Snow Angel: Rebirth

Chapter One

The snow crunched beneath Jake Sullivan’s boots, sharp and brittle in the mountain silence. He shifted the rabbits in his grip and scanned the ridgeline, watching the wind drag thin veils of powder across the pines. Peace. He’d come up here for peace — the one thing the world had stolen from him the day it took Lindsay and Fletcher.

A gust slapped him in the face, stinging cold biting at his jaw. The storm had come sooner than he expected, and he was ready for the warmth of the cabin.

He stepped into the clearing and froze. Through the haze of falling snow, near the ravine, the ground looked wrong — disturbed — stained.

Jake’s breath hitched. He moved closer, each step sinking deep into the drift. Blonde hair lay fanned across the ice like frozen silk. A woman. Face down. Barely clothed. Blood spreading behind her like wings.

“Hey.” His voice was low, steady, the same tone he’d used on battlefields.

No response.

He pressed two fingers to her neck. A pulse fluttered there — faint, frantic, like a trapped bird beating against his skin. Relief hit him hard enough to make his knees wobble.

Her eyes snapped open. Glass‑blue. Terrified. Too bright against the blood on her face. “Don’t let him find me,” she whispered, the words barely a breath.

Jake didn’t ask who he was. Later. Later, if she lived.

She weighed almost nothing when he lifted her, her body limp and ice‑cold against his chest. He carried her inside, kicking the cabin door shut behind him. Warm air wrapped around them, but she didn’t react. Didn’t shiver. Didn’t move.

He laid her on the bed. Her skin was the color of old paper. Her lips were blue. Her breaths came shallow and slow, each one a thin, fragile puff.

“Come on,” he muttered, pressing his hand to her wrist. Nothing. His hand moved to her neck. The pulse was there — but weak, racing, panicked.

He peeled back her shirt and sucked in a breath. Long, vicious welts ran down her back, some split open, blood seeping sluggishly from the deepest ones. Someone had done this deliberately. Methodically.

Jake’s jaw clenched. “Who did this to you?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes rolled back, her body sagging.

He grabbed his field kit, ripping it open. He remembered the basics drilled into him years ago: stop the bleeding, keep her breathing, keep her alive.

He packed the worst wounds with gauze, pressing hard. She screamed — a raw, broken sound — and tried to twist away. He pinned her gently but firmly, using his weight to keep her still.

“Easy. Be still.” His voice shook. He hadn’t let his voice shake in years.

The bleeding slowed. Good. One problem down. A dozen more to go.

Her skin was ice. Not cold. Ice. He stripped off the rest of her wet clothes, grabbed blankets, coats, anything with insulation, and layered them over her. Heating packs under her chest. Wool over her shoulders. Canvas over that, and Mylar to make sure all that heat stayed inside.

Her breathing hitched. Then faltered.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, leaning close. Her breath brushed his cheek; thin, fading.

Her throat tightened, her tongue slipping back. She choked. Her airway was closing.

“No. No.” He grabbed the soft airway tube from his kit, slid it gently into place. She gagged weakly, then went still again.

Jake sat back on his heels, chest heaving. The cabin was silent except for the faint metallic crinkle of the blanket every time her chest rose.

She was alive. Barely. Balanced on the razor’s edge.

He reached to adjust the blankets — and her fingers twitched. Just once. Reaching for something that wasn’t there.

Or something someone had taken.

Or something someone might kill to get back.