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Without her, I’m half a man. Waiting. Hoping. It’s the purest form of agony.
All because I didn’t want the baby. I didn’t. I had my reasons. Reasons I couldn’t tell her. But now? Christ, I’ll take a whole goddamn gaggle of cockblockers, as many as she wants, if she would just call me, let me explain, let me beg for forgiveness and spend the rest of my days atoning.
The French doors open behind me, and I flick a glance over my shoulder, scowling at the intrusion.
“Good morning, Mr. Novak.” My chef pokes his head out, wrinkles crinkling in his concerned expression.
“Oliver.”
“Still not sleeping?”
With a grunt, I turn back to the rain.
“You’ll catch your death.” He steps out and turns on the overhead space heaters. “I presume you’ll be taking your coffee out here?”
“Yes.” I stare at my phone, my breath fogging the screen.
“Sir. If I may…?”
“You may not.”
Ignoring me, he edges into my space and waits until I lift my head. “You can barely summon the will to speak, let alone eat. I know you miss her, but letting your health go—”
“I’m not letting anything go,” I growl. Especially not my wife.
“You’re not eating. Not sleeping. We’re concerned.”
“Who’s we?”
“Well, Aurora, Kai, Greyson, and I.”
The maid, the chauffeur, and the fucking landscaper? What the fuck?
“Are all my employees gossiping about me behind my back?”
“No, sir. We’re just worried about you.”
I drag a frozen hand down my face and wince at the bristle of overgrown whiskers. “What do you want?”
“For starters, I want you to eat the breakfast I make for you.”
“Fine.”
“And—”
“We’re done, Oliver.”
A sigh. “Very well, sir.”
The door snicks shut, and my rib cage shrinks on my next breath, growing tighter, constricting, until all I want to do is claw at my stabbing chest.
This fucking pain. It’s unending and inconsolable, the emptiness more than I can bear. But Oliver is right. I’m not helping anyone by freezing to death. I won’t find her by starving to death.
I can do better. Fight harder. Be smarter. Pull more of my resources together.
Find her.
Then I’ll win her back.
57
Frankie
—
Winter doesn’t wait for us to get our shit together.
It arrives without mercy. Snow consumes the land in a heavy, ageless, deadly domination. The wind howls like a pack of wolves, whipping the powder into a blinding frenzy.
It’s inescapable.
An icy graveyard of ruined plans.
For two weeks, I focus my energy on Kody’s recovery. As promised, I’m never alone. The four of us eat together. We sleep in the same room. We stand together, refusing to surrender.
And Denver holds to his promise.
He doesn’t make the final supply run.
Now it’s too late.
Everyone’s on edge. Leo picks fights with anyone with a dick. Wolf grows withdrawn and distant.
Then there’s Kody.
“Come back here.” I glare at his tense back, crossing my arms. “We’re not finished.”
Unresponsive, he stands at the window in the sitting room, staring outside, staring at nothing.
Nothing but a blur of white death, obscuring the eternal black sky.
He’s worried. I am, too. No living creature would dare to venture out in such conditions.
Except for his foolish brothers and the resident psychopath.
Denver moved the plane into the workshop before the worst of the blizzard hit. But they’re all out there now, battening down doors and windows, constructing roped pathways, and doing whatever else needs to be done to keep this place survivable.
Kody would rather be out there helping than in here doing physical therapy.
Too damn bad.
“Kodiak.” I tap my foot. “Did you hear me?”
He sighs. I think. It sounds more like a growl.
Grumpy. He’s grumpy on the best days. The rest of the time he’s a snarling goddamn bear.
We’ve been doing these exercises for two weeks between bouts of rest, ice, compression, and elevation. Now I’m just trying to help him walk without a limp.
I’ve removed all his stitches except for the ones on his thigh. That injury is taking its sweet time to heal, and I intend to give it all the time it needs before he goes tromping out in the wild again.
He knows I’m right. One wrong step can mean death. Frostbite, hypothermia, starvation. Any one of us can end up as a frozen corpse, buried under that snow. Especially him, if he doesn’t heal that leg.
I stare holes into the back of his skull with my focused determination until, at last, he turns, smiling.
The kind of smile that inspires a fight-or-flight response.
I stand my ground. “Straight leg lifts. Let’s go. Lie on your back—”
“I know how to do it, woman.”
“Then why am I here?” Patience gone, I throw up my arms and charge toward the stairs.
“Frankie, wait.” Heaving a breath, he drags a hand down his face. “I’m in a piss-poor mood—”
“For two weeks.”
“I’m taking it out on you like a prick. I’m sorry.”
He starts toward me with a limping gait, teeth clenched and hissing. Frustration creases his surly expression. Pain stiffens his bearing. I ache to meet him halfway, but that would only irritate him more. He doesn’t tolerate my coddling.
