EMBER’S POV
“I hate to say it, but I told you so,” Rafael says softly. “He is gone, and he is never coming back.”
I don’t move.
My knees are in the snow and my hands are numb and the tears have frozen to tracks on my cheeks, and I am so far past the point of responding to Rafael Montenegro that he might as well be speaking to the mountains.
He crouches beside me.
The warmth of his body engulfs mine even through the cold, and I hate that — hate that he’s warm and alive and HERE when the person who should be here is thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic heading toward a country with a woman who knew him before I existed.
“You’re going to get hypothermia.” His voice is reasonable, though tentative. “Come inside. I’ll make you something warm.”
I stare at the empty helicopter pad. The
