He crouched low in the mud, pressing his shoulder to the rough bark of an oak tree, chest heaving like a hunted animal’s as the wind tore through the trees around him, spitting sleet through the branches as if the woods itself wanted him gone.

He stared through the dark tangle of branches at the glowing house below him until its warm lights blurring in his vision.

His Rosie was still in there.

His cheek throbbed where she had slashed him and his hand rose, feeling the crusted blood on his ...