My Secret Santa Axton (Silver Ridge Christmas)

18. Snow Fight

Snow Fight

MEL

The world narrows to a pinpoint of fear and adrenaline as the stranger steps out of the shadows. His voice, cold and familiar, sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the storm raging around us.

"Hello, Melanie. It's been a while."

I tighten my grip on the knife, my mind racing. How does he know my name? And why does he sound so... pleased?

"Who are you?" I demand, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite the terror clawing at my throat.

"Michael," he chuckles, a sound devoid of warmth. "But it won't matter soon. All that matters is I'm a friend of Axton's. But we can skip the introductions. I'm more interested in what you're doing out here all alone."

Axton . The name hits me like a punch to the gut. Is this why he was so desperate to keep me safe? Did he know this man was out here, waiting?

I don't have time to dwell on it. The stranger—Michael—takes a step closer, and every instinct I have screams at me to run.

But I stand my ground. I'm a Peterson, dammit. We don't run from a fight.

"That's close enough," I warn, brandishing the knife. "I don't know what you want, but you'd best turn around and head back wherever you came from."

Michael's eyes glint in the fading light, amused and predatory. "Oh, Melanie. What I want is simple. I want Axton to suffer. And you? You're going to help me make that happen."

He lunges at me so fast I barely have time to react. I dodge to the side, feeling the rush of air as his hand grazes my coat. But he's quick, pivoting and swinging back around. His fist connects with my shoulder, sending me stumbling backward into the snow.

The cold bites into my skin as I roll, gasping for breath. My fingers scrabble in the snow, searching for the knife I dropped. Where is it? Where is it?

"You know," Michael says conversationally, advancing on me, "I expected more of a challenge. The way Axton talked about you... well, let's just say I'm disappointed."

His words ignite a fire in my chest. Anger burns through the fear, hot and clarifying. I'm not some damsel in distress. I'm Melanie Peterson, and I'll be damned if I let this bastard use me to hurt Axton.

My hand closes around the knife handle just as Michael reaches for me. I lash out, the blade slicing through the air. He jerks back, but not fast enough. The knife catches his shoulder, drawing a line of red across his jacket.

He hisses in pain, eyes narrowing. "You little bitch."

I scramble to my feet, heart pounding. "You want a challenge?" I spit. "Come and get it."

For a moment, we stand there, sizing each other up. The storm howls around us, snow swirling in dizzying patterns. I can barely see three feet in front of me, but I force myself to focus. To remember every lesson Daddy ever taught me about survival.

"The key to winning any fight, sugar," his voice echoes in my head, "is to want it more than the other guy."

Well, I want this. I want to live. I want to see my family again. I want... I want to see Axton. To tell him I'm sorry for running. That I understand now why he pushes people away.

Michael charges at me again, but this time I'm ready. I sidestep his attack, bringing the knife up in a sharp arc. It catches him across the face, and he stumbles back with a roar of pain and rage.

Blood trickles down his cheek, stark against the white snow. His eyes, when they meet mine, are dark with murderous intent.

"I'm going to enjoy this," he growls.

He comes at me again, faster this time. I try to dodge, but my foot slips on a patch of ice. His fist connects with my jaw, sending stars exploding across my vision. I taste blood, copper and salt on my tongue.

I stagger, disoriented, and he presses his advantage. Another blow catches me in the ribs, driving the air from my lungs. I double over, gasping, the knife nearly slipping from my grasp.

Get up, Mel. Get up!

I force myself to straighten, ignoring the pain lancing through my side. Michael's grinning now, sure of his victory. But he's underestimated me. He doesn't know what it means to be a Peterson. To be raised by Daddy and Mamma, to have their strength and love running through my veins.

As he moves in for what he thinks will be the final blow, I gather every ounce of strength I have left. I think of Daddy's lessons, of Mamma's unconditional love and support. Of Axton's rare smiles, the ones that make his eyes crinkle at the corners.

And I lunge.

The knife plunges into Michael's neck, the blade sinking deep. His eyes go wide with shock, his mouth opening in a silent scream. For a moment, we're frozen like that, a macabre tableau in the swirling snow.

Then he staggers back, hands clawing at his throat. Blood gushes between his fingers, staining the pristine white ground. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a wet gurgle.

I watch, numb with shock and exhaustion, as he collapses to his knees. His eyes, already glazing over, find mine one last time. There's surprise there, and something else. Respect, maybe. Or just the realization that he picked the wrong woman to mess with.

Then he falls face-first into the snow, and doesn't move again.

I stand there, panting, the knife still clutched in my trembling hand. It's over. I did it. I survived.

The adrenaline starts to fade, and with it comes the pain. My jaw throbs, my ribs scream in protest with every breath. I press a hand to my side and it comes away wet with blood. When did that happen?

I need to move. Need to get help. But my legs feel like lead, and the world is starting to spin in a way that has nothing to do with the storm.

Come on, Mel. One foot in front of the other.

I stumble forward, each step an agony. The path blurs before me, trees and snow melding into a dizzying white void. I'm not sure how long I walk, or in what direction. All I know is that I have to keep moving.

My foot catches on something—a root, maybe, or just my own clumsy feet—and I go down hard. My head cracks against something solid—a boulder?—and pain explodes behind my eyes.

I lie there, dazed, feeling the cold seep into my bones. The snow falls gently now, covering me like a blanket. It would be so easy to just... rest. To close my eyes and let the exhaustion take me.

But as my consciousness starts to slip away, all I can think about is Axton. How I shouldn't have left. How I'm doing the exact thing I've always accused him of—running away when things get tough.

I'm sorry, Axton, I think hazily. I understand now. I'm so sorry.

Regret washes over me, bitter and sharp. What if I never get the chance to tell him? To make things right?

The darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision, and I try to fight it. But I'm so tired. So cold.

My last coherent thought is of Axton's face. Not the closed-off mask he wears so often, but the real Axton. The one who smiles at me over coffee in the morning. The one who holds me like I'm something precious.

I love you, I think. I should have told you a million times when I had the chance.

Then the world fades to black, and I know no more.

Thank you for reading My Secret Santa Axton !

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