He lay in the harness, his arms trembling, his jaw gritted, his brake hand straining to hold her, trying not to let out another shout, this one of frustration.
“Jen, please, answer me!”
Nothing.
He leaned his head back, praying for a glimpse of her. “Jacie. Honey, please! Answer me!” Just his own voice echoing against the icy blue walls, back to himself.
“C’mon!” More feral cry than word. He blew out a breath. Another. Willed his heartbeat to slow.
Think. Just . . . Don’t. Panic.
Get her down.
Orion released his left hand and grabbed the brake rope under the figure eight with both hands, one farther down to give himself slack. Then he released the brake. His left hand slammed into the belay device, the rope slipping through his gloves. Grinding his teeth, he braked hard with his right hand.
The entire movement jarred his body, the pain embedding in his bones.
He didn’t care. As long as she was alive.
Repeating the movement, he braked again, the rope jerking hard to arrest her fall. “Jen!”
Nothing.
He kept working, his gloves rubbed shiny with the raze of the rope, his arms burning as he lowered her.
She came into view and his heart nearly stopped in his chest. Her helmet was crushed, blood trickled down her face. Limp and dangling in the harness, she didn’t rouse when he again called her name.
God, please don’t let her be dead.
He didn’t know why he was calling out to God. Certainly he’d learned the first time Orion had pinned all his hopes on him . . .
No. God couldn’t abandon them now. But . . .
Orion didn’t know what to think.
He lowered her all the way down, then let out enough slack to return himself to the ground.
He rolled over and crawled over to her. “Jenny.”
She wasn’t moving. He unclipped her helmet, fearing a crushed skull, but the blood came from a gash in her forehead, maybe where the helmet had been pushed back. She must have hit something—maybe another ice screw, maybe the sharp edge of the ice. Whatever it was, it tore into her head right above her eyebrow, at her forehead.
He pressed his glove over the wound. “Jenny, honey. Wake up. Please wake up.”
For a second, he was sitting on the edge of the ice watching his father go out into the breach. “Dad, come back!”
“Just hold the rope, Ry! Don’t let go!”
“Don’t let go, Jace.” He pulled her into his lap, bending over her. “Don’t leave me again. Stay with me.”
“Stay with me, Dad!”
“Rian, I think you’re scared.”
Jenny’s voice caught him up, and he even lifted his head to see if she’d woken. No. She lay there, her face pale, her lips slightly open. Breathing, thank you, Jesus. But not awake.
And right then, yes, he was scared. The realization wound through him, around him, squeezing his breath from him.
Trapped. Broken. And very, very afraid.
Hope was a betrayer. Cruel with its blue skies and offers of peace.
Maybe it was better to stay in the darkness.
Orion lifted his eyes to the slice of blue, Jenny’s body in his arms, and because he had nothing else, he screamed. He let out a roar that ripped through his body, tore out pieces of his soul, and let loose all the anger, all the grief . . .
The final fragment of hope.
The sound of it careened through the cavern, ripping through him and settling back into his body with the force of an avalanche.
It broke him with the violence, and he had nothing left when he leaned over Jenny, clutching her to himself.
For the first time since he woke in Germany, alone in the hospital, Orion wept.
Because clearly, they were all doomed after all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SHE’D FALLEN.
Fallen.
And worse, she’d broken Orion Starr.
His bone-scarring scream had yanked Jenny from the darkness, a feral ripping through the layers to grab her, jerk her to consciousness.
She shouldn’t have reached for that last clip. She knew it was a stretch, and she’d heard Orion yelling—but no, her brain said she could make it.
Her arrogance.
Her prideful belief that she could save Orion. Save both of them.
Right. The fire in her shoulder seared through her. Her head throbbed.
But worse than her broken parts was Orion’s pain.
The man had his face buried into her shoulder, his shoulders trembling.
Oh no, he was weeping.
Weeping.
It was probably stress, and pain, and maybe fear, but seeing him torn asunder ripped apart any illusion that they might move on from this moment into freedom.
She’d broken him. And sure, she knew he was wounded, and still mending, but he hid his wounds well. She’d somehow betrayed herself into thinking that they might start over.
Made herself believe she could stop running. Which was exactly why she’d kissed him before ascending the wall, a touch that spoke of rescues and fresh starts. Apparently, she’d started to think that she could do something right.
What a fool.
Tears blurred her vision, and she looked away.
The movement alerted him. “Jenny?”
“I’m sorry, Ry. I shouldn’t have reached for the last clip—my hold was too unstable.”
“Please tell me you’re okay.” He leaned up, his gaze scanning over her, his glove over her throbbing temple.
The agony in his eyes could make her howl. Tears ran down his handsome face. His jaw was strung tight and he stared at her with such reddened eyes, she wanted to reach for him.
She moved her arm. And nearly screamed. She’d definitely broken something.
Orion swore, and his expression changed. Hardened. “Stop moving.”
“I—”
“Your arm is hanging funny.” He sounded almost angry.
She knew she wasn’t helping with the moaning, but she suddenly couldn’t seem to stop. He moved his hand over her arm and she bit back the wave of pain.
“Sorry!” By his breathing, he was clearly fraying as he examined her, his head shaking, his jaw so tight he might break molars.
“Breathe, Ry,” she said. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay. You’re bleeding from the forehead, and you definitely have a dislocated shoulder.” He let out another dark word.
PTSD. She knew it well enough to see him in full-out unravel, starting with the scream and now in the fraying edges of panic around his eyes. He blew out another breath, almost starting to hyperventilate.
“We’re going to be okay, Ry.”
“In what world? The ice axe is still up there, and . . .” He shook his head. Covered his face with his hand, as if trying to hold back his emotions. “Sorry—I’ll figure it out.”
Oh, Orion. She should have expected him, really, with all his wadded frustration, to explode.
Yeah, she’d broken him because he just sat there, completely wrecked.
They would die here. Him, trapped in a cave. Because of her. Again. “I’m sorry I fell.”
That, too, was the wrong thing to say. He looked at her with so much fury on his face she recoiled.
“Are you serious? I should have been the one going up that wall.” He swallowed, his jaw tight.
“Rian, I’m a good climber—”