Alpine Embrace

Chapter 8

The cold in the guest room wasn't just a temperature; it was a physical weight.

It pressed down on my chest, settled into my marrow, and made my teeth chatter in a rhythm that was starting to give me a headache. I was wearing every layer I owned, my jeans, two pairs of socks, the oversized hoodie I was now loathe to be wearing, and my own wool coat on top of the duvet.

It wasn't enough.

I curled into a tighter ball, tucking my nose into the collar of my coat. My breath plumed in the darkness, a gray ghost escaping my lips.

"Stupid," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Stupid, stupid Kelsea."

I wasn't sure if I was calling myself stupid for drawing him, or for arguing with a man who was clearly hanging onto his sanity by a thread. Or maybe I was stupid for leaving the warmth of the fire.

No, my pride argued. He kicked you out. You have some dignity.

Dignity, unfortunately, did not retain body heat.

I checked my phone. It was dead. The battery had finally surrendered to the cold an hour ago. I was completely cut off.

I closed my eyes, trying to visualize a beach. Sand. Sun. Margaritas.

CRACK.

My eyes snapped open.

The sound hadn't come from my imagination. It had come from above.

It was a sharp, splitting sound, like a gunshot, followed by a low, agonizing groan of timber under stress.

I held my breath.

CRACK-SNAP.

Louder this time. Directly over my head.

I sat up, the duvet sliding off me. I looked up at the ceiling. I couldn't see anything in the dark, but I could hear it. The wood was screaming. The immense weight of the snow—the "concrete" snow Jaxon had warned about—was crushing the roof of the guest wing.

"Oh god," I whispered.

I scrambled out of bed. My feet hit the floor, and the floorboards vibrated.

A fine dust of plaster fell onto my face.

"Jaxon!" I screamed, lunging for the door.

I grabbed the handle. It was cold metal. I turned it and yanked.

The door didn't budge.

I yanked again. "Jaxon!"

The doorframe had shifted. The weight on the roof was compressing the walls, warping the frame just enough to jam the latch. I was trapped.

Above me, the groaning turned into a tearing sound. A beam was giving way.

Panic, hot and blinding, flooded my system. I slammed my shoulder against the wood.

"Help! Jaxon! The roof!"

I backed up and threw myself at the door again. Pain exploded in my shoulder, but the door held firm.

I heard running footsteps. Heavy, thundering footsteps coming from the living room.

"Kelsea?" His voice was muffled but frantic.

"Jaxon! Get me out! The ceiling is cracking!"

"Back away from the door!" he roared.

I scrambled backward, tripping over the duvet and landing hard on my tailbone. I scuttled back on my hands and feet like a crab, pressing myself into the corner of the room furthest from the door.

BOOM.

Something hit the door from the other side. The wood splintered, but didn't open.

CRACK.

Above me, a fissure appeared in the plaster ceiling. A line of black darkness zigzagged across the white paint like a lightning bolt. Snow, actual snow, began to sift through the crack.

"Jaxon!" I screamed, terror seizing my throat.

BOOM.

The door exploded inward.

Splinters flew everywhere. Jaxon stood in the ruin of the frame, breathing like a bull, his eyes wild. He held a heavy iron poker in his hand, which he dropped instantly.

He saw me in the corner. He saw the cracking ceiling.

He didn't speak. He didn't hesitate.

He crossed the room in two strides. He didn't offer a hand. He bent down, grabbed me by the waist, and hauled me up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

"Hold on," he growled.

He turned and ran.

We cleared the doorway just as the sound of tearing wood reached a crescendo. behind us, there was a massive, deafening CRUMP.

The air pressure in the hallway changed instantly, a blast of icy wind and snow dust hitting us from behind. The roof of the guest room hadn't just cracked; it had come down.

Jaxon didn't stop. He sprinted down the hallway, past the kitchen, and vaulted over the back of the sofa into the blanket fort.

He dumped me onto the mattresses.

"Stay down!" he shouted.

He spun around, grabbing the heavy oak coffee table and upending it, shoving it against the entrance to the fort as a barricade. Then he grabbed the armchairs, jamming them tighter together.

He was sealing us in.

"Daddy?" Mia’s voice was tiny, trembling. She was sitting up in her nest of blankets, eyes wide with fear. "Is it a monster?"

Jaxon turned to her. He was panting, sweat glistening on his forehead despite the freezing temperature. He fell to his knees beside her.

"No monster, peanut," he rasped, pulling her into his arms. "Just the snow. The snow got a little heavy on the other side of the house."

"Is the house breaking?" Mia asked, burying her face in his neck.

Jaxon looked at me over Mia’s head. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown. He looked terrified. Not for himself, but for us.

"The house is strong," he lied. "We're safe in the fort. The living room has the big beams. See?" He pointed up. "These are the strongest beams in the world."

I looked up. The massive vaulted timbers of the main room looked solid. But I could hear the wind howling through the ruined guest wing down the hall. The integrity of the chalet had been breached. The cold was going to come for us now, faster and harder than before.

Jaxon held Mia until she stopped shaking. Then he looked at me.

"Are you hurt?" he asked. His voice was rough, stripping gears.

"My shoulder," I whispered, rubbing the spot where I’d hit the door. "But I’m okay. I’m... thank you."

He stared at me for a long beat, his chest heaving. Then he looked away, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"I shouldn't have sent you in there," he muttered. "I knew the snow load was getting critical on the north face. I knew it."

"You were angry," I said. "We were both angry."

"Anger gets people killed," he snapped. He stood up, but he stayed inside the fort, crouching low to avoid the draft. "We stay here now. Nobody leaves the circle. Not for the bathroom, not for water, not for anything unless I say so. The guest wing is gone. That means the thermal seal is broken. It’s going to get below zero in here by morning."

He moved to the fire. He threw three logs on at once.

"We burn it all," he said. "We don't ration anymore. We keep this fire hot enough to melt steel."

He sat down on the floor, his back against the sofa, pulling his knees up. He looked defeated.

I watched him. The man who had been a Titan, a Yeti, a force of nature... he looked broken.

I crawled over to him.

"Jaxon," I said softly.

He didn't look at me. "Go back to sleep, Kelsea."

"No."

I moved closer until I was sitting right next to him. I could feel the cold radiating off his jeans. He had been running through the unheated house to get to me.

"You saved my life," I said. "Again."

"I almost got you crushed," he corrected bitterly. "I put you in that room because I couldn't handle a drawing. Because I'm a coward."

"You're not a coward," I said fierce. "You're grieving. There's a difference."

He laughed, a harsh, dry sound. "Is there? My wife died three years ago, Kelsea. Three years. And I still can't look at a box of paints without losing my mind. I can't look at Christmas lights. I can't look at anything that reminds me of how bright the world used to be."

He turned to me then, and the pain in his eyes was so raw it took my breath away.

"You drew me," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You drew me like I was strong. Like I was holding it together."

"You are holding it together," I insisted. "Look at Mia. She’s happy. She’s safe. You did that."

"I'm failing her," he shook his head. "I'm turning her life into a gray wasteland because I can't handle the color."

"Then let me help," I said. The words tumbled out before I could check them. "Let me help you bring the color back. Just a little bit. For her."

He looked at me, searching my face. The firelight danced in his dark eyes. For the first time, I didn't see the wall. I saw the man behind it. And he looked lonely.

"Why would you want to help me?" he asked. "I've been nothing but a bastard to you."

"Because," I said, reaching out and tentatively placing my hand on his arm. His muscles were rock hard under the flannel. "Because I know what it's like to feel like the world is just a series of disasters waiting to happen. I know what it's like to brace for impact."

I squeezed his arm.

"But sometimes," I whispered, "the impact doesn't kill you. Sometimes it just breaks the walls down."

He looked down at my hand on his arm. He didn't pull away. He didn't flinch.

He covered my hand with his own. His palm was rough, calloused, and incredibly warm.

"It’s going to be a long night," he said, his voice thick.

"I know," I said.

"You should sleep on the mattress. With Mia."

"I'm not leaving you on the floor," I said stubbornly. "Not tonight."

"Kelsea..."

"Move over," I commanded, nudging his shoulder.

He hesitated, then shifted. He extended his legs, leaning back against the sofa. There wasn't much room.

I sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder. I grabbed a spare blanket and draped it over both of us.

We sat there in silence for a long time, watching the fire consume the wood. The wind howled outside, a beast denied its meal. The cold pressed in from the hallway, sharp and biting.

But under the blanket, pressed against his side, I was warm.

"Tell me about her," I whispered after an hour. "Tell me about E."

I felt him tense. I held my breath, waiting for him to shut down, to yell, to push me away.

But he didn't.

He took a deep breath, his chest expanding against my shoulder.

"Her name was Elena," he said, his voice raspy. "She had a laugh that could shatter glass. And she hated hockey."

I smiled in the dark. "She hated hockey?"

"Hated it. Said it was just grown men fighting over a rubber biscuit. She never watched my games. But she was always there when I got home to ice my knees."

He paused, his thumb tracing a pattern on the back of my hand, which he was still holding.

"She made me promise," he said quietly. "Before she... at the end. She made me promise not to let the light go out."

He looked at the fire.

"And I failed. I turned off every light in this house."

"You didn't fail," I said, leaning my head against his shoulder. "The pilot light is still on, Jaxon. You just need a spark to get the rest going again."

He turned his head. His face was inches from mine. I could feel his breath on my cheek.

"And you think you're the spark?" he asked. There was no mockery in his voice. Only a question. A dangerous, heavy question.

I looked at his lips. Then up to his eyes.

"I think," I whispered, "that I'm just a cartoonist who got stuck in a blizzard. But I have a lot of matches in my bag."

His gaze dropped to my mouth. The air between us crackled, hotter than the fire. For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to taste the grief and the fire and the man.

But then Mia stirred in her sleep, letting out a small whimper.

Jaxon pulled back instantly. The moment shattered, but the tension remained, humming in the air.

"Sleep," he ordered, though his voice lacked any real command. "I'll take the first watch."

I closed my eyes, but I didn't move away. I stayed pressed against his side, my hand in his.

The roof had collapsed. The heat was gone. We were trapped in a broken house in the middle of the apocalypse.

But as I drifted off to sleep, listening to the steady beat of his heart next to my ear, I realized something terrifying.

I wasn't scared of the storm anymore. I was scared of what would happen when the snow finally melted and I had to leave.