Free Chains of Fire by Christina Dodd

making him shiver in bursts, and each time he did, his torment ratcheted up. “Any blankets?”
    “Skis. Ski boots. And a coat.”
    “Very good.”
    “If there’s a way out.”
    “Right. If there’s a way out.” He kept his voice carefully neutral. Because he knew what she knew. In here, the air was frigid . . . and still. No drafts swept down a conveniently placed air vent. No sounds reached them from out-of-doors.
    This was a tomb.
    “Samuel?” She sounded brightly interested. “Where’s your phone?”
    As soon as she asked, he knew what she meant. He moved his hand toward the inner pocket of his jacket. Every inch was a lesson in agony, but he groped until he found the square outline of the phone. Slowly he pulled it out and hit the switch. The screen illuminated the darkness. He looked at her without turning his head. “Smart girl. Why didn’t I think of that?”
    “Because you’re in shock. And I’m tired. And we’re both . . . afraid.”
    She was right. He was afraid.
    No one knew they were here. They had no air, no food, a billion tons of snow entombed them, and he hurt so much, he couldn’t move.
    Yet she smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of her lips, and pointed. “There it is!” She grabbed the black bag, brought out the flashlight, and turned it on.
    The glow was almost too much, and he flinched.
    She saw his weakness.
    Damn it. He hated that.
    But she knew him too well. What was he supposed to do about that?
    She knelt by his side. Dust streaked her sober face. Her hands hovered over him, waiting for permission to touch him, heal him.
    He didn’t want that favor from her. “Here’s the phone. Call emergency. Get someone here to help us.”
    “Samuel, don’t be an idiot.” She took the phone, glanced at it. “There isn’t a signal.”
    “There has to be.”
    “We’re in the Alps in the basement of a stone castle that’s been blasted by an avalanche. How many tons of ice do you think are on top of us? How many oak and steel beams are holding up the snow? A cell phone signal? Fat chance!”
    He’d hoped to spare her this pain. Now his last shred of hope died. If they were going to survive, he would have to be healthy.
    But more important, he couldn’t endure the agony.
    So he bared his teeth at her. “Go ahead and fix me. I need you.”
    She bared her teeth back at him, this clean, good, sweetness-and-light woman. “What did you say? I can’t hear you.”
    Through his haze of pain and cold, he felt genuine amusement—and pride. She could really be a bitch—and he was the only person on earth who could drive her to it. “I said ”—he made sure he was good and loud—“that I need you.”
    The building shuddered. Somewhere beyond their circle of light, something fell, a beam, a wall, something that shook the floor.
    She threw herself over his face, protecting him from the showers of dust, debris, and ice that fell like harbingers of doom.
    Slowly they ceased.
    Slowly she sat up.
    “I want you to heal me,” he said. “Please. I need to get us out of here before . . . We need to get out of here.”
    She put her hands on his shoulders. “Relax.”
    Even before the sensation of healing swept him, he experienced the pleasure of her touch. To have her willingly stroke him . . . she made the world right.
    Then he felt it: the gentle healing as she absorbed his injury.
    His eyes fluttered closed.
    Heat billowed around him, around them , closing them in a bubble where only the two of them existed. As her hands cupped his neck, then slid over his chest and down to his breastbone, the pain slipped from his nerves to hers.
    Distantly, he could hear her breathing grow harsh.
    This was why he hated her to carry this burden. He knew how she did it. She put her hands on the sufferer and took the anguish as her own. Her body encapsulated his ruptured disks and healed them quickly, generously.
    Yet it was a cruel torture, for she suffered all the pain that he suffered—and she knew she