52. Chapter 52

52

Clara

T ake a deep breath, Clara, this is nothing. It’s nothing.

Fuck, I haven’t done this since… Jake died.

The gondola creaks higher, swaying in the wind. “Shit.” A nervous laugh escapes my lips. My stomach’s doing that thing where it can’t decide if this is excitement or pure stupidity.

I tighten my gloved hands on the safety bar. Below, Elijah’s tiny red jacket bobs on the bunny slopes like a bright speck against the snow. He wobbles, catches himself, then throws his arms up like he just won Olympic gold. His instructor claps, and I can picture his gap-toothed grin from here.

That’s my boy.

The wind whips against my face as I adjust my goggles. Jake would’ve loved this view. He used to drag me up slopes in Aspen when I was twelve, with me complaining the whole way while he went on and on about proper ski techniques.

“Come on, baby bug,” he’d say, ruffling my hair through my hat. “You think I’m letting my little sister embarrass me on the bunny slopes forever?”

My throat tightens, the memory sharp and sudden, like the bite of the cold air. Back then, I’d hated his bossy older-brother energy, but now I’d give anything to hear his teasing again. To feel that effortless joy he carried, the way he made the world seem lighter just by being in it.

I shift my weight on my skis, glancing over my shoulder at the lodge far below. Leonid and Maksim are down at the lodge, locked in what I’m sure is some intense discussion about whatever envelope Maksim brought. Leonid’s expression when Maksim handed it over earlier was unreadable. Frustratingly so. I shake off the thought, refusing to let it ruin this. Whatever’s in that envelope can wait. Right now, I have snow, skis, and a sliver of freedom.

I unclip at the summit, pushing off with my poles. The first rush of speed hits, and everything else falls away. Wind hisses past my ears. My skis cut through fresh powder, each turn sending up a spray of white.

Freedom tastes like mountain air.

I lean into the next curve, muscle memory taking over despite the years. Left, right, left. The world narrows to just this—speed and snow and sky. No Leonid. No revenge. No dead brother haunting my dreams.

Just me and the mountain.

The snow sprays around me as I lean into a turn, the mountain opening up below like a canvas. Everything is vast, open, endless—a stark contrast to the walls that have been closing in around me lately. Jake’s voice echoes in my head again, his laughter, his teasing, his stubborn belief that I could do anything if I just stopped overthinking.

“Respect the mountain,” he’d said once, serious for a moment, standing with his hands on his hips as he surveyed the endless white. “It’s big, sure. But it’s not bigger than you.”

I hit a stretch of powder so soft it feels like gliding through clouds, my chest tightening again—not from sadness this time, but from something brighter. I wish he were here to see this. To see me now.

As the slope levels out, I let myself slow, savoring the ache in my muscles and the warmth spreading through my body from the effort. Below, the lodge is a speck in the distance, and I know Elijah’s lesson is probably wrapping up. But I can’t stop yet. Not yet.

I glance at the lift and decide on one more run. Just one. A little longer to stay in this moment, this freedom. I head toward the next gondola, the snow crunching under my skis. But as I step into line, something catches my attention—two men standing off to the side, too far from the main area to be casual tourists.

“What the fuck?” I mutter through my mask.

They’re dressed wrong for the mountain, in dark coats instead of ski gear, their stances stiff and deliberate. One of them scans the area, his eyes sharp and calculating. A chill runs through me, colder than the air around me.

I keep my pace steady, casual, pretending not to notice as I step into the gondola. But my stomach knots, my instincts humming with that familiar, unwelcome tension. Whatever they’re here for, it’s not skiing.

The gondola creaks shut, and I force myself to sit calmly, my poles resting across my lap like nothing’s wrong. But when I peek through the small window, it’s clear—they’re not just heading to the lift, they’re tracking me, every movement measured, every glance calculated. It’s like their entire world has narrowed down to a single point, and that point is me.

My stomach churns.

These fuckers are not here to enjoy the mountain.

I tug at my gloves, feigning nonchalance, but every muscle in my body is tense.

Maybe it’s just in my head, right?

Maybe they’re just— Fuck no. I’ve been down this road before. I know when I’m being sized up, when people’s eyes are picking me apart. And it’s fucking clear to me now, these eyes, they’re not friendly. They mean harm, and I’d be a goddamn idiot to ignore them.

The gondola lurches upward, and I glance out again. They’re not waiting in line like normal skiers. They’re bypassing the crowd, talking to a lift operator. One of them gestures toward my gondola. The operator hesitates but eventually nods.

“What the fuck?” I mutter again. My fingers tighten around the poles until they creak under the pressure.

The gondola sways, rising toward the summit, and I shift to look down. The slopes sprawl out below me, quiet and empty this late in the afternoon. Too empty. My chest tightens as I scan for an exit plan. By the time I reach the top, they’ll be behind me.

I need to stay ahead.

Think, Clara.

The gondola bumps to a stop, and I don’t waste a second. As soon as the doors open, I push off, my skis digging into the snow. The slope is steep here, a sharp drop before leveling out, and I lean into it, letting gravity do the work.

Wind tears at my face.

I can’t shake the prickle at the back of my neck. Something feels off. I glance over my shoulder, and my stomach flips.

The two figures are getting off the gondola behind me, and this time, they’re not empty-handed. Snowboards. Not tourist rentals—they’re geared up, sleek and professional. Their movements scream one thing: pursuit.

“Shit,” I mutter, bending lower to pick up speed. My poles dig into the snow as I swerve, cutting a sharp line across the slope. They’re faster than I expected, closing the gap with every turn.

The snow sprays behind me as I cut another sharp turn, the path ahead narrowing through a grove of trees. I lean into it, legs burning with effort, but the wind in my ears carries more than just my breathing. The unmistakable sound of board edges carving through the snow—closer, gaining.

I push harder, my muscles screaming in protest. The world blurs as I carve a path between the trees, ducking low to avoid a branch that nearly catches my goggles. Another glance back—mistake. The first man is close now, too close. He raises an arm, a glint of metal catching the sun.

A gun.

“Fuck!” The curse rips out of me as I twist hard, my skis skidding against the snow. The first shot cracks through the air, splintering a tree inches from my shoulder. Splinters spray against my jacket, and I bite back a scream.

“Focus, Clara,” I growl under my breath, cutting through a tight turn that nearly throws me off balance. Another shot rings out, and the snow beside me explodes in a spray of powder.

Motherfucker. Too close. Too damn close.

My breath comes in ragged bursts, the slope ahead opening into a steep drop. I don’t think—I just take it, my body moving on instinct. My skis hit the incline, and the world tips forward as I rocket downward, the wind tearing at my face.

The sound of pursuit doesn’t let up. They’re riding the edge of control, fast and reckless. I glance back just as one of them lifts his weapon again. My foot catches on an unseen bump, and suddenly, I’m airborne, tumbling down the slope in a tangle of limbs and gear.

The impact rattles through me as I hit the snow hard, sliding on my side until I finally stop. Pain shoots through my ribs, my goggles askew, one pole missing. The mountain is spinning, the sound of board edges screeching above me.

I try to get up, but my legs don’t cooperate. The first man slows to a stop a few feet away, gun raised and steady.

“This is it,” I whisper, my breath fogging in the cold air. My hand scrambles for anything—my other pole, a rock—but I’m exposed, helpless. He takes aim.

The shot comes—but it’s not his.

The man screams, clutching his leg as he collapses into the snow. A second shot follows, and his partner drops his weapon, falling with a grunt.

I blink, stunned, my ears ringing from the echoes. A figure emerges from the trees above, gun raised. Leonid.

He moves with the precision of a predator, his steps deliberate as he closes the distance. His face is a mask of cold fury, the gun in his hand still trained on the downed men. One of them reaches for something in his coat, but Leonid kicks him hard in the ribs, sending him sprawling.

Leonid’s men appear from the shadows like wolves closing in on wounded prey. Three of them, dressed in black, their expressions as cold and unrelenting as the glacier. One yanks the gun from the crawling man’s hand while another cuffs the second, pinning him to the ground.

Leonid spares them only a glance before speaking, his voice low and venomous. “ Pizda . You are so dead.”

The man groans under his boot, curling in on himself, and Leonid finally turns to me. His gaze sweeps over my crumpled form, his jaw tightening.

“You hurt?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I manage, though my ribs scream otherwise.

Leonid doesn’t wait for clarification. He strides over, his arm sliding under mine with a firm, unyielding grip. He pulls me to my feet as though I weigh nothing, steadying me with a hand on my arm. The world spins briefly, but his hold anchors me.

“What about—?”

“Elijah’s safe,” Leonid cuts me off. “You shouldn’t have been out here alone.”

I don’t argue. For once, I don’t have the energy.