Brandon's POV
My boot slipped.
For a heartbeat, the mountain claimed me — my fingers skidding uselessly across slick granite, the rope biting hard into my harness as my weight jerked downward. Cold punched the air from my lungs. One more slip and I'd disappear into the ravine below, swallowed whole by storm and stone.
The sleet had come out of nowhere. Thirty minutes ago the sky was clear; now it hurled needles of ice that stung my face and blurred the world into a shifting wall of white. No forecast had warned me, no instinct had whispered a storm was coming. But it was here — fast, brutal, and big enough to make me a ghost before anyone thought to look.
"Come on," I muttered, jaw clenched, forcing my boot to find purchase. A ledge. Just a damn ledge. A few more feet and I could regroup, maybe ride out the worst of it.
My muscles burned, breath tearing from my chest in ragged bursts as I hauled myself upward. At the top, the storm swallowed everything — the ridge, the ground, even the sound of my own breathing. Visibility dropped to almost nothing. Just wind and white and the slow, creeping cold sinking its teeth into every layer I wore.
I loved these mountains. Usually. Out here the silence reset me, steadied me. But this wasn't silence. This was nature baring its teeth.
I forced my legs to move, stomping to keep blood flowing. I scanned for shelter — a cave, outcrop, anything — but the world was a blank page. Panic stirred low in my spine, a warning I didn't have time to indulge.
Then something shifted. Not the wind. Not snow.
A low, guttural, growl. It sounded close.
I stilled. Every instinct went tight. The storm hid everything, but something was out there with me.
I pivoted slowly, searching through the blur, and that's when I caught it — a flash of color that didn't belong in all this white. Pink. Sharp and sudden. A jacket sleeve, half-buried under a heavy, snow-soaked branch.
Not an animal.
A person.
My heart punched hard as I stumbled toward her. The shape sharpened into a woman sprawled in the snow, bright pink gear vivid against the storm like a flare refusing to die. Her arm was pinned, twisted painfully. Her lips were pale, eyes sharp with pain she didn't voice.
"You okay?" I asked, breath rough.
She shot me a stare colder than the sleet. "What do you think?" A beat. Softer, strained, "No."
I shoved the branch aside. Her scream sliced through the wind — raw, human, terrifying. Blood streaked her arm. I swallowed the jolt of alarm and dug for my first-aid kit.
"Tourniquet," she gasped, teeth chattering. "Above the cut."
Calm. Direct. Even while shaking. I wrapped the bandage and tightened. She winced hard, eyes shutting.
"Your ankle?" I asked.
"Twisted. The snow… the branch… happened too fast."
She was fading. I could feel her leaning into me, fighting to stay upright.
"My cabin," she whispered, nodding weakly toward the trees. "Close."
I prayed she wasn't delirious. Supporting her weight, we pushed through the storm, each step a war. The wind tore at us, cold biting deeper every minute. I was starting to think this was a desperate gamble — until a dark shape emerged through the white. A roofline. Half-buried, but real.
Relief hit so sharp it almost hurt.
I shouldered the door open and pulled her inside. The air was cold, but not deadly. Safer than out there. Barely.
She sagged against the wall, breath shuddering.
The storm howled outside, rattling the cabin's bones. I had no idea who she was or what trouble she carried with her — but something in my gut told me the real danger hadn't been the storm.
Not by a long shot.