Where The Ice Gives Way Chapter 45

**Blake**

“Do it.”

The words are muffled against my stomach. Charlotte’s arms are locked around my waist, fingers twisted tight in my hoodie, and I can feel the tremor in her hands even while she tries to keep her voice steady. Mum shifts closer on the blankets, eyes tracking the angle of Charlotte’s leg with practical focus. I cradle the back of Charlotte’s head with one hand, fingers spread through her hair, and I lean down so my mouth is near her ear. “Breathe for me,” I tell her. She nods against me, and her face stays buried in my stomach as if she can disappear there. The mate bond hums warm through my ribs, a steady thread that keeps me from snapping apart. Mum’s voice stays soft as she tells me, “Hold her still.”

“As if I’d let go,” I mutter. Mum’s hands brace, one on Charlotte’s shin, one at the ankle. She looks up once, meeting my eyes, then returns to the work. “Okay, here we go,” she says. Charlotte tightens around me, and I tighten around her. The snap is sickening. A sharp crack that seems to echo through the whole house, followed by Charlotte’s screams. It rips out of her, raw and uncontrolled, and my body tries to do something stupid, tries to pull her away like I can protect her from pain by sheer will. I lock my arms harder around her shoulders and head, holding her steady. “Lotty,” I whisper into her hair. “It’s set. It’s done. You’re okay.” Her scream breaks into a sob, and then the sob cuts off mid-breath, and her weight goes slack.

“Charlotte?” My voice cracks around her name. Mum is already moving her fingers to Charlotte’s neck. “She’s out,” she says immediately. “Pain shock. She’s breathing.” I exhale so hard it hurts. Charlotte’s face is turned toward my chest, lashes resting on her cheek, mouth parted. She looks small like this, and she shouldn’t. She shouldn’t be the one forced to be brave. Mum pulls more blankets up and tucks them around Charlotte’s legs with quick, careful movements. My hand stays in her hair because I don’t know what else to do with my hands. I keep touching her, hoping it helps, hoping our bond is strong enough to heal her a little faster.

The front door slams, and footsteps pound through the hallway. “Charlotte!” Charlie’s voice cracks on the shout. He appears in the living room doorway, eyes wild, face pale, and behind him, Dad moves with the heavy calm of an alpha who has already made plans. Theo is there too, jaw tight, knuckles scraped, blood dried along the side of his hand. Charlie drops to his knees beside the blankets so fast he nearly slips. His gaze snaps over Charlotte’s body, his hands hovering over the blood smudged on the fabric. “What happened?” he demands. “Is she okay? What did you do?” The blame isn’t really for me. It’s for the world. Still, it hits me right in the chest, and I pull Charlotte closer to me. I would never hurt her. Mum keeps her voice low and steady. “She’s okay. The bone didn’t heal right when she shifted. I reset it, and she passed out from the pain.” Charlie’s chest heaves. His hand hovers near her shoulder like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch her, then he rests his fingertips on the blanket near her arm, barely there. “I heard her scream,” he says, quietly. “I know,” I answer, and my throat tightens around it. Charlie swallows hard. “I should’ve been there.” He whispers. Dad’s hand comes down on Charlie’s shoulder, firm and grounding. “You’re here now,” he says.

Mum finishes checking the bandage, then looks up at me. “Blake.” I meet her gaze. “Take her upstairs,” she says. “Put her in your bed and let her rest.”  Charlie’s head snaps up, and for a second I think he’s going to argue. Then his eyes flick to Charlotte’s face, and his jaw tightens with defeat and relief tangled together. “Be careful,” he says. “I will,” I promise. I slide one arm under Charlotte’s knees and the other behind her shoulders, lifting slowly so her leg stays supported. She doesn’t stir, but her head lolls against my chest, hair brushing my chin. She’s so light... It breaks my heart all over again. I carry her up the stairs with careful steps, each creak of the wood sounding too loud. I can feel Charlie’s stare on my back, and I can feel Dad holding him steady behind it. My bedroom door sticks when the air is cold. I nudge it open with my shoulder and step inside.  I lower her onto the bed gently, arranging her leg first so it’s straight and supported, then easing the rest of her down. Her face turns toward the pillow, and she makes a small sound in her sleep, barely a breath, but my heart trips at it. I pull the blankets up over her, tucking them around her shoulders and sides the way Mum used to do when I was sick as a kid, the way you do when you’re trying to keep someone warm and safe in the simplest way possible. I sit on the edge of the bed and slide my hand into her hair again, gentle, careful. Her skin is warm and soft under my fingers. I wonder if she would think I’m stealing this moment from her.

She came here for safety. When the world tried to tear her down, she came here. She let us touch her. She let mum heal her. She let me hold her while it hurt. That trust sits in my chest heavier than any promise I’ve ever made.

Downstairs, voices move in low currents. I hear boots shift on the floorboards and a kettle click on. The house settles into a pack rhythm, with people coming together to support her. I can still taste rot at the back of my throat, but up here, her scent is the only thing I let myself breathe. I watch her chest rise and fall. I tell myself she will wake up and be furious and scared and embarrassed, and I will take it, because she trusted me once already. Whether she knows it or not, she let me in, and I’m going to cherish that. “I’ve got you,” I whisper, even though she can’t hear it. “I’ve got you now.”