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“Hold on tight,” he says, and looping his arms under my knees, he starts walking, covering the ground with long, steady strides.
18
Peter
I set a brisk pace, determined to get back to the house quickly. Already, the sky is darkening on the horizon, the air cooling and thickening. The storm is coming faster than predicted; we have maybe a couple of hours before it hits, and I can’t ping the guys to pick us up. After dropping me off, Anton took the helicopter to pick up a few supplies in Tokyo, and he wouldn’t be back in time.
I should’ve chosen some other day for this demonstration.
Oh, well. No point in worrying about it now. As we get to a flatter part of the trail, I pick up the pace further, and Sara shifts her grip on me, looping her arms around my neck as she leans forward.
“Is this okay?” she murmurs in my ear, and I nod.
“Fine. Just don’t choke me,” I tell her.
“Are you sure you don’t want to let me down? Because I’ve rested now and I can walk—”
“You’ll slow us down.”
My tone is brusque, but I’m not inclined to waste my breath on speaking. Not because my little bird is heavy—at barely fifty kilos, she weighs less than the packs I jog with when I train—but because I can’t afford to go any slower. The wind is gusting up, blasting us with an icy chill, and though we’re both warmly dressed, I want to get Sara indoors before the weather worsens.
The first drops of sleeting rain hit when we’re less than a half hour from the house. “Let me down,” Sara demands, and this time, I listen. I’ve been carrying her for over three hours, and by now, she is sufficiently rested. We’ll move faster if she’s on her own feet.
Gripping her hand, I begin to jog, towing her behind me as the sky opens up and the wind starts driving icy water into our faces.
“Oh, thank God,” Sara gasps out as the house comes into view. The sleet is now mixed with snow, and the wind feels like it’s cutting through our bones. My jeans are soaked through, my legs are numb with cold, and I can no longer feel my face. I can only imagine how miserable Sara must be. Unlike me, she’s never been trained to divorce herself from pain and discomfort, has never known what it’s like to focus solely on survival. If I could shield her from this storm with my body, I would, but the most important thing right now is to get her inside, where it’s warm and dry.
Another hour of this, and we’d run the risk of hypothermia.
When we’re less than thirty meters from the house, Sara stumbles, tripping over a branch, and I pick her up, carrying her clasped against my chest as I cover the remaining distance. Getting to the door, I knock with my boot, and as soon as Yan opens the door, I carry my half-frozen burden straight to our bathroom upstairs.
Putting her down, I turn on the shower, making sure the water is warm but not too hot, and then I strip us both, removing our wet, icy clothes before ushering her under the spray. Sara’s lips are tinted blue, and she’s shivering so hard she can barely remain upright. I’m not in much better shape, so I wrap my arms around her in a full-body hug, and for a few minutes, we just stand under the water, shaking as its warmth soaks into our frozen skin.
“We c-could’ve died.” Sara’s teeth are still chattering as she pulls back and meets my gaze. Her hazel eyes are almost black in her white face, her dark lashes spiked with wetness. “P-Peter, we could’ve d-died out there.”
“Yes.” I tighten my arms around her again, pressing her against me until I can feel every shallow breath she takes. “Yes, ptichka, we could have.”
Another hour or two in that storm, and she wouldn’t have made it. I didn’t let myself think about it before, didn’t let my focus waver from the task of getting her home, but now that we’re here—now that she’s safe—the realization that she could’ve died hollows out my stomach and wraps my heart with ice. I’ve only known fear like this once before, when I saw those methheads threatening her with knives. That time, I could eliminate the threat—and I did—but I couldn’t protect her from this storm.
If it had come two hours sooner, I could’ve lost her.
The thought is terrifying, unbearable. When I lost Pasha and Tamila, it felt like my world had ended, like I would never know anything but rage and agony again. The fury that drove me was absolute—because that was the only way I could get through each day, the only way I could eat and breathe and function.
