Twisted Fate: A Forbidden Romance

by Ella James

  As I pass signs for Saranac Lake, I think what I really need to do is get Soren’s friend to track Aren and his top guys. Then I’m at the dirt and rock road, and there’s no more thinking. Just the dark, thick woods and ice sheets on the road, shining bright white in the moonlight. I can smell the water and the dirt and feel the breeze that’s trembling through the trees. When I kill the bike’s engine in a snowless patch near the mouth of her driveway, I hear nothing. Nothing.

  Fuck, I love the winter.

  There are no tracks to her house, so I assume I’ll find the place empty. And it is. Covering my own tracks is a pain in the ass, but it’s worth it. I sit on a tree stump in some woods along the property line, watching as she parks and goes inside. Half an hour later, I wind up walking back over to be sure things are still okay. I catch a glimpse of her through the kitchen window, all dark hair and narrow shoulders. Then I tromp back through the snow to my place—the cabin next door.

  11

  Elise

  It’s a frosty morning, so Mary Oliver is what I have in my lap. Mary Oliver atop a heavy blanket I spread over myself from neck to ankles. My legs are swinging over the frigid, teal boards of the porch, swinging in socks, and I’m reading the line, “I have a lot of edges called Perhaps/ and almost nothing you can call/ Certainty” and sort of smiling to myself.

  It’s not really a smile, because I’m not happy. But I’m okay. I’m thinking. About a lot of things. I’ve found that when I’m the most upset, that can be the best time to think.

  I reach for my mug and swallow a long, warm sip of English breakfast tea. Then I set my book on the cold porch swing beside me.

  I love reading, but I want to move. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I’ve got snowshoes just inside the front door. I pull on my tall snow boots—the ones that go up almost to my knees—and look down at myself, deciding I don’t really need my snow pants since I’ve got on a slouchy sweater, pink silk long johns, and my thickest pair of flannel PJ pants.

  I grab my blanket-like burgundy down coat, my favorite gray scarf and silly unicorn beanie, gloves, and my phone. Then I sit on the screened-in porch’s little stoop and strap the snowshoes on, blinking around the snowy forest. Absolutely gorgeous—and dangerous, if you’re not properly dressed. My phone’s app said nine degrees when I woke up. I bet it’s no more than fifteen right now.

  I grab one of the poles I keep leaned against the porch and start toward the grove of conifers that dot the lawn between the back of the cabin and the lake.

  I’m sure snow’s been on the ground up here for weeks and weeks. The blanket of white around the cabin is hard-packed and undisturbed. I can sink my pole nearly a foot deep, so I’m grateful for the snowshoes, strapped to the underside of my boots like little boats to keep my feet from sinking.

  I could veer left along the tree-line, venture into thicker woods between this cabin and the chalet-style lake house four acres over. Or I could hang a right and head toward the second fishing cabin, which my dad sold sometime in the last few years. It’s tucked close to my place, separated by only an acre or two. To the right of that cabin, through another copse of trees, is the big, white-washed lake house. Since that’s the place that houses all my childhood memories, I decide to go that way. If it hurts to see, maybe it needs to hurt. Sometimes life can’t offer anything but pain, and pain is what you need to get to happiness.

  It’s so quiet, my footsteps seem outlandishly loud. Snow squeaks and crunches with each step I take. I watch as birds glide over the trees—tamaracks, I think the trees are. Then I weave my way between their bristles, drawn toward the water like I am in summer.

  Except it’s not water; it’s a vast sheet of thick, snow-dusted ice. I look out at Lake Flower, abandoned for this long, harsh season. Unenjoyed. Unknown. I clamp my teeth down on my lower lip, because I draw the line at crying about a frozen lake in winter.

  A few hard swallows and I’m on my way. I walk over the snow that covers the shore, looking for the beauty in the barren landscape. And there is some. Always. In every situation, there is beauty. I believe that. I think of Becca’s dress—the last one she wore. Then I see my own dress that winter night in college. I think of him inside the elevator. I can see his eyes, their roundness and the tension of his mouth and then the softness of his mouth. These things are as much buried with me as my sister’s beloved Pandy was with her. Little snippets, soft and jagged, and they’re simply mine to hold.

  I pull my mind forward in time—to that morning on my run in Central Park. How he was different but the same. There aren’t words for how…incredible that is. Sometimes I think it’s a tragedy that we can go on existing as so many different versions—called one person—bumping into other people and their other versions many times in the same life, each instance meaning different things. But really, this is magic.

  “You want another ending… Here. It ends like that.”

  So there’s my romance. It was a long winter, but it thawed until it dripped and steamed and monsooned. Now I have to carry the thaw—that one molten moment—with me like a glass shard in my pocket. For forever.

  I sigh without meaning to, and the steam envelops pretty much my whole head. Fitting.

  By the time the breath steam clears, I’m blinking because there’s a weird noise coming from…the ice.

  I stop, standing partway behind a tree, watching as a large form in all black tears up the ice. Holy hell. I can’t see the person’s feet at first—they’re moving too quickly—but then they—he—slows down with his back to the shore, and the dim sun shines off a long blade.

  I guess this is Nordic blading. You attach a long, thick blade to the bottom of your boots, and it’s kind of like an ice skate? I should know more about these winter sports, but I don’t. I’m what you’d call indoorsy.

  So I just stand in awe watching this man move. I can feel my body warm a few degrees, because he’s beautiful. Every movement shows such grace and power. He skates out a little ways—maybe a hundred yards—and races back toward the shore, cutting leftward just before he’d hit the snowbank. Then he circles back around, making big loops, as if he’s writing in cursive on the ice.

  He pauses only for a moment, his head turned toward the shore, and I’m pretty sure he must see me because his posture stiffens.

  My heart throbs. My throat tightens, sore in the cold. But if he saw me, he’s a good pretender. His pause only lasts a second. Then he’s skating again, moving toward what would in summertime be open waters—farther from me this time. He’s so fast, and he goes so far that he looks small. And then he’s racing back in my direction.

  I should keep walking, but I’m sort of nervous he’ll see me. Is it weird he’s here during the off-season? Why is he so close to the shore near these cabins?

  Maybe he bought the one my dad sold. More fearful thoughts flit through my anxious brain. Is he reclusive? Some sort of criminal who has to live off the grid? I turn toward the other cabin, looking for a smoke plume from the chimney. That’s when I hear a CRACK! It sounds like a gunshot, but I know what it really is.

  My gaze snaps onto him right as he plunges through the ice, and for a too-long moment, everything feels topsy-turvy. Then it’s only: Get him! I scramble onto the ice, almost falling on my face, then sliding as I wave my arms, trying to steady myself. My snowshoes are studded, but I’m slipping as I run toward him, terrified I’ll be too slow, scared to move faster and make more ice crack. I can see hands clawing at the icy surface, hear his gasping, thrashing. As I near him, he shouts something. I can’t make out what, so I slow maybe ten feet from him.

  “Back up!” I blink, and he gasp-shouts: “BACK UP!”

  I’m shaking from the cold and my adrenaline as I take a small step back. But he’s going to drown! My heart beats so hard it hurts as he swings his arm out and something catches in the ice—some kind of metal claw thing.

  I step closer, but stop again as he growls and starts to pull himself out—bowed head followed by hun
ched, shaking shoulders. God, he must be freezing. As he drags his torso out, I creep closer. He’s got his head down and his arms in a crawl pose. His long legs are kicking, trying for a foothold, but somehow, as I move closer still, he finds the breath to hiss, “Stop.”

  He’s pant-gasping as he kicks his way fully out, one blade-bottomed boot shoving against the ice’s jagged rim…and then the other as I watch in horror and awe. And then he’s there in front of me—a huge, shuddering form, motionless and face-down. Only for a moment. As I start to kneel beside him, he gets up onto his knees…and then, somehow, his feet.

  He’s moving stiffly, shaking, sort of groaning. Or maybe that’s just his breathing, as cold as he is. I reach for him, and he growls, flinching away. He glides a little, even as he’s shivering uncontrollably—as if he wants badly to get away from me. He skates to the snowy shore, but once he’s on it, he puts his palms on his thighs and leans over, panting like there’s really something wrong.

  His violent shaking seems to kick up a notch. Even his ragged groans sound like they’re shaking. I lengthen my strides, worried he’ll walk off before I get a chance to truly check on him. But he doesn’t move as I close the last twenty feet between us. Then I’m by him, dumbly nervous, so my voice trembles as I ask, “Hey…are you okay?”

  He lifts his head, his blue eyes finding mine, and I gape at his pale face and blueish purple lips. He’s looks so, so cold. My heart does this weird squeeze as I look at his face.

  “Luca…”

  12

  Elise

  I’m irrationally stung he doesn’t speak to me before he starts to stagger through the trees. Then my head is spinning as I scurry along beside him. He lets out a panted groan with every step. His breath wreaths his head in white fog, so I can’t see well, but I know he must be hurt because his face—when I get a glimpse—is twisted in pain.

  I start to urge him toward my cabin, but realize he’s moving toward the other one. The one next door. Our eyes catch as he nears the back porch. I’m wondering if he has hypothermia, because he looked so weird and out of it, when he drops to his knees in front of the back porch steps.

  He groans, holding his head. Then he’s staggering back up, swaying as he fumbles with the screen door till I get it for him. He crosses the small, screened porch in three wobbly, bladed strides, reaching for the next doorknob with a hand that’s marble white.

  “Let me get it…”

  I do, and he shoulders his way through the door into a tiny, rustic kitchen-living space. I watch with a sense of helpless panic as he grips the couch’s spine from behind. Then he sinks down again. This time, he lies on his back with his eyes closed, his long legs, still clad in bladed boots, sprawled out. His whole body is shaking.

  “Luca…tell me what’s wrong.”

  His blue eyes are heavy-lidded. His face is badly washed out, and his lips look even bluer than they did outside. He draws his arms around himself, closing his eyes, and I kick into gear, praying this cabin is laid out like mine is, pre-stocked with most of the same things.

  Thankfully, it is. I find a pile of blankets in the stale-smelling linen closet just outside the bathroom. With those clutched to my chest, I dash back to the kitchen sink to turn hot water and grab scissors from the “stuff” drawer before I drop down to my knees by him.

  He’s still quaking, one hand clutching his coat near the collar. He looks ghastly pale, his eyes closed until I touch his biceps. “Luca?”

  His eyelids lift as his lips twist.

  “Should I call someone? Like a paramedic?”

  He blinks like he’s waking up, clenching his jaw. Through chattering teeth, he manages, “N-no.”

  “I might have to if you pass out.”

  His eyes shut. “Won’t,” he rasps.

  There’s a black beanie still on his head. I touch it, find it dry, and move to his coat, leaning over his torso to slide my hand under the collar. Waterproof shell, but everything underneath is drenched and freezing.

  “I’ll get this wet stuff off you.” His eyes crack open as I start working his coat off. He tries to help me, but he’s shaking too hard to have any coordination.

  “It’s okay.” I tug on the coat sleeve and, with some difficulty, he draws one arm out. We repeat on the other side, his gaze meeting mine briefly before his eyes close again. He grits his teeth, wincing as I unzip the fleece under his jacket. The thing is sopping wet but not frozen, so it’s heavy.

  “Okay…” I chew my lip. It’s surreal to look down and see a peek of those blue eyes. He shifts his shoulders as I work the thick fleece off him. Now I feel as if he’s trying not to look at me. I find a long-sleeved white T-shirt under the fleece. With just the soaked cotton covering his chest, I can see how fast he’s breathing, see the way his ribs are flanging with each rough breath, and see his sculpted lower abs. It’s obvious he works out—like…a lot.

  I wrench my gaze away and meet his. “Do you like this shirt?”

  I watch him clench his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. “It…doesn’t m-matter.”

  “You want me to try to get it over your head or cut it?”

  He shakes his head. “Cut it.”

  His voice is raspy. I’m not working fast enough; even his hips and legs are shaking.

  “I’m going to cut neatly around the neck and down the side so you could have it sewn back if you want.”

  He nods. My fingers brush his cold skin as I cut. God, he feels like ice. I try not to notice the thick ridges of muscle under his goosebumped skin. When I brush his side near his pec, he jumps a little. I can feel him try to lift his arm as I start down the sleeve’s seam.

  “Once I get down to your wrist, roll over onto your side. I can pull the shirt and all the jackets off.”

  I’m not looking at him when I say that. Once I get the shirt cut, so my hands and the scissors are at his wrist, I glance down and find his eyes on me. As soon as our gazes touch, he shuts them and shifts onto his side as I advised.

  I move behind him as the cut shirt falls away, baring his trembling back. For a second, I can’t remember how to breathe air. Then I flush—a weird, whole-body cold sweat, like some sort of lovesick automaton. My hand hovers near his shoulder blade. I snatch it away, working briskly as I pull the jackets off and tuck blankets around his torso.

  “Getting some hot water. Be right back.”

  I fill a sports bottle and then a glass, and find a wrapped fast food straw in the cutlery drawer. I don’t let myself look over at him as I unwrap the straw and stick it in the glass. So when I turn back around, I’m surprised to find him sitting up, his back against the back of the couch. He’s got a brown fleece blanket over his shoulders. His long legs are stretched out, feet still clad in boots, his gaze fixed on the small, two-seater dining table right in front of him.

  He doesn’t shift his eyes my way until I’m sitting cross-legged right beside him. When he does, I can’t read his face, which makes my stomach do a small flip. “Got you this,” I tell him, holding up the plastic bottle, “to hold against you. You know, like to warm your body.”

  I can feel my cheeks blaze on the words “your body,” but I press on. “You should drink this,” I say, holding the glass out.

  He reaches for it like he’s going to take it, but his fingers are still really shaking.

  “Here…” I lean closer, holding the straw toward his lips. I can smell him as he shuts his eyes and takes a few long swallows. Soap, maybe deodorant, and something dark and spicy that makes something clench low in my belly.

  I’m relieved when he stops drinking. I lean away, set the glass down on the floor beside us, and pick up the bottle.

  “Hold this up against you, if you can.” I set the bottle atop the blanket. Then I frown down at him, realizing…“You know, I think we need to get your boots off, then the wet pants.”

  I can see his throat move on a swallow, even as his eyes fix on the table. He’s not shaking as hard as he was, but the skin around his l
ips still has a blue hue. With that beanie and his dark brows, those blue eyes and that scruff, he looks like an Instagram model, or a sexy pirate. And it’s insane that I think so; I know it is.

  “I can’t get them off.” The words sound like they’re coming through clenched teeth.

  “I can. You just need to lie back down.”

  Our eyes lock. God, he’s like a language I can’t unknow. He’s unhappy or maybe…uncomfortable.

  “Lie down, Luca. I’ve touched pants before.”

  He does—on his side, and then he shifts, with some effort, onto his back. I can tell it’s hard for him to move, or hurts, because his face twists again.

  “You’ll feel better with these freezing things off.” His eyes shut. “Do your pants have a button?”

  His jaw tics as his nostrils flare. “No.”

  Okay…so he’s not going to look at me. I guess that works. The brown blanket is gathered over his chest, where it looks like he’s got his arms folded beneath its layers. I scoot down a little, toward his hips, and push the blanket up, revealing black ski pants that, as reported, do not have a button or a zipper. They’re elastic, with a draw string.

  Dear God, he’s so gorgeous that for a moment I can’t swallow. His right hip—actually, his left one, I guess—has a thick pink scar over the V part…like he recently got wounded somehow. But my eyes don’t linger there. They dart up and down his perfect, eight-pack abs, tracing his happy trail—all soft and dark—and getting hung up on a peek of pale gray: the elastic of his underwear peeking above the pants waist.

  “I’ll just pull them down, and you can lift your hips?”

  His jaw tenses once more as he nods, eyes still shut. I can see his nostrils flare again. As he blows a breath out, I straddle his legs, moving atop him with care. Then I wrap my hands around his pants on each side and tug. I have to shimmy to get them down, since they’re wet. Luca lifts his hips, and I try not to look down at him as I tug with more force. As I pull the pants down his muscled thighs, a soft sound comes from his throat. I refuse to look up. Not until I get these damn things off.