The blizzard didn't just cover the ridge; it buried it.
Silas Mercer stood at the window of his study, a glass of amber liquid in his hand that he hadn't touched in twenty minutes. The house was quiet, too quiet. The generator hummed somewhere in the distance, a mechanical heartbeat for a home that felt clinically dead.
"Silas, darling? The fire is getting low."
The voice came from the living room. It was soft, melodic, and possessed the practiced charm of a woman who knew exactly how to fill a silence. Elena. She was beautiful, she was age-appropriate, and she didn't smell like cheap cigarettes or the frantic, electric energy of a thunderstorm.
She was exactly what he had told himself he wanted. And she made him want to put his fist through the wall.
"I'll get to it," Silas rumbled. His voice sounded rusty, even to his own ears.
He looked out at the white expanse. Somewhere down that mountain, past the drifts of snow that could swallow a man whole, was the diner. And somewhere beyond that was the city, the place where Julian had taken her.
He remembered the look on Alina's face when she'd stood on his porch, her hair matted with sleet, her eyes screaming for him to believe her. And he remembered the way she'd looked at him through the doorway of her apartment, her mouth reddened from Julian's kiss.
He had called her a disaster. He had told her he wanted peace.
Peace, he thought, finally taking a swallow of the scotch. It burned, but it didn't touch the cold that had settled in his marrow.
He had chosen the easy path. He had seen a situation that required him to fight, to truly, messily fight for a girl who was drowning, and he had flinched. He had retreated into the arms of an old flame because Elena didn't make him feel like a monster. She didn't make him feel anything at all.
Elena walked into the study, her silk robe fluttering. She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek to his back. "You're so tense, Silas. It's just snow. We have food, we have wine... we have each other."
Silas didn't move. He felt like a statue. He felt like a fraud. He was letting this woman touch him, letting her stay in his house, while the girl who had actually made his heart beat was God-knows-where, dealing with a man who was as hollow as a winter reed.
"I should have listened," he whispered.
"What was that, dear?" Elena asked, her grip tightening.
"Nothing."
He closed his eyes. He could still feel the way Alina had felt on his kitchen counter—the raw, desperate need, the way she had clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a world made of smoke. She wasn't a "nightmare." She was a fire that had tried to keep him warm, and he had been too cowardly to handle the heat.
He thought about the "zoning" order Martha had told him about. He thought about how quickly it had been resolved the moment Alina disappeared into Julian's world. He wasn't a stupid man. He knew Julian. He knew the way Julian operated, the precision, the cruelty, the way he treated people like assets to be acquired.
Julian hadn't won because he was better. Julian had won because Silas had stepped aside.
He pulled away from Elena, the movement sudden and sharp.
"Silas? What's wrong?"
"Everything," he said, turning to face her. The granite mask was gone, replaced by a look of profound, agonizing regret. "I'm a coward, Elena. And you're a lovely woman, but you shouldn't be here."
"I don't understand," she said, her face falling.
"I let a monster take her because I was too proud to admit I was falling for a girl who speaks like a sailor and breaks everything she touches." Silas grabbed his coat from the chair, his movements frantic now.
"You can't go out there! The roads are closed, Silas! The plows won't be through for days!"
"Then I'll walk," he growled, the mountain man returning to his eyes.
He didn't care about the peace. He didn't care about the reputation or the age gap or the blonde in his bed. He thought about Alina in that glass penthouse, trapped with a snake that knew how to smile, and for the first time in his life, Silas Mercer felt a rage that the snow couldn't cool.
He had let her go. Now, he would have to find a way to bring her back, even if he had to tear the city down to do it.
He walked out of the study, leaving the scotch and the "peace" behind, and stepped out into the roaring white dark.