Chapter 13
Harper hated the jacket.
She hated that it blocked the wind. Hated that it smelled like him. His scent threaded through the fabric every time she breathed. And every time the wind cut through and the jacket blocked it, some treacherous part of her brain whispered safe.
He wasn’t safe. Safe was a lie. He was the man who’d made a choice and called it necessary.
And the hat? She wanted to rip it off her head, throw it in the snow, and stomp on it. But her ears would freeze and he’d just pick it up and put it back on her without a word.
So she walked. And seethed.
The cold burned the inside of her nose every time she inhaled, so she forced her breaths shallower.
He walked ahead of her. Steady pace, no wasted movement, scanning the lattice of pale birch between the darker conifers, the taiga closing around them in every direction.
Pav hadn’t looked back once. He knew she was there. He adjusted his pace when she fell behind, slowing without turning. She gritted her teeth. The man was a walking operations manual with a pulse.
He climbed over a snowbank, protecting his left side. Perhaps he’d sustained an injury in the crash? She studied his walk. His ribs?
But he hadn’t said a word.
Of course, he hadn’t. Admitting pain would make him human, and that was against his damn operating protocol.
She caught up with him and fell into step. “You’re guarding your ribs.”
He didn’t look at her. “I’m fine.”
She clenched her teeth. Stubborn man. Stay calm. Treat him like any other obstinate man who’d rolled into her ER. “That’s not what I said.”
He tramped around a scatter of boulders, moonlight silvering the snow. “Not relevant.”
“You’re injured—”
“Can you fix them?” He tossed her a look.
“What?”
“Right now. Here. Can you fix them?”
“No, but—”
He shrugged. “Then it’s not relevant.”
The urge to shake him was so strong her fingers curled inside his too-long sleeves, nails digging into her palms. “You’re unbelievable—”
He stopped suddenly, pivoted and held up a hand. Stop.
Her hands hit her hips. “Just what—”
He moved like lightning, sealing his hand over her mouth, his fingers spanning her jaw. His palm was warm, the heat shocking against her frozen lips.
“Quiet.” His breath tickled her ear.
She froze, heart hammering with fury and something sharper.
What the hell—
Distant but unmistakable. The deep, percussive thud of helicopter rotors cutting through the storm.
God. What now?
He was listening. Head tilted slightly, eyes tracking the sky through the canopy of snow-heavy trees. She couldn’t see anything—just endless snow, trees, and rock.
The sound grew. Louder. Coming from the direction of the crash site. Coming toward them. His hand relaxed and released her mouth. “We need to hurry.”
Pav pulled her off the trail they’d been cutting through the snow. Into the trees. He moved fast now, his injury apparently optional. Ahead, a searchlight swept across the frozen ground. Snow crystals glittered and vanished again, blinding for a split second.
Pav veered away from the light, leading her deeper into the trees, his hold on her arm rock-solid.
“Pav. Where—”
He steered her away from thick snow onto rocky ground that threatened to break her ankle at the speed they were running.
“Here.” He motioned to where a massive pine had come down against a rock face—the trunk rested at an angle, the space underneath a narrow triangle of shadow. Snow had drifted against it, half-sealing it.
Dark and cramped. No room for two.
“Wait—”
“Talk later.” He pushed her in, hands on her waist, guiding her under the trunk into the dark. Her back hit cold rock. Frozen earth and rotting bark hit her nose.
“Don’t move.” And then he was gone.
What?
She stood pressed between wet wood and icy rock. Had he abandoned her? She wouldn’t blame him.
The bark scraped the side of her face, rough and resin-sticky even in the cold. The trapped air under the trunk was colder than the open snow and every breath stung high behind her eyes.
He was gone long enough for panic to start sounding reasonable. When he finally returned, she hated the surge of relief that made her dizzy at the sight of him. He dumped his pack beside her boots and backed in after her.
“Where did you—”
“I doubled back and cut a false trail toward the rocks. Otherwise, our footprints would lead them right to us.”
His body sealed the opening. Between her and the night. Between her and whatever was coming, as if it was instinct. The thought lodged deep beneath her ribs.
The helicopter was close now, the vibration rising through the ground under her feet.
His breathing was controlled. His back expanded against her chest with each inhale. Her own breathing was ragged, too fast and too loud.
His hand reached back and found hers in the dark. “Slow your breathing.”
She should have yanked her hand free. Instead, she tried to match her breathing to his because he was right—panic would get them killed.
Inhale with him. Exhale with him.
She matched him because she wanted to live, not because she trusted him. Her pulse slowed anyway, her body reaching for his rhythm even after she stopped trying.
The smell of his jacket. And beneath it, the man. Her forehead was against his back. She didn’t remember putting it there.
The helicopter passed overhead. The rotors faded to a dull thump and then grew louder again—circling back. It landed. Somewhere close. She sensed change in the air—the downdraft shaking the trees, the engine winding down.
Men’s shouts. Boots crunching on snow. Two, maybe three sets. Fragmented Russian carrying on the wind. She caught tone but no words. Pav’s body was rigid against hers. Every muscle locked. His hand was still around hers and his grip hardened.
The voices moved closer, faded, then drew closer again. They were sweeping the area around the crash site, fanning out. How far would they come? How thorough were they?
A voice barked a command. Footsteps tramped in the snow.
Pav’s thumb moved across her knuckles. Barely perceptible. The footsteps passed. Ten feet away, maybe fifteen. Their hunters were discussing. Back and forth, the tones shifting—one voice frustrated, another calm, giving orders.
Then a word she understood.
Dogs.
Her heart stuttered.
The voices faded, and the helicopter engine started—rotors building. The helicopter lifted, the sound receding into the storm until there was nothing.
Silence. Snow whispering against the fallen trunk. Neither of them moved.
His back against her chest. Their hands still locked together in the dark. Her breathing keeping time with his. She couldn’t seem to uncouple it now or find her own separate rhythm.
Five seconds. Ten.
He released her hand and squeezed out from behind the trunk. The cold rushed in where his body had been—sudden and acute. A negative space in the shape of him.
He reached back and pulled her out. When she stood, her legs were stiff, her hands numb, his jacket—the damn jacket—still warm around her.
He scanned the sky, the treeline.
“They’re coming back with dogs.”
“I heard.”
He looked at her now, and he wasn’t looking at her like cargo. He was recalculating.
She hugged her middle with both arms. “How long do we have?”
“A few hours. Maybe less.” He squinted through the trees toward something she couldn’t see. “We need moving water. It won’t beat good dogs forever, but it’ll make the handlers work.”
He started downhill.
Without hesitation, Harper jogged after him.