told you to stay put,” I say, because even now I can’t stop trying to protect her.
“And I told you I’m an EMT,” she fires back, eyes flashing. “It’s literally my job to go into storms.”
I meet her glare, steady. “It was your job to be a mom first tonight.”
Her breath catches. Emotion trembles through the line of her shoulders. She looks like she might argue—then she looks at Violet again.
And she nods.
Once. Tiny. Devastating.
“You risked your life,” she murmurs.
“I’d do it again.”
A tear slips down her cheek, fast and angry and grateful all at once. Before she can wipe it away, I lift a hand—my fingers stiff, trembling—and cup her face.
She leans into it like she’s wanted to for a long time.
“Don’t you ever do something that reckless alone again,” she whispers.
“No promises.”
She huffs a laugh, wet and nervous, then lowers herself closer—closer—
I can feel her breath on my mouth when she says, “I should kiss you for saving her.”
“And I should kiss you,” I reply, “for letting me.”
Her lips brush mine, and the world stops. The storm, the fear, the man who tried to bury me under headlines—all of it dissolves into warmth and the quiet sound she makes when I pull her just a little nearer.
The ranger station door slams shut behind someone who wasn’t invited. Footsteps strike across the tile with a confidence I learned to hate a long time ago.
Ava jerks back as a man steps into the light.
Slick coat. Camera bag. Cold smile.
The reporter.
“Jackson Hale,” the reporter says, aiming his voice like a bullet. “Took me a while to confirm, but—”
I sit up. Slowly, but with steel.
Ava straightens, stepping between us, her body language shifting from caregiver to something far sharper.
“I told you,” she says, voice low and lethal. “It’s Jax.”
He ignores her. His lens lifts like a drawn gun.
“How does it feel to fake your death—”
Tom moves first. Ellie a half-step behind. Two more rangers follow without hesitation—forming a tight line, boots planted, shoulders squared like they’ve practiced this a thousand times.
Tom’s expression is a study in patience that has expired.
“You’re lost,” he says flatly.
The reporter scoffs. “No. I’m exactly where I need to be. I just want to talk to Jackson—”
“See,” Tom interrupts, glancing around at the others, “we don’t seem to have anybody here by that name.”
Ellie folds her arms. The third ranger shrugs, bored. The fourth tilts his head toward me, unimpressed by the intrusion.
“Silver Ridge is a small town,” Tom continues, voice deepening into warning. “Real close-knit. We don’t much appreciate outsiders driving up here in dangerous weather just to stir up trouble or dig up gossip that ain’t wanted.”
“I’m not stirring anything,” the reporter snaps. “I’m here for a story.”
“Then go write about the avalanche risk,” Ellie says coolly. “Or how our search teams run into blizzards during dinner breaks.”
The third ranger jerks a thumb toward me. “He risked his life for that girl. That’s the kind of story worth telling.”
“He’s one of ours,” Ava says—cutting straight through him like a knife.
Not a whisper. Not an apology. A claim.
Something in the reporter’s eyes flickers—maybe confusion, maybe resignation—as he realizes there isn’t a single open angle to get his shot.
“This is obstruction,” he tries, voice thin.
“No,” Tom says, stepping forward, his height blotting out the reporter’s bravado, “this is your warning. Pack up that fancy camera and walk away before I help you do it. You’re already one bad decision away from being a search-and-recovery headline.”
For the first time since he stormed in, the reporter hesitates.
Then he lowers the camera.
“I’ll be back,” he mutters, weak threat barely making it past his lips.
“No,” Ava says — every inch of her fierce and unshakable. “You won’t.”
And she means it.
He retreats, the door slamming behind him—swallowed by wind and snow and the mountain that does not tolerate parasites.
Silence pools in his absence. Warm. Bright. Safe.
Ava turns back to me, her anger melting into relief again. She brushes a stray flake of melted snow from my eyebrow like she has every right to touch me now.
“You’re staying here,” she tells me gently. “Until your core temp is stable.”
I catch her wrist.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “Not from you. Not from her.”
Her eyes soften, voice barely a breath. “Good.”
Across from me, Violet shifts in her sleep, mumbling something about cocoa and dragons.
Ava smiles—tired and radiant—and slips her hand into mine under the blanket, squeezing tight.
Not an accident. Not a comfort. A claim.
For the first time in years, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I belong.