She Belongs To No One

Seraphina's POV

"M AYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY , this is November niner zero..."

The frightened voice of the pilot fades away, swallowed by the wind tearing at the Cessna from both sides. With trembling hands, I grip the seatbelt straps over my shoulders and press my back hard against the wool cushion of my seat as if pushing myself deeper will somehow give me more protection when we go down. I force cold air into my lungs between quiet pleas for help.

Please don't crash. Please...

In the seat next to mine, Marisol isn't quiet at all, crying out a stream of words in her native Spanish tongue. Curses or prayers? I cannot tell. Probably both right now.

Our eyes meet briefly, her dark ones shining with tears, screaming with fear. I think about reaching for her hoping to calm her down a little, but the plane suddenly shakes and jerks sideways. Overnight bags, left unzipped since the start of the flight when we all grabbed our phones and tablets, spill their contents. They spin through the air like confetti inside a snow globe.

I squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath as the plane drops. "Brace for impact!" the pilot yells just a second before metal tears outside the window.

Marisol screams. A window breaks. Freezing Icelandic wind blasts my face. Strands of my hair stick to my cold cheeks as we spin through the air.

My stomach twists. My heart pounds faster than I can count.

Finally, the plane crashes, the terrible chorus of thuds, pops, tearing metal, and breaking bones filling the air around me as I toss and bounce in my seat. Something sharp stabs into my arm. Something heavy lands on my leg. I grip the seatbelt straps so hard the friction burns. My teeth press together so tightly my gums ache as my jaw stays locked.

In all the chaos and the hurt, I pour my desperately pounding heart and my frightened mind into one last quiet prayer.

Mom... Dad... Anyone... If anyone is out there, please help me...

The next moment, something slams against the side of my head, the force snapping my eyes open, though I cannot see anything through the red blur. The last thing I hear is a faint voice echoing from somewhere distant before everything goes still and silent.

I WAKE UP TO THE WHISPER of snow touching the ground, to the crackle of a fire, to the sound of breathing my own. The smell of fresh coffee, burned wood, and natural pine drift into my nose. I am alive.

I force my eyes open. My lids feel as heavy as the boulders I see sticking up through the snow outside the window. I turn my head. I am staring up at an unfinished pine ceiling painted orange by the glow from the fireplace.

Where am I?

As I sit up, the green blanket on top of me slips off, showing multiple bandages under torn clothes. I am hurt? I cannot feel it. Maybe it is adrenaline. The pain will come later.

Now, I remember. I was on a Cessna over Iceland, on my way to do research for my company, but the weather was worse than expected and the plane crashed.

I put a hand on my head, remembering having been hit, and find only a few layers of gauze. I look at both my hands. No blood. No cuts. No scars.

I press my palms against my cheeks, letting out a sigh of relief.

I survived.

Thank goodness.

But what about Marisol and the pilot?

I sit up carefully, aware of the bandages, of hidden injuries. But I have to know. Picking up the blanket from the rug and wrapping it around my shoulders like a cape, I leave the room, stumbling down a hallway with three doors, moving faster than my feet can carry me.

The first will not open. A broom and a shovel fall out of the second one. I push them back quickly, and open the third. A small bedroom. Empty. The blue sheets do not even have wrinkles and the walls smell slightly of dampness. A layer of dust covers the stool in the corner.

I move on to the kitchen, my heart racing with worry. The room is empty. Counters. Appliances. What you would expect to see. But no one is there.

Where are they?

"They did not make it."

I spin around so fast at the sound of the voice that my elbow hits the knife block, the lone knife in it wobbling. The blanket around my shoulders slides to my feet.

Grabbing the edge of the counter, I stare at the cause of my shock. His messy strands of hair fall down the sides of his face like a thick curtain, some covering his eyes, and then flow past his shoulders, where drops of it are scattered across the pale skin of his bare chest and arms. With just that veil of hair and a pair of dirty, gray sweatpants on, he could have passed for a wild creature. Or someone sitting on a sidewalk in Reykjavík with a cardboard sign and a cup for coins.

Both untrustworthy. Both possibly dangerous.

I never even heard him come in.

I glance at the knife in the block, my fingers creeping closer to it as he steps closer, a mug of coffee in each hand.

The smell of the beans flows into my nose, and right behind it something more striking his scent, like an aged bottle of red wine straight from the cellar. Pure, earthy and strong.

Attractive.

As he stands in front of me, I finally see the man. The sharp cheekbones. The strong jaw. The broad shoulders. That stunning torso with its solid muscles shaped to perfection, two of them disappearing below the waistline of his pants.

Forcing my eyes back up, I meet dark black eyes, pieces of a starless night. The breath I did not know I was holding leaves my lips as a gasp.

"I am sorry." He holds out one of the mugs of coffee to me, the red one with the handle.