The Boss (Chateau 3)

“I’d rather die out here than die there.” She kept going, pushing through the snow, trying to conquer the unconquerable.

It was impossible to gauge the passage of time.

We seemed to be out there for days, but the sun never came up. Minutes felt like hours. We were moving so slowly that I doubted we were gaining much ground. When they realized we were missing, they would catch up to us in an hour. “We shouldn’t have done this…” I faltered behind her because I didn’t have the strength or the grit to keep up.

“We’re going to make it, Melanie.”

“We’re going to die, and you know it!”

She turned back to look at me, her hair blowing everywhere in the wind, but she still wore that ruthless expression. She wouldn’t admit defeat, even as she experienced the final beat of her heart. Her eyes flicked past me, and her face changed.

I followed her look.

Torches.

“Fuck.” She grabbed my arm and tugged me. “Come on!”

We moved as quickly as we could across the field of endless snow, waist-deep. Our flashlights were turned off so they wouldn’t see us, so we blindly pushed through the snow, getting closer to the dark outline of the trees.

We finally breached the tree line, and the snowdrifts were a little lower here since most of it was caught up in the branches above.

“Run!” Raven led the way, leaving a trail of footprints that they would see when they arrived.

I kept up as long as I could before a stitch entered my side. “Wait…I can’t.” I stopped and bent over, heaving for air.

“Yes, you can.” Raven came back to me and tugged on my arm. “Come on, Melanie.”

I pushed her hand off and breathed through the pain in my waist. I’d never been athletic, never been one for a hike, barely went to the gym. I was a couch potato, and now I was out in the middle of nowhere, in a fucking blizzard, and she acted like I was weak.

I knew we would be captured. I knew we would be taken back to the camp. Fender would probably protect me, but she would be hanged. She would be stabbed until her guts spilled onto the ground and stained the snow. The image brought me to tears. “I’m so sorry—”

“We don’t have time for this.” She flashed me an angry look, immune to my tears.

“Raven.” I wiped them away and straightened. I couldn’t die without earning her forgiveness. Or worse, I couldn’t survive if she didn’t…and carry that for the rest of my life. “I just—”

“We need to keep moving.” She grabbed my wrist and yanked me, forcing me up and forward.

I yanked my hand away, heartbroken and angry. “You’re never going to forgive me, are you?” We were on death’s doorstep, and we both knew it. We had an hour, if we were lucky, before we were captured, and she was still so angry with me that she couldn’t forgive me, not even if it was the last chance she had. That was how deep her hatred went. She’d rather die with her resentment than let it go.

She turned around, her eyes unsympathetic. “Melanie—”

“We’re going to die out here.” If we managed to escape the men, we’d die in the snow. If we were captured, the result was the same. “I need you to know how sorry I am.” I needed her to understand it haunted me every night, every day I looked at her in the clearing, every waking moment…except when I was with Fender. He was the only thing strong enough to give my heart a break from its mental torture.

“I do know you’re sorry.” She still didn’t have the look she gave me in the cabin, when she hugged me, when she loved me. Her expression now was packed with endless layers of resentment and pain. It was full of accusation, and even worse, shame.

I was on the verge of tears, afraid this would be the last meaningful conversation I would ever have with her. “I need you to forgive me…” My eyes watered and tears dripped, hot for just a split second before they turned ice-cold and slid down my cheeks.

Raven turned around and continued to walk away.

Leaving her answer in the wind.

Eight

A Brother’s Plea

Fender

Two flashlights attached to my horse lit the path to the main road.

But I could make the journey in the darkness if I needed to.

I’d done it before.

The blizzard was approaching from behind, so I was unaffected by it as long as I made it to the road before sunrise. The wind did pick up subtly, stinging the back of my neck above my collar and below my hairline.

My satellite phone rang in my pocket, the only source of communication from the camp when I was in Paris and elsewhere. I fished it out and answered it. “What?” I held it to my ear, one hand on the reins.