Edge of Collapse Series (Book 1): Edge of Collapse

by Stone, Kyla

  She didn’t believe him. Of course she didn’t. The image of a warm, flickering fire danced in her imagination. What she wouldn’t give for one right now…

  “You’ll die out here tonight,” the man said. “With the wind chill, it’s got to be negative thirty degrees.”

  It was hard to hear over Ghost’s barking. Hard to think, to focus. Sleep pulled at her, tugging her under. “Milo,” she mumbled thickly. Her teeth chattering so hard she could barely speak. Her mind growing fuzzy. “I need…Milo...”

  “Lady, believe me when I say that all I want to do is get you to that cabin, and then I’ll be on my way. Will you just let me help you?”

  Blackness sucked at the corners of her vision. The cold burying her, seeping into the marrow of her bones. Her body giving in to unconsciousness, no matter how hard she fought against it.

  “Y-yes,” she forced out between frozen lips.

  Everything faded. The sound of his voice. Ghost’s barking. The driving snow pelting her cheeks and forehead. The haunting howl of the wind.

  Darkness prowled the periphery of her mind, growing larger and larger, circling her, drawing closer, tighter, until she felt herself slipping into icy black waters of nothingness.

  23

  Liam

  Day Three

  With the dark, the freezing wind, the blowing snow, and the woman cradled in his arms, it took forever to return to the cabin.

  Liam almost lost his way several times but managed to stick to his tracks and retrace his steps.

  The dog followed closely at his heels, growling in fierce displeasure the entire time. It was disconcerting to have a creature with the strength and desire to rip your face off stalking you.

  Liam didn’t dislike dogs. He just wasn’t a huge fan of dogs that wanted to murder him. If he’d known the woman had a giant killer of a dog with her, maybe he wouldn’t have bothered after all.

  But what was done was done.

  At least the beast didn’t make a move to attack him. Maybe the animal sensed somehow that Liam meant no harm. Still, he could’ve done without all the growling and teeth-baring.

  Once inside, Liam lowered the woman onto one of the cots. The dog followed. He barked viciously, his hackles raised, lips curling back until Liam backed hastily away.

  So much for that. Liam raised one hand in capitulation, palm out. “Okay, okay. I’m backing off, see? Calm down.”

  The dog’s ears laid back against his skull.

  Liam kept one hand on the hilt of his tactical knife. He moved slow and cautious, figuring that as long as he didn’t act like a threat, the dog would leave him alone.

  It seemed to work.

  The dog lay on the floor in front of the cot, his enormous head resting on his paws, but his eyes alert and watching Liam’s every movement.

  First, he secured the cabin, locking the windows and the door. He kept a rubber door stop in his go-bag for extra security when he traveled anywhere away from home. He used it now, wedging the door stop beneath the cabin door so it couldn’t be forced open.

  He found a kerosene lamp on a shelf and lit it while he started the fire. He stacked the seasoned wood and reached into his go-bag for one of his two lighters. He also had waterproof matches and flint but typically went with the easiest option.

  He opened a Ziplock bag filled with his favorite fire starters and took out a few large 100% cotton balls, each soaked in a grape-sized dollop of petroleum jelly. He pulled them apart to expose the dry fibers inside. They would burn strong for about four minutes.

  Within a few minutes, he had a fire going. He stoked it with an iron poker until healthy flames crackled and popped.

  Slowly, the cabin warmed. He pulled off his boots, socks, gloves, mittens, beanie, and scarf, and laid them along the mantle to dry.

  He’d retrieved a camping pan from his pack and filled it with snow and a bit of water earlier. Now he placed a cooking grate over the flame and set the pan on it to melt drinking water.

  He glanced at the woman. She was still unconscious. He needed to get her boots and socks off and dry her wet clothes, needed to pull the cot closer to the fire so she could get warm.

  The dog was still between Liam and the woman. Glaring at him.

  It was disconcerting to say the least.

  How was he going to get close enough to the woman? The dog might attack him if he tried to touch her again.

  “I’m not going to hurt her,” he said softly, trying to sound comforting and unthreatening but probably failing completely. “There’s no need to bite my face off.”

  The dog growled his disagreement.

  Frustrated, Liam glared at the animal. He wanted to throw up his hands in surrender and stomp out of the cabin—good riddance to the dog and woman both—but he wouldn’t last long out there in this storm, either.

  He strode barefoot to the window on his side of the cabin. He kept his body sideways so he could keep one eye on the dog, his right hand still resting on the hilt of his knife.

  Outside, it was pitch black. The stars and moon hidden beneath the onslaught of snow. The wind shrieked and howled around the cabin.

  A few hours out there could kill a grown man.

  They were all stuck inside this cabin until dawn.

  But that was it. The second the storm relented, he was out of here.

  The dog tilted his head, studying Liam, sizing him up. Liam didn’t need to wonder what the dog saw in him. He knew what he was—who he was.

  He didn’t care about the woman. Cared less about the damn dog. If he never saw another person for the rest of his life, it would be too soon.

  He never should’ve gone back for her.

  Almost against his will, he glanced back at the woman’s pale white face. Her eyes were closed. Her chest rose and fell softly. His gaze drifted across the rounded belly beneath her coat.

  If she died, the baby died with her.

  Damn it! He gritted his teeth. He longed to be at his homestead, where he was the one in control, where everything happened just as he expected, and nothing knocked him off his equilibrium.

  Where he could grieve in peace.

  Instead, he was stuck here—trapped in a tiny cabin with an injured woman and a monstrous dog.

  He’d brought this down on himself. He was an idiot. A sentimental idiot.

  Because he had to do something. As much as he resented her, himself, and this whole awful situation, he had no choice.

  He was still a man of honor. That desire to protect and defend—it was still in him. It was who he was, whether he liked it or not.

  Liam steeled himself, took a step toward the woman, the cot, the dog.

  24

  Liam

  Day Three

  The dog watched him.

  Liam took another step, hand still on his knife.

  The dog lifted his head. Alert, suspicious.

  “Not going to hurt her,” Liam murmured. “Just trying to help.”

  The dog offered nothing. He was still undecided, then.

  Liam took two more steps until he was in front of the fire and a few feet from the dog. The opposite side of the woman’s cot was pushed up against the wall.

  The only way he was reaching her was through the dog.

  The dog growled, bared his teeth.

  Adrenaline spiked through Liam’s veins. His primal brain screamed run! He didn’t.

  The dog leapt to his feet, hackles raised. Saliva glistening from his jaws. He was too thin and malnourished but still massive, his body thick with ropy muscles beneath that dense white coat. His giant head almost reached Liam’s waist.

  “She’s likely got frostbite,” Liam said to the dog, like an explanation would make a difference. “Maybe hypothermia. I’ve got to warm her up.”

  He knew techniques to deal with a dog attack, even ones as large and fierce as this one. They all ended with a dead dog. He preferred not to use them.

  This animal was defending his mistress. Liam respected that.
Respected the dog.

  He moved his hand away from the weapon at his side. He held out both hands again, palms up. The universal gesture of peace—if dogs understood that sort of thing. “I’m trying to help.”

  Everything in Liam told him this was a bad idea. But he forced himself to move forward anyway, his movements slow, measured, and unthreatening.

  “I need to get her close to the fire.”

  With the dog on his feet facing Liam, Liam had just enough room to slide in beside him and reach the cot. Liam inched closer.

  If the dog was going to attack, he’d attack.

  There were worse ways to die.

  The dog growled again, but it was softer this time. An I’m not happy about this and I want you to know it growl, not an I’m gonna rip your throat out in two seconds growl.

  The dog took a step back, pressing his hindquarters against the cot, almost as if he were making room for Liam.

  Liam would take it. “Thanks,” he muttered. Carefully, he pulled the woman’s cot closer to the fire so she got as much warmth as possible. “Now I’m taking off her wet outer clothing. That’s all.”

  He bent over the cot and deftly unbuttoned the woman’s damp coat. He lifted her head and upper shoulders and got it off her. Beneath her coat, the oversized hunter-green sweater and undershirts she wore were still dry. Liam left them on. She never woke up.

  He moved to her oversized boots, unlaced and removed them, and peeled off three pairs of damp wool socks. Her feet were white and freezing cold. Her heels and arches were wet and shriveled. On her toes, the skin was pale, hard, and waxy-looking.

  The symptoms of trench foot and frostbite. Hopefully, mild.

  She also had hypothermia. He wasn’t sure how bad it was. She’d sounded foggy and delirious before losing consciousness.

  He knew immersing only the torso in a warm bath was the best treatment. But there was no bathroom but the outhouse, no bathtub or running water. It was important not to rewarm her too rapidly, which could cause circulatory problems and lead to heart failure.

  Not that he had the resources on hand to do so, anyway.

  He placed her socks and boots on the mantle beside his own to dry. He had an extra pair of wool socks that he hadn’t used yet. He put them on her feet instead of his own. He could reuse his once they’d dried out by the fire.

  He let the water over the fire get hot but not boiling and poured it into one of his water bottles. He placed it against her neck to help warm up her blood. He did the same with his second water bottle and without looking, placed it against her groin.

  He shot a wary glance at the dog.

  The dog stared back at him, black lips pulled back slightly, a constant low rumble of disapproval in his throat. He watched Liam just as warily.

  “Almost done.” He tugged off her mittens, then her gloves.

  The glove on her left hand stuck and refused to come off. Her fingers were stiff and bizarrely twisted. He had to carefully tug off each glove finger individually, but he finally removed it.

  He drew in a sharp, startled breath. Her fingertips were red from frostnip. But that wasn’t what drew his attention.

  In the flickering firelight, her left hand was garish and misshapen. Several of the fingers had been broken and never healed properly. Not just once. Multiple times.

  Acid burned the back of his throat. Liam shuddered.

  He’d seen plenty of war wounds from his years in Iraq and Afghanistan. But nothing quite like this, and certainly not stateside.

  What had happened to this woman? What would do something like that? Or who?

  Just what the hell had he gotten himself into?

  25

  Pike

  Day Four

  Pike came across the remote cabin around midnight.

  It was oppressively cold; he could barely feel his extremities. His winter clothing was top of the line, rated for arctic weather. It felt like the arctic now, with the snow swirling around him, the driving wind, the dense darkness.

  He couldn’t remember a colder winter.

  But none of that mattered now. The adrenaline and excitement thrumming through his veins was warmth enough.

  He’d found her.

  With the light from his headlamp, he’d tracked the girl’s path off the logging road into the woods—there the trail had gotten muddled. Mashed and trampled boot prints. Dog prints—his dog.

  The damn dog was with her. She probably thought she’d saved him. Pike would cut out the animal’s heart in front of her first. Then he’d take care of her.

  He tamped down his fury and studied the tracks. She’d fallen several times. He could see where her knees and hands had sunk into the deep snow. She kept getting up.

  She’d figured out her error and turned back to the road.

  He smiled grimly as he followed the tracks. Human prey was infinitely more interesting than a dull animal. Animals were predictable. Humans could be surprising.

  Rarely—but it was possible.

  His smile faded when he noticed the second set of tracks. Large footprints. Deep indentations. Someone large and heavy. A man.

  What the hell was this? Who was stupid enough to be out in the middle of nowhere during a snowstorm? Clearly, someone who deserved to die.

  The intrusion of this second person checked him. Another dynamic to add to the mix.

  A surprise.

  He followed his quarry until the first set of tracks—Hannah’s tracks—disappeared.

  Only one pair of boots and one set of paw prints switched directions and crossed the opposite side of the road and continued into the woods heading north.

  The second set of tracks were deeper now. Long, fast strides.

  He went still. The pieces snapped together in his mind. The man had found her. He’d carried her.

  Anger flared through him. She was his target. His prey. She belonged to him.

  No one else was supposed to be a part of this game. The hunt was for her, and only her.

  He forced himself to check his rage. He moved forward with more caution as he tracked her north through the woods.

  He followed the smell of woodsmoke to the cabin set in the center of a small clearing. Smoke swirled from the brick chimney. A soft yellow glow lit up the two windows.

  He carefully circled the cabin, thinking, considering, careful to stay within the trees.

  He circled the cabin again, furious but steady and focused. He prided himself on his ability to reign in his temper and control himself at all times—except for the rare, precious moments when he unleashed his full fury on his prey.

  He longed to storm inside and eviscerate them both with his hunting knife. To feel her blood pulsing over his hands. To break her bones and watch the life bleed out of her.

  To cut out the thing that belonged to him, the thing she’d stolen.

  But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not without knowing who else was inside the cabin. His skillset, his weapons, what type of challenge he presented.

  Pike did nothing on a whim. His every action and reaction were carefully calibrated beforehand. He did not make mistakes.

  And he would not make one here. The icy cold stung his face beneath the balaclava. It sapped his strength, his energy. His vitality.

  The storm was so fierce now that visibility diminished by the second. He needed to seek his own shelter—set up his tent or build a snow trench to keep his body temperature up through the night.

  He knew where they were. He would wait, watch, and strike when he was ready. Thirty perilous miles still stood between these two and the nearest real town.

  Plenty of time for what he had planned for them.

  26

  Hannah

  Day Four

  Hannah woke with a start.

  Her dreams were feverish nightmares, filled with blood and screams and demons with red, pulsing eyes chasing her down, their claws long as knives. She was running, running, always running but never able to escape, never able to run fast o
r far enough.

  She sat up gasping, her heart jackhammering in her chest, her pulse a roar in her ears. Her head whipped around, eyes wide as she took in her unfamiliar surroundings.

  She didn’t remember where she was. She didn’t remember any of this.

  Instead of concrete, the walls and floor were wood. Instead of the single glaring lightbulb, flames cast a flickering glow over the small, single-room cabin.

  She sat on an uncomfortable camping cot. Her coat was gone. So were her gloves. Her prickling, stinging feet were encased in a pair of blue wool socks she’d never seen before.

  She wasn’t alone.

  The man was lying in a second cot across the room. His eyes were open. He was watching her with those steely gray-blue eyes. Intense and penetrating. Unnerving.

  Instinct took over. Heart in her throat, she flung herself backward. She fell off the cot, landing on her butt and groping for the knife looped to her belt. It wasn’t there.

  She was defenseless. Utterly defenseless.

  Terror coursed through her. She could barely see straight, couldn’t think. The door—escape—she had to get out of here. Had to run before it was too late.

  “Your knife is on the mantle,” the man said evenly. “Didn’t want you to accidentally cut yourself.”

  “Please, just let me go!”

  He sat up slowly, never taking his eyes off her. “You aren’t a prisoner. The door’s right there.”

  She clambered awkwardly to her feet. Pain needled her toes and heels, but she didn’t care, barely even noticed.

  She darted for the door, sure he would be after her in seconds.

  She didn’t take two steps before she tripped over Ghost, who lay on the wooden floor at the foot of the cot. She threw out her hands to break her fall. Her knees and palms stung from the impact.