And those eyes. Steel gray. Cold, steady, and far too assessing for someone I just met while wearing soggy pants and a thin sheen of panic sweat.
He’s gorgeous. But he’s also a stranger. With an axe. In the middle of nowhere.
So, I do what any reasonable woman would do when faced with a muscled stranger holding an axe in the middle of a blizzard.
I scream again, louder this time, and punch him in the face.
CHAPTER 2
WEST
“You punched me,”I growl, palm pressed to my jaw.
“You snuck up behind me in the dark with an axe!” she shoots back.
“This is my property,” I bite out. “I was getting firewood and saw someone on my porch. There was no sneaking.”
“Well, maybe try being less”—she waves a trembling hand toward me, shivering so hard her teeth chatter—“murder-y.”
Her round eyes are wide, ocean blue, lashes tipped in frost. Her cheeks are cherry red from the wind. Her pink puffball coat looks drenched, and she’s dusted in glitter and ice like a nearly frozen Christmas ornament.
The wolf inside me stirs.
Fox.
I can smell it now—sharp, sweet, Arctic. Her scent curls through the air like sugar, and the animal in me bristles, curious and territorial all at once.
A stranded fox shifter on Solstice. Exactly what I don’t need.
She sways on her feet, knees wobbling. “I’m fine,” she says, voice slurring just slightly.
“Sure you are,” I mutter, step forward, and shove the door open. The warm air from inside hits us both. “Get in before you freeze solid.”
She hesitates.
Smart girl.
But the storm howls, and survival wins out over pride. She stomps her sequined boots on the threshold, shaking snow across the wood floor
I shut the door, drop the latch, and immediately regret it as the scent of her—warm, wild, sweet—floods my cabin.
Shivers quake through her, and her hands are shaking so hard she can barely grasp her coat’s zipper.
“Sit,” I order. “You need heat before you drop.”
“I’m fine,” she insists again, teeth clacking. She staggers past me toward the fire, drops her bag, and yanks off her gloves with her teeth. “I just need—uh—snacks.”
“You need to warm up.”
She ignores me and digs through her bag, pulling out a tin and muttering something about cookies. Her fingers are so stiff she can barely get the lid off.
The wolf rumbles, uneasy.
Hypothermia.
I cross the room, grab a wool blanket off the couch, and toss it over her shoulders. “Wrap up. Now.”
She jumps at the contact but doesn’t argue. “I was going to do that,” she mumbles.
