Page 45 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

A shiver runs down my spine, not from the cold alone but from the eerie sense of disorientation. The landscape is alien, transformed by the blizzard into an uncharted territory where every direction looks the same—endless, unforgiving white.

Then, as is typical for someone cursed the way I am, it happens. One minute, we’re moving slowly along. The next, I’m weightless.

A violent jolt wrenches me from the four-wheeler, my body twisting midair before I slam into the frozen ground. Pain explodes through my side, sharp and searing, stealing my breath. My head snaps back, cracking against something hard. A burst of white-hot agony swallows my vision, stars bursting behind my closed eyelids like fireworks against the snow.

"Fuck!" The curse rips from me, half pain, half shock. My fingers claw at the ice beneath me, searching for something solid in the dizzying rush of pain.

"Ivy!" Holt’s voice cuts through the storm, raw and urgent. The four-wheeler's engine dies, and in the next breath, he's there, his hands on me, warm and sure.

"Talk to me, baby. Where are you hurt?" His hands skim over my arms, my legs, careful but searching.

"My side—" I hiss as his fingers graze the tender spot, a deep, aching throb spreading through my ribs. "And my head."

"Shit." His exhale is sharp, tense. "All right, stay still. Don’t try to move too fast. You could’ve cracked a rib or—" He stops himself, jaw tight. "Just stay put, okay?"

I nod, though I'm not sure he can see it.

His concern is a solid thing, wrapping around me as tightly as his arms do when he helps me sit up. The moment I wince, he mutters a curse under his breath. "Fuck, baby,Fuck. I’m so sorry. We can’t stay here." Without another word, he scoops me up, careful but firm, and carries me back to the four-wheeler.

Instead of setting me behind him, he shifts me onto the seat in front of him, facing backward so we’re face-to-face, his arms bracketing my body as he settles in front me. "This way, I can keep a better grip on you," he says, voice rough. "Can you hold on?" Holt shouts at me.

"Y-yes!" My voice barely carries, swept away by the blizzard. I tighten my arms around his waist, pressing my body closer to his for warmth. His chest is a solid wall against the cold.

"Good girl," he says, and even now, there's a hint of a tease in his tone but it’s strained.

I lean into his warmth as the engine roars back to life. "We can't stay on the trail," he yells over the howl of the wind.

"Okay," I agree, teeth chattering as I nod.

We veer off, the four-wheeler's engine growling against the storm's rage. Holt occasionally presses a hand to my back like he’s making sure I’m still there, still okay. Snow stings my cheeks, slips down the collar of my jacket. Each flake feels like a needle against my skin.

"Where are we going?" I have to know, though it's clear we're both guessing.

"Shelter. Anywhere out of the wind." His words are snatched away instantly, but I understand.

Minutes stretch, endless and blurred. My fingers are numb, but I feel the vibration of the engine, the muscles of Holt's torso working as he maneuvers us through the storm. We're in this together, lost but not alone.

A break in the gale shows a shadow ahead—an outcropping of rock, maybe a cave. Holt heads straight for it, engine roaring its approval.

"Here," he says, and we skid to a stop, sheltered somewhat by the rocks.

He checks my face, brushes snow from my lashes with surprising tenderness. "How's your head?"

"It’s fine," I say, more to convince myself.

Holt exhales, his breath warm against my chilled skin. “I’m so damn sorry, Ivy.” His arms tighten around me, pulling me in. For a second, I just let him hold me, sinking into the solid reassurance of him.

“This wasn’t your fault,” I murmur, pressing my cold fingers against his jacket.

His jaw tics, like he wants to argue, but instead, he presses a kiss to my forehead, his lips lingering. “We just need a minute,” he says, voice low. “I need to get my bearings. Then we can head back to the cabin.”

Chapter 21

Hank

The clock ticks too loud, every sound grating on my nerves. I pace the room. I can't help it. My boots thump against the wooden floor, a dull beat that's out of sync with my racing heart. Where the hell are they? Holt should've known better.

The storm outside howls, a beast rattling the panes. Ivy isn’t made for this wrath. She's city, not mountain. The cold and the wind, they don't care about her whiskey-brown gaze or the way she smiles. Or the way she gives every bit of herself even when we’re being assholes.

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