The cabin door took a few shoves before it would open. So much snow had accumulated on the small porch that Finn had to wade through it before he reached the path leading around the cabin. Well, what used to be a path—here, snow drifts hugged the cabin as if Mother Nature had been intent on burying him and Cora.

He found the generator a minute later.

Mother Nature had succeeded here—it was almost completely covered with snow. And, for good measure, she’d thrown a fucking pine tree on top of it, too. The same one that had taken out the nearby power line, which now draped across the side of the cabin like a piece of liquorice.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, squinting through a sudden fury of snow.

He went into the small shed behind the cabin, got a torch and spade from the supply closet, and went to work trying to unearth the generator.

A few minutes later, he could see enough of the unit to make out the control panel. But it was dead, and refused to turn on when he flipped the power switch off and on again.

Wind gusted around him, and brought with it a new sound. Finn cocked his head, straining to hear past the whistling wind and susurration of harried snow. He shook his head, and wiped the snow from the generator that had collected again.

The sound came again, rising and falling with the wind. This time, he could identify it. It was the tinny growl of a snowmobile.

Thirst drove Cora from the warm bed. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, hesitated, and then grabbed her Taurus from the nightstand before hurrying downstairs. The fire had seemed to warm the cabin up; the living area was much warmer than the bedroom. Which was a boon, considering all she wore was her underwear and a long sleeve shirt.

She set her empty pistol on the kitchen counter.

There was a small kerosene stove on the counter. She hunted around in the cupboards until she found coffee and made herself a cup, leaving a cup out for Finn.

She sipped at her coffee as she hunted for something to eat in the cupboards. There were tons of tanned goods, but no candy bars or cookies. Very disappointing.

There was a sound from outside. It almost sounded like the whine of an engine.

The cold from her exposed legs flashed into her bones and raced up her body. She fumbled with the Taurus as she grabbed it from the kitchen counter and aimed it at the cabin door.

There were no windows facing the side of the cabin where the vehicle had stopped. Just a small, bubbly square of glass set near the top of the cabin’s door. It showed just white.

Cora clamped both hands around the Taurus, and crept closer. The blanket hanging from her shoulders was in danger of falling off, but getting a chill was the last thing on her mind.

They’d found her.

They’d tracked her and Finn through the goddamn snow, up this goddamn mountain, and all the way to this death trap of a damn cabin.

And Finn was outside. Maybe too far away to hear the intruder through the storm.

Or had they taken care of him already?

The Taurus dipped, and then trembled. She forced her arms to stiffen, tried to get them to stop shaking.

She moved another foot closer to the door. The whine of the engine turned into a purr and then cut off. Another sound now. It could have been boots thumping on the porch, but with the blood rushing in her ears, it could have been just about anything.

Cora took another step closer. The Taurus leveled out, and then began trembling again when someone rattled at the door.

One in the chest, one in the head.

Her eyes flashed down the pistol.

No bullets. I have no fucking bullets.

You, me, and the devil makes three.

They didn’t know that. She could have a full magazine.

The door handle turned, turned, sprang back into position. She jerked at the sound, then forced her muscles to become rock hard again. Whoever came through that door mustn’t see her fear.

She tossed hair from her eyes, and spread her legs; drawing from the dregs of remaining memory about her marksman training. There was a clatter—were they picking the lock?—and then the handle turned again. This time, the door opened.

“Freeze!”

The man did exactly that, halting on the cabin’s threshold with one hand still latched to the handle, the other cupping whatever he’d been using to open the door with.

He slowly lifted his hand from the door handle. “Whoa, little lady, I—”

“I said freeze!” Cora lifted the gun a little, aiming it at his head. “No talking.”

If she could contain the threat—and god, wasn’t that something Finn would say?—until he came back, then he could deal with this guy. The intruder was tall, but skinny. Finn could easily take him down.

The man wore a black ski-mask, goggles. The hood of his neon yellow parka hung around his shoulders, merging almost seamlessly with the scarf around his neck. He shook his head. “Listen, there’s—”

“Shut it!” Her voice boomed back to her, but at least it sounded steady. And shouting helped. Seemed to give her a layer of courage she didn’t know she had. She glanced around the cabin. The firelight picked out a small two-seater dining room table with a pair of ladder-back wooden chairs set to either side. “There.” She cocked her head toward the chairs. “Sit.”

The man began moving.

“Slowly!”

He slowed, walking like he had to drag his feet through treacle. “If I could just—”

“You want a bullet in your leg?” Cora yelled.

The man lifted his hands higher, cocking both eyebrows at her.

“Then shut up and sit down.” She tried to make her voice deep, like Finn’s, but that just ended up scratching her throat. She coughed, and her blanket fell to the floor as she retreated into the kitchen. She remembered seeing a loop of yellow rope inside one of the cupboards.

The man took a careful seat in the chair.

“Take off those goggles,” she said, as she reached blindly behind her to open the cupboard. He did, still moving slowly. The goggles came free and he set them carefully down on the table.

Green eyes shone as he studied her, narrowing when she fumbled behind her for the rope.

“Hands up.”

The man lifted his hands again.

A gust of wind rattled against the house. It slammed the cabin door shut with a resounding crash. Cora jerked, and then glared at the man as if she could will him to forget what he’d just seen. Her fingers brushed a coil of rope. She yanked it out and sidled closer. He watched her with unreadable eyes as she came close enough to toss the rope at him.

“Tie yourself up,” she said.

Those eyes trailed down her body, making her acutely aware that the shirt she wore was thin enough that it probably left nothing to the imagination. With the cold air the open door had brought inside, her nipples had gone hard. Or, perhaps, that was just the adrenalin coursing through her body.

“We talking a Prusik or a wrap-and-cinch?” the man asked.

“Just do it!”

He shrugged, whipped off his ski mask, and grabbed the rope. Binding it swiftly around his wrists, he gave it a hard tug with his teeth and sat back in the chair. He lifted his arms, eyebrows twitching, and mouth in a sarcastic line. His hair was so pale as to be white, and hung in a messy fringe above his eyes.

“Not the warm welcome I was expecting,” he said.

“I said keep quiet. You’re going to sit there and shut up until Fi—” She cut off. “Until reinforcements arrive.”

The man gave her an incredulous stare, and then burst out laughing. “You mean Milo? I guess that guy’s an army all by himself.” He had a tang of an accent on his words, but one she’d never heard before. He let out another curt laugh, and gave her another slow once-over with those green eyes. “But I’ll have you pinned to the floor long before he gets here. So why don’t you drop the act, sweetheart, and—”

She stormed forward with a strangled cry, raising the Taurus with the full intention of pistol whipping the smug son of a bitch as he leered at her.

It should have been easy: he was tied up, she had a gun.

He knocked the gun from her hand with his bound wrists, shot up from the chair, and barreled into her with a shoulder as she spun from the momentum of the blow that had disarmed her.

She thumped to the floor, bruising her hip. He reached her before she could scramble up further than her knees. Grabbing her arms, he drove a knee between her shoulder blades, using his other leg to knock her off her knees.

Air whooshed out of her in a gasp as her belly struck the floor. She squirmed in pain, doing her best to get out from under him, but he was too heavy.

A hand worked into her hair and yanked back her head. Her eyes teared with pain, but she blinked that moisture back with iron determination, throwing the man a scowl over her shoulder.

“You let me go, you—”

“No, pumpkin.” The man’s voice was quiet, almost pleasant. “This time, you listen to me.”

“Finn’s going to fuck you up. You get off me right—”

“Christ, girl.” There was a whisk of fabric, and then the man looped his scarf around her head. “I didn’t ride through a fucking blizzard for this shit.”

Heat flashed through her body, ice dousing her a second later.

He was going to strangle her.

She screamed loud enough to scour her throat. Bucking and writhing with everything she had, she tried to get the man off her.

“FINN! FINN!”

“Fucking hell,” the man muttered, and then the scarf was between her teeth. A yank brought her head up like a rearing horse, and then the man tied off that strip of wool, silencing her. Rope slithered around her wrists, then her ankles. A hard tug later, she lay hogtied on the rough floor, panting through the woolen scarf, hair and sweat in her eyes and her body aching where his weight had crushed her against the wood.

The man stood, walked around, and came to a stop in front of her. She stared at his boots for the longest time before she dared to look up. He was nothing but a looming shape, her dark hair blocking out most of him. The man crouched, wrists on his bent knees, fingers dangling. She shook her head, and gave a muffled yell when he reached for her.

“I’m not your enemy,” he said quietly. “And Milo can vouch for that.”

He watched her for a few seconds, and then hooked a finger behind the scarf, tugging it away from her mouth. She worked her jaw, and then tossed hair from her eyes as she glared up at him again.

“Who sent you?” she whispered, her voice rough from the screaming.

The man laughed. “No one.”

She stared at him, her mind blank. “But…”

“Yeah.” The man had a rueful smile on his mouth now. “I’m Milo’s—”

Finn’s voice cut him off. “Lars?”

Cora spun her head to face the door. Finn stood in the doorway, pistol aimed at the man standing over her.

Lars stood, brushing off his jeans as he let out a quiet chuckle. “Speak of the devil.”