She reached over and touched his hand on the gearshift. He turned it palm up and laced his fingers through hers.
The sun was climbing. The road curved ahead, following the contour of the mountain. Alyssa could see the valley opening up below—ranch land, fencing, the distant smudge of a town.
She was thinking about the ring. About his face when she’d said, “if you’re ready to commit. “
About the fact that for the first time since the party, she could see the shape of a future. Not perfect, not uncomplicated, but a future with Mack in it. A future where she wasn’t running.
She was thinking about all of this when a truck came out of nowhere, headed right for them.
One second, it was concealed by a stand of pines. The next it accelrated and before she could yell, Mack’s hand released hers and grabbed the wheel, wrenching it right.
The truck caught them at the rear quarter panel instead of the driver’s door. But a half-second wasn’t enough. The SUV spun. The world became a centrifuge of glass and metal and sound—tires screaming, the shriek of crumpling steel, the explosive percussion of her airbag deploying.
Alyssa was thrown sideways, then forward when they spun off the road and the front bumper clipped a tree. Her airbag exploded, and she couldn’t see anything. As the SUV fishtailed, it tipped—God, it’s going to roll—before slamming down on all four wheels in the snow=packed ditch, rocking violently, and going still.
The airbag powder stung her eyes like ground glass. She couldn’t see. The chemical residue—talcum, cornstarch, whatever they used—coated her face, her lashes, the membranes of her eyes. Tears flooded instantly, reflexively, blinding her more completely than the impact had.
She blinked, rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands, and that made it worse. Everything was a white, stinging blur.
Her ears rang with a high, steady tone that swallowed every other sound and replaced it with cotton. She could feel the seatbelt cutting into her chest. Could feel cold air pouring through a broken window. Could feel the SUV listing to one side, the ditch holding them at an angle.
“Mack.” Her voice sounded distant, muffled, as if she were speaking through a wall. “Mack?”
She reached for him. Her hand found his arm, his bandaged wound, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t answer.
The impact had thrown him into the driver’s side window. She released her seatbelt and faced him, reaching. His head lolled against the driver’s side window.
Blinking through the blurriness, she nearly screamed, “Mack. Talk to me!”
She felt around his head, gently patting his cheeks. Her fingers found wetness on his temple—blood. His head had hit the glass.
“God, Mack, wake up. Please, wake up!”
“I’m...” His voice was thick, slurred, the voice of a man trying to surface through deep water. “I’m awake. Are you—are you hurt?”
Relief swelled in her chest. “I can’t see well, and my ears are ringing.” The words came out steadier than she felt. “But I think I’m…”
Verigo hit, and her stomach flipped. She fell back against the headrest, everything spinning.
She felt him trying to move. Felt the sluggishness in his body, the way his movements were imprecise and searching rather than the efficient, controlled motions she was used to. Concussed. He was concussed.
It was everything she could do to keep from vomiting. She closed her eyes, tried to steady her breathing…
Her door opened. Someone was pulling it open from the outside. Strong hands grasped her shoulders and dragged her out of the vehicle.
Mack. He was getting her out. He’s okay.
She let the strong hands guide her across uneven ground, her eyes streaming, her balance gone. The vertigo was terrible—the world tilting and swaying even though she knew she was on solid earth. Her ears were still ringing. She couldn’t orient herself. She reached for him?—
And she was pushed into another vehicle. The seat was different. Higher. The smell was different—not the clean, neutral scent of the SUV but something older, dustier, with a trace of diesel. The hands secured her seatbelt. The door shut, but she heard a sound that made her blood go cold.
The door locked.
“What is…?”
She blinked hard, and through the blur, she saw it wasn’t Mack climbing into the driver’s side. The shape was wrong. The shoulders were wrong. The profile silhouetted against the bright morning was narrower.
And desperately familiar.