Grayson cradled the old man against his chest as if the weight were nothing, snow caking into his hair and collar while the wind howled around them. The man’s body was limp, breath shallow, his head lolling dangerously with each step. Grayson adjusted his grip without slowing, boots crunching through the thickening snow.
“Open the door,” he barked.
Alexia fumbled with the keys, her hands shaking so badly they clattered against the metal. Snow plastered her lashes, melted down her cheeks. “Grayson—wait,” she said, panic sharpening her voice. “If he wakes up—if he sees me—he’ll recognize me. He will.”
“I don’t care,” Grayson snapped, already at the car. “Open. The. Door.”
Her mouth opened, closed. She hesitated only a second longer before yanking the handle. The door swung wide, cold air
