An unnatural and unfamiliar chill surrounds my aching body as I lay on my back. On what, I'm not sure, as I can't remember a thing of where I was or what I had been doing.
My eyes crack open. Light floods in, too bright, too cruel. I quickly cover my face with thick gloved hands and attempt to roll to my side when a pain tears through my leg, sharp and sudden. I cry out in a ragged breath, hoping someone will hear me.
"Heather?"
A deep male voice cuts through the air, low, steady, from a distance as the icy wind blows, biting my cheeks.
My eyes sting with more than just the wind. I blink into the brightness, but the figure coming toward me stays just out of reach—blurred by light, or maybe by something deeper.
His footsteps crack the silence, slow and even, the sound of inevitability.
He stops in front of me. The world doesn't just still—it holds its breath.
His shadow falls over my body like a shield, and for the first time since waking, the cold feels a little less cruel.
"Are you alright?" His voice is closer now, gentle but edged with concern. He kneels beside me, his large frame blocking the sun. The blur finally sharpens, and I can finally see him clearly. His bulky gray coat hides most of his form but I know that face. I've seen it before– at the airport.
I remember him now.
He'd had his coat slung over one arm, leaving his broad shoulders and thick biceps completely exposed– like he didn't care who stared. And people did stare. So did I.
There was an undeniable pull the moment I stepped closer to him.
His dark hair, short but thick, was swept back from his face, silver just beginning to creep in at the temples. And that beard—wild and unkempt—made it seem like something feral lingered just beneath his skin.
He towered over me, easily a foot taller, holding a simple white sign with my name in bold capital letters: HEATHER LEWIS.
But it wasn't the size or the strength that held me still. It was his eyes—dark, unreadable, locking onto mine like they'd been waiting.
Now, blood– thick and crimson– trickles in little rivulets down the side of his rugged face. And I can't help the guilt twist in my chest when I see it.
He'd warned me.
He told me it wasn't a good day to fly, that the wind had turned wild — screaming through the trees like something alive. But, I'm used to getting my way. I refused to take no for an answer. It didn't hurt that my father made a call– offered him more money than any sane man would turn down.
When I still don't answer, he reaches for me—his gloved hand brushing against my cheek before gently tucking a strand of my blonde hair behind my ear.
His touch is careful, reverent. Like I might break.
"Heather?"
My name leaves his mouth softer this time, edged with something deeper than concern. His sapphire eyes search mine, filled with a quiet intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
I swat his hand away like it burns, the sting of contact lingering longer than it should. My heart stumbles in my chest, but I push through it, forcing myself upright on shaky elbows.
"It's Miss Lewis to you," I snap, the words brittle as ice.
Pain lances through my leg the moment I move, sharp and unforgiving. I bite back a cry and wince, breath catching as the world tilts. But I don't let myself lie back down. I can't.
He huffs a soft laugh—low and amused, like he wasn't expecting anything less.
"Right," he says, eyes glinting. "Miss Lewis, who swore she'd flown in worse conditions."
The smile tugging at the corner of his mouth is entirely too smug for someone with blood still dripping from his temple.
I glare at him, but the fire in it fizzles a little too quickly. "I didn't swear. I insisted," I mutter, trying not to sound breathless from the pain.
His smirk fades, just slightly. His eyes flick to my leg, then back to my face, more serious now.
"You shouldn't be moving," he says, already shifting closer. "You could've broken something—or made it worse."
Guilt prickles under my skin. I hate it. I hate how right he was.
"You didn't have to say yes," I mumble, voice lower. "You could've walked away."
His jaw tightens, but not with anger. "Not when your father was waving that kind of money… and you were looking at me like you'd already won."
"Stubborn, reckless, and freezing. You're lucky I'm hard to intimidate."
I scoff and try to sit taller, brushing off the pain in my leg like it's nothing. I even manage a tight little smile—forced, but it's something.
"I'm fine," I lie, lifting my chin a fraction, like I can bluff my way through broken bones and bruised pride.
He doesn't buy it.
His eyes drift over me—slow, assessing. And when they land on mine again, his voice softens.
"You're hurt."
No accusation. No judgment. Just quiet certainty.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
"I'm fine," I snap, sharper than I mean to be.
That's a lie, of course. I'm not fine—not with the pain searing through my leg, or the guilt gnawing at the edge of my chest. But I say it anyway, because it's easier than admitting the truth.
His lips press into a tight line, like he doesn't believe me. Like he's already seen through the cracks I thought I'd covered.
I look away. Let him think what he wants.
I can't let him see me as weak. I won't.
Everyone always assumes I'm helpless—just a spoiled little rich girl floating through life on my father's money. And maybe they're right. Maybe this crash is proof of that.
But I'll drag myself through the snow before I let him look at me like I need saving.
"Where does it hurt?" he asks, voice flat—dismissive, almost like he's humoring a petulant child.