Page 7 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

My skin burns, even in the cold. The rush of adrenaline from the fall is long gone, replaced by something heavier. Thicker. A slow, pulsing heat that coils low and dangerous.

Damn it.

Jackson fucking Hart is right again. And I hate that what I’m feeling right now—under his hands, under his command—isn’t just gratitude. It’s not just survival.

It’s desire.

Sharp. Immediate. Completely inappropriate.

I hate that he makes me feel this way. Hate that I want to snap at him one second and climb him like a tree the next.

Judging by the way his jaw ticks as he finishes the wrap, he knows it.

Which somehow makes it worse.

His touch is surprisingly gentle as he wraps the bandage around my ankle, but his words cut like ice. "You were told explicitly not to come up here."

"I thought I had time before?—"

"You thought wrong." He secures the bandage and roughly replaces my boot. "You risked your life, and now mine."

"I didn't ask you to come after me." Heat rushes to my cheeks despite the freezing temperature.

"So I should have left you to die?" His eyes snap to mine, piercing blue against the white landscape.

The bluntness of his words steals my retort. Death. It hadn't seemed real until now—the true consequence of my stubborn pride.

Jackson stands, assessing our surroundings. The storm has intensified, snow swirling around us in violent gusts. Visibility extends barely ten feet in any direction.

"We can't make it down." His expression darkens. "Night's coming. Temperature's dropping. We need shelter."

"My car's at the trailhead," I offer, clinging to the illusion of an easy escape.

A short, humorless laugh escapes him. "Three miles in whiteout conditions, with your ankle? We'd be finding your frozen body in spring." He gestures up the slope. "My shelter's half a mile up. It's our only option."

The reality of the situation crashes over me. We're trapped on the mountain together—this man who clearly despises me and the woman whose recklessness vindicates every negative assumption he's made about me.

“Can you walk?”

He’s already moving, already coiling the rope, like rescuing stranded hikers is just another chore on his list.

“Yes.” The word snaps out sharper than intended—my pride lashing before my common sense can catch up.

His eyes flick to my wrapped ankle. One brow arches. Jackson Hart doesn’t argue; he justknowsI’m lying. He shrugs into his pack like it weighs nothing, then steps in close. Too close. His arm slides around my waist before I can protest—solid, unyielding, warm.

“Lean on me. And try to keep up.”

I want to shove him away. I want to prove I can do this on my own. But the moment I take a step, white-hot pain slices up my leg, and I suck in a gasp. Pride be damned—I’d collapse without him.

I hate this.

I hate how strong he is. How steady. How the arm around my waist doesn’t just support me—it grounds me. Every step is agony, but worse than the pain is the heat simmering low in my belly. Not from exertion. Not from adrenaline.

From him.

From the way his body moves beside mine—powerful, efficient, always in control. From the way he never looks back, just trusts I’ll fall in line. From the quiet competence in every step, every adjustment, and every flex of muscle under that worn jacket.

It’s infuriating, and completely unfair.

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