Page 5 of Cold and Bitter Snow

“We just survived an avalanche,” she whispered. She looked up towards the slope, half expecting to be swallowed by a second blast.

“That we did,” he said gently. “Make that a small avalanche.”

Her dark hair hung in clumps in front of her eyes. She moved her right hand—except nothing happened. It didn’t move. Everything felt numb.

Have I lost my arm?

Then she looked down and realized both her arms were trapped inside the snow. She was trapped in the snow with this stranger. She barely had enough room to breathe.

That’s when she really panicked. She remembered everything she’d ever read about avalanches in her life. It wasn’t exactly material to fill a whole book, but she knew snow and debris set up like cement as soon as an avalanche came to a stop. And here she was now, her arms and body stuck in a body cast of snow. She felt the cold set in around her.

We’re going to die here.

“Siena, you’re hyperventilating. Relax. Breathe. In. And out. In. And out. There we go,” he said, speaking very softly in a tone of voice she imagined he reserved for spooked horses. “You’re doing great.”

We’re going to die here.

“We’re not going to die here,” he said. She must have spoken the words out loud.

He was shoveling snow around her with his bare hands. His hands were waxy white. One of his palms was bleeding, staining the snow red.

He should put some gloves on.

The irrational thought made her laugh. At least he could move his hands. Whereas she was covered to her chest, he was only in snow up to his waist.

“I’m sorry …” she said, suddenly unsure what she was apologizing for but realizing he wouldn’t have been caught in the avalanche if it hadn’t been for her.

“Relax, we’ll be out of here in no time.” His breath felt nice and warm against her forehead.

Conor chipped away at the snow and ice around her until her right arm was free. She found she still had her glove on, though it was filled with water and snow. But at least it’d protect her fingers from the rock-hard snow and ice. She started scratching at the snow with him.

It felt like hours but could only have been minutes later that her other arm was free. The glove was gone, so she dug with her bare hand, amazed at the pain in her numb fingers. Tears came to her eyes, unbidden, freezing on her eyelashes before they could fall.

“Hang on, we’re almost there,” he puffed. He hacked away at the snow as if his hands were shovels, tinging the ground red with his blood wherever he struck.

Now that she knew they weren’t going to die in a tomb of snow, she realized hypothermia and freezing to death were still likely possibilities.

“Do you have a beacon on you?” he asked.

She shook her head. Monsieur Montgomery, Le Miroir’s Head of Security, had given her a beacon when she first arrived—which she’d promptly stashed in a drawer in her room.

Stupid.

“Not much of a security expert, huh,” she said.

“I don’t have one either,” he panted. “Don’t worry. We’ll be out soon. Sorry, I’m going to have to get closer to you for a second …”

Closer? Any closer and he’d be on top of her.

And then she felt him move against her and realized they could definitely get closer. She felt his hard body move against her from chest to hip. For an instant, she forgot she was freezing. Then the pressure was gone as he pulled himself up and out of the hole. He was on his knees beside the hole a moment later, reaching for her. He placed his hands under her armpits and brought her up as if she weighed nothing.

When he set her down on the ground, she caught his grimace. A muscle bunched behind his jaw.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

Way to go, Sherlock.

He considered for a moment before finally relaxing his jaw enough to speak. He rolled his shoulder tentatively then quickly aborted the attempt. “I strained my shoulder earlier. It’s fine.”