Chapter 2 - BREATH OF FROST
The footsteps grew heavier, echoing off the exterior warehouse concrete like sharp claps of thunder. Through the frost-encrusted observation window of the blast freezer, I couldn’t see a face, only an approaching shadow. A sliver of hope surged through my numbing chest, but it was quickly strangled by sheer dread. Had Derek returned? Had he come back to verify that the job was finished, or perhaps to ensure that no sound could ever slip out through the seals?
My body seized as another contraction gripped my abdomen with the force of an iron vice. I crumpled against a wooden pallet, the rough, frozen splinters scraping through my light blue dress. My water had pooled on the concrete floor, freezing into a slick, milky glaze around my shoes. Frost clung to my eyelashes, blurring my vision into a fractured kaleidoscope of gray metal and red warning lights. The digital thermometer clicked over: negative fifty-one degrees Fahrenheit. My skin had stopped burning; now it simply felt dead, like carved wax.
Outside, the heavy industrial latch rattled. Metal groaned against metal. The heavy lever pivoted downward with a screech that sent vibrations rattling straight through the floorboards.
"Derek..." I tried to scream, but my throat was a desert of crystalline ice. What emerged was a broken, wheezing whisper. "Don't..."
The heavy vault door hissed open. A rush of warmer, stagnant warehouse air clashed with the arctic vapor within, churning up a thick cloud of white fog. A silhouette cut through the mist. It was tall, broad-shouldered, and draped in an expensive tailored trench coat that Derek could never have afforded.
The man took two rapid steps forward and stopped. His eyes swept across the pallets of frozen meat until they landed on the shivering, hunched pile of fabric in the corner.
"Jesus Christ," a deep, gravelly voice snapped through the hum of the cooling fans.
It wasn't Derek.
The man dropped to his knees right beside me, heedless of the filthy frost and the pool of frozen amniotic fluid soaking through his wool trousers. Two large, gloved hands gripped my shoulders, pulling me away from the wall. When he lifted his head, the flickering fluorescent tube overhead illuminated a face carved out of sharp granite: a square, stubbled jaw, intense silver-gray eyes, and a streak of silver at his right temple.
Ethan Caldwell.
I knew his face from news clippings Derek had frantically hidden in our home office years ago, and from the business journals that crowned him the undisputed king of Midwest logistics.
"Look at me," Ethan commanded, stripping off his heavy shearling-lined leather gloves with his teeth and pressing his bare palms against my freezing cheeks. His skin was blistering hot compared to mine, the sensation so sharp it made me gasp. "Can you hear me? What's your name?"
"Grace," I managed, my teeth chattering violently. My lips felt split and swollen. "My... my babies. He locked it. He..."
"Derek did this," Ethan said. It wasn't a question. A muscle leaped in his jaw, tight as a drawn bowstring. His silver eyes narrowed with an ancient, dark fury. "I saw his silver sedan peeling out of the lot three minutes ago. He bypassed the secondary circuit breaker on unit four. I came to catch him stealing data—I didn't think he'd resorted to human slaughter."
Another wave of labor tore through me. My back arched against the crates, and a ragged scream tore from my frozen throat. I clutched Ethan’s forearms, my fingernails digging into his expensive cashmere coat. The babies were coming. My body, shocked by the lethal cold, was desperately trying to expel them before the cold killed us all.
"The water broke," Ethan muttered, his trained gaze taking in the slick floor, the distended shape of my belly, and the pale blue tinge spreading across my lips. "Hypothermia-induced precipitous labor. We don't have time for an ambulance."
He peeled off his heavy overcoat in one fluid motion, wrapping it around my trembling shoulders and pulling the thick fur collar tight beneath my chin. Before I could process the sudden shift in gravity, his arms slipped beneath my knees and back. He hoisted me into his chest, lifting my full pregnancy weight with an effortless, coiled strength that belonged to a man who had worked his way up from the rail yards before he ever sat in a boardroom.
"Wrap your arms around my neck, Grace," he ordered, his voice steady, grounding, and completely devoid of panic. "Hold on to me. I'm getting you out of this tomb."
As he carried me across the threshold of the freezer into the dim corridor of the warehouse, the blast of seventy-degree air hit my face. The sudden change in temperature didn't bring relief; it brought agonizing pain as the capillaries in my face and fingers screamed back to life. I cried out, burying my face into the crook of his warm neck, inhaling the clean scent of cedarwood, rain, and expensive tobacco.
Ethan kicked open the side exit of the warehouse, bursting into the rainy Michigan night. His private vehicle, a black armored SUV, was idling fifty feet away, its headlights slicing through the downpour.
"Hold on, Grace," Ethan murmured, his pace never faltering as rain pelted us. "You and those children are surviving this night. I swear on my life."
He threw open the rear passenger door, setting me gently across the wide leather bench. He climbed in behind me, shouting at the driver before the door had even latched: "Vance! MUSC trauma wing! Code Black! Call Dr. Harrison directly on his private cell—tell him hypothermic maternal shock with twins in active delivery. We have ten minutes!"
The SUV lurched forward, tires screaming against the wet tarmac as the speedometer climbed. Inside the darkened cab, Ethan leaned over me, rubbing my frozen arms with frantic friction.
"Stay with me, Grace. Don't close your eyes."
"It hurts," I sobbed, my hands clawing at my stomach. "The babies... they aren't moving anymore. Ethan, they stopped kicking!"
Ethan reached down, placing his large, warm hand flat over the center of my swollen belly. For three agonizing seconds, there was only the hum of the engine and the splash of rain against the glass. Then, beneath his palm, a sharp, erratic flutter pushed back.
Ethan’s eyes snapped to mine, fierce and unyielding. "They're fighting. So you fight too."
Just as the city lights began to blur through the rain-streaked window, Vance’s voice crackled from the front console.
"Mr. Caldwell, look behind us. Dark Dodge Charger, no plates, following hard off the access road. He just blew through the red light at Maple."
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Ethan turned his head, staring through the tinted rear glass. Through the spray of water, a pair of aggressive yellow headlights was closing the distance at terrifying speed.
Derek had realized he’d left a loose end.
