Alpine Embrace

Chapter 7

The second day of the blizzard didn't feel like a day. It felt like an extension of the night.

The house remained submerged in a perpetual twilight, lit by the flickering dance of candles and the glow of the roaring fire. The external world was a constant, impenetrable wall of white pressed against every window, a relentless reminder of our isolation.

I woke up nestled deep in the blankets, the faint scent of woodsmoke and Jaxon’s hoodie clinging to me. Mia was still asleep, a small, warm bundle on the mattress beside me, her penguin tucked under her chin.

Jaxon was already up. He was sitting in the armchair, exactly where he’d been when I drifted off, still wrapped in his blanket. He was staring into the fire, a mug cradled in his hands.

"Morning," I mumbled, my voice rough with sleep.

He didn't turn around. "Morning."

"Coffee?"

"Made some on the camping stove. Help yourself. There’s enough for one more cup."

I uncurled myself from the blankets, shivering as the cold air hit my exposed arms. I stumbled toward the kitchen, my sock-clad feet chilling on the bare floorboards outside our blanket fort.

On the counter, beside a small gas camping stove, sat a percolator. It looked ridiculously out of place amidst the gourmet appliances, but it hummed with the promise of warmth and caffeine. I poured myself a mug. It was strong. Black. Just the way I liked it.

I walked back and sat on the edge of the mattress, pulling the blanket around me. Jaxon still hadn’t moved.

"Any change outside?" I asked.

"No," he said, his voice flat. "Still coming down. Wind’s picked up again."

"And the generator?"

"Frozen."

The word hung in the air, heavy and final. Two days, maybe three, he had said. And we were only at the beginning of day two.

The silence stretched, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the distant whine of the wind against the thick glass. It was the kind of silence that made your thoughts too loud.

I pulled my sketchbook from my duffel bag, which I’d retrieved from the guest room last night. I needed an outlet. I needed to draw the chaos out of my head before it overwhelmed me.

I flipped to a fresh page, my charcoal pencil making a soft scratch-scratch against the paper. I started with Mia, who looked like a tiny Viking warrior buried in furs.

Mia stirred, then opened her big brown eyes. She blinked, looking around the flickering room.

"Morning, Snow Queen," she chirped.

"Morning, Princess," I replied, smiling.

Jaxon finally turned, his gaze softening as it landed on his daughter.

"Sleep well, peanut?"

"Yes! It was so cozy," Mia announced, pushing herself up. "Are we still camping?"

"We are," Jaxon confirmed. "But Daddy has to melt some snow for water. We're running low."

"I can help!" Mia declared, already trying to wrestle out of her blanket burrito.

"No," Jaxon said, standing up. "You stay warm. Kelsea will keep you company." He looked at me, his expression unreadable. "You have your... cartoons."

"Yep," I said, holding up my sketchbook. "Currently illustrating the epic saga of Princess Mia, slayer of blanket monsters."

Mia giggled.

Jaxon nodded, then grabbed a large pot and disappeared into the dark kitchen.

"What are you drawing?" Mia asked, scooting closer.

"Want to see?" I offered, tilting the book.

I showed her the sketch of her, buried in blankets, her eyes peeking out. Mia squealed with delight.

"It's me! Can you draw me flying a dragon?"

"Absolutely."

For the whole day, the small circle around the fire became our world. I drew. Mia talked. She told me about her friends at school, about her favorite teddy bear (not the penguin, apparently), and about her mom.

"Mommy liked glitter," Mia said, watching me sketch. "Everything had glitter. She said it made the world sparkle."

I paused, looking at the empty, elegant chalet. "She sounds lovely."

"She was," Mia said simply. "She used to paint pictures in the East Wing. Big ones. With lots of colors."

My hand froze. The East Wing. His dead room.

"Your mom was an artist?" I asked carefully.

Mia nodded, oblivious to the sudden tension in the air. "She said colors made her happy. Daddy says colors make him sad now. That's why he plays the piano in the dark."

Mia. God, that kid was a walking, talking truth serum.

"Sometimes," I said, trying to choose my words carefully. "Sometimes things that used to make us happy, can make us sad when we miss someone very much. Like a memory that's too bright to look at."

Mia looked at me, her big brown eyes thoughtful. "Does that happen to you?"

I thought of my old apartment. My old life. The cynical cartoons that had once been my joy now felt tainted by failure. "Sometimes," I admitted.

"Do you draw pictures that make you sad?"

"I draw pictures of things that make me feel," I corrected. "Sometimes it's anger. Sometimes it's sadness. But it's honest. It helps me understand the feeling."

"Can you draw Daddy?" she asked suddenly.

My breath hitched. "Your daddy?"

"Yeah!" Mia beamed. "He's very handsome. Like a prince."

A prince who slammed doors in my face and told me his heart was gone. But I looked at Mia’s expectant face.

"Okay," I said, taking a deep breath. "But you can't tell him."

Mia covered her mouth with both hands, nodding vigorously.

I started to sketch. It wasn't a cartoon. It was a serious portrait. I drew him by the fire, just as he had been sitting earlier, his profile etched against the flames. I tried to capture the stoicism, the deep well of sadness hidden behind the scowl, the strength in his jaw. I drew the scar above his eyebrow, a testament to battles fought.

I got lost in the lines, the shading. It was a challenge, trying to capture the layers of him. The protector. The widower. The grumpy, beautiful man.

"Wow," Mia breathed, leaning closer. "You made him look like a hero."

I looked down at the drawing. I had. Unintentionally. The firelight had given his eyes a haunted depth, and the set of his jaw radiated a fierce determination.

"He is a hero," I said softly. "He rescued me from the snow."

A loud thud came from the kitchen.

Mia gasped. I snapped my head up.

Jaxon was standing in the archway, holding a bucket full of melted snow. His eyes were fixed on the sketchbook in my lap.

His face was unreadable. Cold. Angry.

"Mia," he said, his voice quiet, dangerously so. "What are you doing?"

Mia, usually so bold, shrank back. "She... she was drawing."

Jaxon took a step forward. The bucket of water sloshed.

"Drawing what?" he asked, his eyes still on the book.

I quickly shut the sketchbook, clamping my hands around it. "Nothing. Just... random sketches. Landscape stuff."

He took another step. "Show me."

His voice wasn’t a request. It was an order.

"Jaxon, it's really not—"

"Show me, Kelsea," he repeated, his eyes burning into mine. The anger was simmering just beneath the surface, a dangerous heat.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew he wasn’t angry about the drawing of him. He was angry about what Mia had inadvertently revealed about her mother. About E.

I slowly, reluctantly, opened the sketchbook to the page.

His eyes fell on the portrait. He stared at it for a long, silent moment. The flickering candlelight played across his face, making it impossible to read his expression.

He didn't speak. He just stared at the drawing of himself. A drawing that captured the very essence of his guarded, wounded soul.

Then, his gaze lifted from the page and met mine. His gray eyes were dark. Stormy.

"Don't do that again," he said, his voice a low growl.

"It was just a drawing," I argued, my own anger flaring at his unfairness.

"It was my face," he snapped. "And you don't get to capture it without asking."

"You were outside!"

"I don't care," he said, taking another step, invading the personal bubble of the blanket fort. He was too close. The intensity of him was suffocating. "You don't get to steal that. You don't get to capture things you don't understand."

"I think I understand more than you think," I challenged, holding his gaze. "I understand that you're hurting. I understand that this house is full of ghosts. And I understand that you're a hypocrite, because you spent all of last night playing the piano for one of them."

The words hung in the air, sharp and brutal.

His face went utterly still. All emotion drained away, leaving behind a blank, terrifying mask.

Mia whimpered, burrowing deeper into her blankets.

Jaxon didn't move. He just stared at me, his eyes dead, devoid of anything but cold, controlled fury.

"Get out," he said, his voice barely a whisper, but it was the most dangerous sound I had ever heard.

"What?"

"Get out of my fort. Get away from my daughter. You can sleep in the mudroom if you want. But you will not spread your toxic cynicism and your intrusive observations in here."

My breath hitched. My face burned with shame and a fresh wave of humiliation.

"Jaxon, I didn't mean—"

"I don't care what you meant," he cut me off, his voice rising, raw with pain and anger. "I told you to stay out of it. I told you this place was dead. You think you can just waltz in here and start sketching my tragedy? My grief isn't your artistic muse, Kelsea. It’s my life."

He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving. He looked like he was about to explode.

"You need to leave," he said, pointing a finger at me, shaking with suppressed rage. "Now."

My eyes stung. I looked at Mia, who was now crying silently into her penguin.

I grabbed my sketchbook and scrambled off the mattress. My legs felt shaky, but I forced myself to walk out of the circle of blankets.

I paused at the edge of the fort, looking back at him. He stood there, framed by the dancing candlelight, a furious, wounded man.

"Fine," I said, my voice trembling. "Fine. You want to be alone with your ghosts, Jaxon? Be my guest."

I turned and walked away, past the dark kitchen, past the silent mudroom, toward the hallway that led to the guest bedroom. My feet were cold on the floorboards.

I pushed open the door to my bedroom. It was dark. The window was still buried under a solid wall of snow. The air was frigid, the warmth of the fireplace having barely penetrated the room.

I climbed onto the cold box springs, pulling a thin duvet over me. I tried to stop the tears, but they came anyway, hot and stinging.

I hated him. I hated him for being so unfair. For being so cruel.

But I hated myself more for seeing the pain behind his rage. For still wanting to open that damn door to the East Wing.

And for realizing that, somewhere between the snowstorm and the pancakes, I had started to care.

I pulled the blankets tighter, shivering. It was going to be a very, very cold night. And this time, there was no Jaxon to act as my shield.