People die when they stop fighting—when they surrender to the cold, the pain, the f*****g void. I used to think that was a lie. Some stale motivational nonsense. Turns out, I was wrong. Surrender is a choice, and my little bird nearly made it.
The woman who killed me with her gaze now lay on the bed, her breaths uneven beneath the three thick blankets I’d draped over her. Her skin was paler, her lips cracked, and her once-bright eyes were now hidden behind fluttering lids. She was burning with fever, despite her body’s icy tremors.
Fuck. One second late, and she would’ve froze to death.
I dragged a hand through my hair, my jaw clenching as I stared down at her. Four hours. Four damn hours I was gone, handling business, and this is what she managed to do—nearly kill herself in the snow.
