Chapter 10
Ten
SEBASTIAN
Her body goes limp against me mid-stride, deadweight in my arms. My heart stalls.
“Bailey?” I brush damp hair from her face, fingers trembling despite my efforts to steady them. Her skin feels cool and clammy beneath my touch. Two fingers against her neck find a pulse—rapid but steady. The relief hits me, making my knees weak.
Wilderness survival courses teach you essential skills. How to build a fire from nothing. How to identify edible plants. How to treat hypothermia in hostile conditions.
What they don’t prepare you for is an unconscious pilot who won’t release her ridiculous snow globe even in unconsciousness. Or how to ignore that same pilot mumbling your name. Not Mr. Perfect or any of her other insufferable nicknames, but Sebastian.
The makeshift splint holds, but the swelling has doubled.
She never once complained about the pain.
Not a single admission of weakness during all that incessant chatter about airport gift shops and glitter density and whatever else tumbled from her mouth.
Just talked and talked, filling silence with everything except what mattered.
I gather her closer, adjusting her against my chest, careful of the injured leg. Her head rolls against me, that damned Vegas snow globe still clutched against her body like some plastic talisman.
Something twists in my chest when she mumbles my name again. This is basic decency. Concern for an injured stranger. Nothing more.
I need to get her to the cabin.
The snow reaches my thighs in deeper drifts, each step a battle against frozen resistance. My muscles burn, lungs aching in the thin air. With each labored step, Bailey seems lighter in my arms, like she’s fading. Like she might disappear if I don’t hold tight enough.
The cabin door appears frozen solid when we reach it, because, of course, it is. Because nothing about this catastrophe could be simple.
I shift Bailey in my arms, trying not to jostle her, and drive my boot against the wood. It groans but holds. Another kick and it surrenders with a crack that echoes through the surrounding forest.
Stale air rushes to meet us, heavy with dust and abandonment. The cabin looks like it’s been vacant for months, but it’s shelter. It’s salvation.
The bed frame protests beneath her weight as I lay her down with utmost care. “Bailey?” Her only response is something unintelligible about cookie crumbs in navigation systems.
I take inventory of our surroundings. One room, sparse but solid. Cast-iron stove squats in the corner, chimney pipe disappears into the ceiling. Single bed pushed against the far wall, its quilt faded but clean. Basic shelter, but it’s enough.
My boots leave melting imprints on the wooden floor as I check the cupboards. First aid, heat, water—survival essentials hard-wired into me through years of hiking. Dust covers everything, undisturbed until this moment. This place hasn’t known human presence for a significant time.
“Your five-star accommodation awaits,” I tell Bailey, my voice sounding strange in the cabin’s quiet. If she were awake, she’d have something cute to say about room service or thread counts.
The silence unnerves me. After hours of her endless commentary, this quiet feels wrong. Just wind whistling through weathered logs and her shallow breathing.
Never thought I’d miss someone talking about the comparative merits of Denver versus Miami snow globes. Yet here I am, straining to hear her voice.
Focus. Medical attention first. Existential crisis later.
The cabin’s first aid supplies are rudimentary but usable. Bandages, antiseptic, scissors. No pain medication, which will become problematic when she wakes. I need to assess her injury.
Her face appears ghostly pale, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cold. The leg needs immediate attention, but...
“Bailey, if you wake up while I’m removing your clothes, please remember you’re injured before you attempt to kill me.”
No response. Not even a snow globe fact. Just the steady rise and fall of her chest, and that ridiculous Vegas trinket still clutched in her hand.
I unwind the Hermès silk from the branches of our makeshift splint. Twelve hundred dollars of artisanal craftsmanship sacrificed to medical necessity. Father would experience cardiac arrest at the sight.
I unlace her boot, trying to be as gentle as possible.
The moment I ease it off, she moans. A sound of such raw pain that I nearly stop altogether.
Her eyes remain closed, but her face contorts, body tensing even in unconsciousness.
The swelling is far worse than I expected. Her ankle is twice its normal size.
With the boot removed, the extent of the injury becomes clearer—and more alarming. The swelling doesn’t stop at her ankle but continues up her calf, disappearing beneath her jeans. I need to see the full damage.
“This is purely medical,” I tell her unconscious form as I reach for her waistband. “Just so we’re clear.”
I ease her jeans down with meticulous care, sliding them over her hips, down her thighs, watching her face for any sign of additional pain. She must have endured excruciating pain during our trek, yet she never stopped making jokes.
Medical training in wilderness survival only goes so far. I’m no doctor. The mottled skin stretches tight with swelling, angry purple-blue spreading from ankle to mid-calf. I don’t know if something’s broken, torn, or worse.
All I can do is bandage it. Just basic first aid and hope it’s enough.
“Bailey,” I say, though I know she can’t hear me. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
My fingers tremble as I apply antiseptic to visible abrasions. Superficial compared to whatever damage lies beneath. I wrap the bandage, trying to provide compression without restricting circulation. Not enough.
Nothing to help her when she wakes to what will undoubtedly be excruciating pain. Useless. I’m useless.
“Wake up,” I say with an edge of desperation. “Bailey, please wake up.”
Her only response is shallow breathing.
This is beyond my capabilities. Beyond my control. The realization sits like ice in my stomach. Sebastian Lockhart, CEO, Harvard MBA, a man with contingency plans for his contingency plans, reduced to waiting while a woman I barely know might be seriously injured beyond my capacity to help.
I check her pulse again. Still steady. Small mercies.
“I need you to be okay,” I tell her. “I need you to wake up and make inappropriate jokes about my hiking gear or the thread count of these sheets or whatever ridiculous observation crosses your mind.”
Nothing. Just the wind howling outside and her soft, even breathing.
Sitting here watching her won’t help either of us. She needs warmth. Food. Practical necessities I can provide.
The cabin’s blankets smell musty but provide adequate warmth. I tuck one around her, careful not to disturb her death grip on Vegas. Her breathing steadies, face softening in sleep.
First priority: fire. Second: food. Focus on what I can control, not what I can’t.
The wood stove protests with metallic complaint as I adjust the damper.
Rust flakes onto my fingers, but the kindling catches.
Small flames dance across dry bark, hesitant at first, then growing bolder.
I add smaller logs, watching the fire spread.
Warmth floods the cabin, bathing everything in amber light.
Kitchen cupboards contain a surprising bounty. Canned beans, corn, dried meat that appears recent. At least we won’t starve, or I won’t while waiting for her to wake. If she wakes. No—when she wakes. I refuse to consider alternatives.
I silently thank whatever responsible hunter stocked these provisions. Bailey would mock my gratitude for canned beans. Make some cutting remark about my usual billionaire palate. I can almost hear her. “Wow, Mr. Perfect’s eating commoner food? Alert the press.”
Bailey shifts beneath her blanket, turning her face toward the heat. “Extended warranty... Blizzards...” she mumbles, fingers tightening around Vegas. A strand of hair falls across her face, and I resist the inexplicable urge to brush it away.
The firelight softens her features, casting shadows that dance across her skin.
She’s gorgeous. Not the manufactured perfection I’m accustomed to, but something raw, untamed. Wild. My fingers itch to trace the curve of her jaw, to discover if her skin is as soft as it looks.
Heat spreads through my chest, unwelcome and unsettling. This woman drives me mad with her chaotic energy, her inappropriate comments, her complete disregard for social boundaries. Yet here I sit, watching her breathe, fighting the urge to brush that strand of hair from her face.
She shifts, and I look away. Caught in something forbidden. My body responds to her in ways I refuse to acknowledge. Ridiculous. But watching her sleep feels like crossing a boundary. Like stealing glimpses of the real Bailey beneath all that chaos, a version she keeps hidden from the world.
I check my phone again, though I know what I’ll find. No signal. Not even a single bar. The wallpaper shows Rebecca and me at last month’s charity gala, wearing smiles. I expect anger. Betrayal. Heartbreak. But I feel nothing. Numb.
My thumb hovers over Rebecca’s contact. Who would care that I’m missing? Mother would mourn the lost wedding announcement opportunity. Father would calculate the PR implications. Rebecca... Would she even notice? Or is she too occupied with—
Bailey makes a small sound, something between a whimper and a word.
I should plan our next steps. Calculating supplies. Assessing options. Instead, I count her breaths.
My phone dies with a quiet beep. The screen goes black, taking Rebecca’s perfect smile with it.
I check Bailey’s pulse again. Her wrist seems fragile beneath my fingers, cold. Too cold. I pile another blanket over her, tucking it around her shoulders.
No one knows I’m here. No one’s searching. I could vanish, and the world would continue turning.
My legs shake with each step, muscles screaming from carrying Bailey through waist-deep snow. The fire’s warmth only emphasizes my bone-deep exhaustion, how close I am to collapse. But I can’t rest. Not yet.
Her skin appears too pale, her breathing too shallow.
“Bailey?” My voice sounds foreign in the quiet cabin. No response. “Don’t you dare…” I tell her. “I didn’t carry you through a blizzard just to have you...” I can’t finish the sentence.
I slump against the wall beside the bed, fighting to keep my eyes open. The fire needs attention. Her bandages need changing. Her pulse needs monitoring. But my body refuses to cooperate, won’t move, won’t respond to my commands.
How long since I’ve slept? Since the hotel? Since discovering Rebecca—
No. Focus. Check her breathing. Count seconds between her breaths. One...two...three...
My head drops forward, jerking me awake. Must move. Must...
Check her pulse again. Still steady. Still present.
Vegas glints in dying firelight. Las Vegas lights trapped in glass, waiting for someone to shake them back to life. Like her.
Another head drop.
Don’t fall asleep.
A soft sound penetrates my fog. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and confused. She tries to sit up, then gasps, face contorting in pain.
“Don’t move.” I’m at her side in an instant, one hand on her shoulder. “Your leg—”
“Where—” Her voice cracks, dry from hours of unconsciousness. Her eyes dart around, not recognizing anything. Fear flashes across her face. “What happened? Where are we?”
“A cabin. About three miles from the crash site.” I reach for the water I’ve set aside, supporting her head as she drinks. “You passed out. Your ankle’s badly injured.”
Memory dawns in her eyes, the confusion clearing. She takes in the cabin, the fire, then me.
“You carried me. The entire way.” It’s not a question.
“Of course I did.”
Without warning, she pulls herself up, arms wrapping around my neck.
“Thank you.” The words vibrate against my collar, raw and unguarded. “For saving me. For not leaving me out there.”
My arms circle around her, one hand finding the back of her head. Her hair feels soft between my fingers. Something cracks open in my chest at the sincerity in her voice.
“I wouldn’t have left you.”
She pulls back, those green eyes studying my face with new intensity. I must look terrible—exhaustion weighs on me like a physical force. My vision blurs at the edges, my body swaying even sitting down.
Her hand finds my face, fingers cool against my cheek. “When’s the last time you slept?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to collapse.” Her usual sharpness returns, but there’s concern beneath it. “Zombie CEOs make terrible survival partners, you know.”
“I’ll sleep here.” I gesture toward the floor, where I laid a blanket.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She shifts to one side of the narrow bed, wincing as she moves her leg. “Come here.”
“Bailey—”
“Sebastian.” She mimics my authoritative tone. “Get in the damn bed before you fall over.”
My body surrenders before my mind can argue. I sink onto the mattress beside her, keeping to my edge. The relief is immediate and overwhelming, like sinking into oblivion.
“I should check your leg again.” The words slur together, my tongue suddenly too heavy for my mouth.
“Sleep.” Her voice comes from miles away. “I’ll still be broken in the morning.”
Sleep pulls at me like quicksand, irresistible after hours of exertion. The mattress cradles my exhausted body, and despite my best intentions to maintain distance, I’m drifting closer to the warmth radiating from Bailey’s side of the bed.
A howl pierces the night—long, haunting, close.
Bailey stiffens beside me, her breathing quickening. Another howl joins the first, then a third. Wolves.
“They can’t get in,” I murmur, words slurring with exhaustion. “Cabin’s secure.”
“Sebastian?” Her voice is small in the darkness. Nothing like her usual confident chatter.
“Hmm?”
In answer, her hand finds mine beneath the blanket. Her fingers slide between mine, intertwining. Such a simple gesture, yet it ignites something molten in my chest. Her thumb traces small circles on my palm, each one sending electricity up my arm.
I should pull away. Establish boundaries. Remind us both that this—whatever this is—ends the moment rescue arrives.
Instead, I squeeze her hand, drawing it closer until our joined fingers rest against my heart. Her body relaxes, curves toward mine like it belongs there. The wolves howl again, but she doesn’t flinch this time.
“Go to sleep,” I tell her. “I’ve got you.”
“Promise?” The vulnerability in that single word undoes something in me, dissolves a barrier I didn’t know existed.
“Promise.”