Page 92 of Death Valley

She nods, understanding in her eyes. “You think he’ll make it back to the ranch?”

“He knows the way,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “Better than I do, sometimes. Hopefully he’ll be there in no time, a reunion with the others. Or hopefully some skier finds him, gives him a home. Either way…”

He’s better off than us, I finish.

We fall into silence, the only sounds Eli’s labored breathing and the crackling of the fire as we stand around it. Outside, the storm rages on, wind howling around the cabin’s corners, finding every crack and crevice to send icy drafts across the floor. The fire doesn’t seem to be doing anything and I’m starting to worry about us.

When night falls fully, it brings a deeper cold that seems to penetrate to the bone. Despite the fire, now burning low as we conserve wood, the temperature in the cabin has dropped dangerously. Frost forms on the inside of the window, crystalline patterns spreading across the glass like reaching fingers.

Aubrey sits beside me, huddled in her coat, shivering visibly despite her efforts to hide it. Her lips have taken on a bluish tinge, her fingers clumsy with cold as she tries to warm them.

“You’re showing signs of hypothermia,” I say quietly, not wanting to disturb Eli who has finally fallen into deeper sleep.

“I’m fine,” she insists, but the slight slurring of her words betrays her.

“No, you’re not.” I stand, moving to my pack. “Neither of us is. We need to warm up, now or we’ll fall asleep and none of us will survive the night.”

I pull out my sleeping bag, rated for alpine conditions but still barely adequate for the temperatures. One sleeping bag, meant for one person.

“We need to share body heat,” I say, unrolling the sleeping bag by the fire. “It’s our only option.”

Aubrey stares at me, understanding dawning in her eyes despite the cold-induced sluggishness of her thoughts. “You mean…”

“I mean get naked,” I say bluntly. “Both of us. In the sleeping bag. It’s that, or freeze to death before morning.”

26

AUBREY

Ican’t stop shaking.

The cold has worked its way so deep into my bones I’m not sure I’ll ever be warm again. Everything feels distant, muffled. Jensen’s voice reaches me as if through water, urgent but fading until I hear the words “Get naked.”

That would get anyone’s attention.

I stare at him blankly.

“Aubrey.” Jensen’s face appears before mine, his hands framing my face. Even through my numbness, I register his warmth. “Stay with me. I need you to focus.”

I try to nod, but my body doesn’t cooperate.

“I need to get these wet clothes off you. The fire isn’t drying you out fast enough.” His voice is all business, but his eyes betray his fear. He knows how bad this is. “Now.”

Some distant part of me knows I should be embarrassed or resistant, but that part seems very far away. Besides, it’s not as if he hasn’t seen me naked before, not as if he hasn’t touched and tasted me all over.

But my own hands are useless, clumsy appendages that won’t follow commands. Jensen’s fingers work quickly unzipping mycoat, peeling away layers of sodden, thawing fabric. My boots. My jeans, plastered to my legs. My shirt. My bra.

Cold air hits newly exposed skin, somehow even worse than the wet clothes. A small sound escapes me—half whimper, half moan.

“I know,” Jensen murmurs. “It’ll get better. Stay with me.”

Jensen has spread out the sleeping bag in front of the fire and stands before it, pulling off his own shirt. He shivers violently, nearly as cold as I am. Both of us are in danger here.

“All of it has to come off,” he says, reaching over and tugging down my underwear over my cold hips, his touch impersonal, clinical, at least compared to how he’s touched me before. Then he strips off his remaining garments with quick efficiency. In my half-frozen state, I register only impressions—the breadth of his shoulders, the heat emanating from his skin, the tattoo on his shoulder.

He gently guides me down to my knees and into the sleeping bag, then slides in behind me, zipping it closed. The shock of his skin, just slightly warmer than mine, draws a gasp from my throat. It hurts—god, it hurts—as blood slowly begins to flow back into extremities gone numb from cold.

“You’re doing good,” he murmurs against my hair, arms wrapping around me, pulling me against the furnace of his chest. “The pain means you’re warming up.”

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