Page 11 of Snowbound
“Help,” I whisper, but it sounds thinner than before. A feeble thing, like the dying wind.
I can barely hear my own voice above the steady hush of snow falling around me. It's so thick now, layers on layers accumulating, weighing me down, and I still can’t shake it off. “Help,” I try again, more breath than sound.
And then—something.
A voice. Deep. Familiar. It cuts through the quiet like a blade.
Am I imagining things now? That sounds like… Owen. Have I fallen asleep? I blink frantically because I know if I don’t, I’ll fall under a spell I won’t wake from.
“Emma.”
No… I don’t think I’m dreaming.
My name again. The sound of it is rough, frantic, laced with something sharp and scared.
“Emma? What thefuck?—?”
I don’t even know if I’m awake anymore. I think I might be hallucinating. I’m in that strange place between dream and consciousness, suspended in cold and confusion. But I look up. I blink the snow out of my lashes and try to focus.
It can’t be. Not here. Not in this godforsaken middle of nowhere.
Is this what dying feels like? Do you start to see people you once loved? Is this some strange illusion?
“I’m s-s-so cold,” I stammer, my lips trembling.
Then arms, strong, warm, and achingly real, scoop me up from the ground. I'm pressed against a broad chest, and I feel the rumble of his voice more than I hear it as he curses under his breath in Gaelic before he utters what I can understand.
“Fucking hell, lass. You came out here in this mess? You’re a bloody snowman. Jesus Christ on a cracker.”
His voice is low and furious, muttering against my hair, but I think he’s talking to himself more than to me.
“We're closer to your cabin than mine. Let’s go.”
“What?” I mumble, my thoughts scattered and half-frozen. I can’t make sense of anything, but he’s so warm. So fuckingwarm.
My cabin?
I don’t argue. I can’t. I just close my eyes and press my face to his chest, my numb fingers curling against his coat. I’m still not sure this is real.
He walks and walks, trudging through the snow like it’s nothing, carrying me with ease. I hear his boots thudding on wood in a few minutes.
My god. Was I really this close?
I blink.
A porch. A step. Then we stop.
At the doorway, his fingers brush my jaw. He rests his forehead against mine, and I feel his heat, his breath, his presence.
Owen.
It grounds me.
His words are rough, hurried. “Let’s get you warm.”
“I-it’s l-l-locked,” I manage to whisper.
“Who the fuck cares?” he growls. “I know how to get in.”
