Chapter 2 - The Rescue in the Whiteout
The wind howled through the narrow mountain pass, whipping ice crystals into my face like shattered glass. Above me, the sound of snow tires crunching over gravel echoed down the cliff side. Michael’s car was pulling away.
They were leaving me to freeze.
"Stay still, little one," I choked out, pressing both hands against my abdomen. Every breath felt like a hot blade plunging into my lungs. My left wrist was broken, twisted at an unnatural angle, and my leg screamed with a dull, sickening ache where my knee had slammed against the granite shelf.
The cold was a slow executioner. Within ten minutes, the shivering stopped—a dangerous sign. My body was giving up, redirecting every drop of remaining heat to keep my baby’s heart beating. Snow was already burying my legs. The white sky turned into a suffocating, bruised purple as dusk settled over the Rockies.
I closed my eyes, listening to the soft, steady rhythm of my daughter’s faint kicks. I’m sorry, I wanted to whisper to her. I thought he loved us.
Then, through the roar of the blizzard, a low, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through the rock beneath my back. It wasn't the wind. It was the heavy, thumping chop of a helicopter's rotor blades battling the draft.
A searchlight cut through the blinding whiteout, washing the cliff face in harsh, brilliant blue.
I tried to raise my good hand, but my muscles refused to obey. I could only watch through slit eyes as a dark shape materialized in the air above the overlook. A heavy cable dropped through the storm, followed by a silhouette swinging through the fury of the snow.
He hit the ledge with heavy boots, snow showering around him.
Up close, he looked terrifying. A long black tactical coat, snow clinging to his dark hair, a jagged scar running from his ear down to his jaw, and thick black tattoos creeping up his throat from beneath his collar. His eyes were a piercing, unblinking grey.
"Emily Vance?" His voice was deep, cutting cleanly through the gale.
I couldn't speak. I could only blink as tears froze on my eyelashes.
"Don't move," he said, dropping to one knee. His large, gloved hands were remarkably gentle as he assessed my broken wrist and checked my pulse. "You're hypothermic. Your baby?"
"She's... kicking," I managed to rasp, the words barely a whisper. "Please... save her..."
The stranger looked into my eyes, his harsh expression shifting into something immovable. He unclipped a heavy thermal harness from his chest and began wrapping it around me, pulling my broken body flush against his chest.
"You are not dying here," he said. The conviction in his voice was so absolute, it felt like a decree.
He clipped us both to the hoist cable, pulled my head against the hollow of his neck to protect me from the gale, and signaled the crew above. As we rose into the swirling abyss of white, I looked down at the empty ledge where Michael had thrown me away.
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"Who... are you?" I choked out as we cleared the ridge.
"Dominic," he replied, his grip tightening around my waist, shielding my pregnant belly from the bitter wind. "And as of tonight, your husband thinks you're shark bait at the bottom of the canyon."
