She blinked at me, startled by the sudden edge in my voice. “He… left me,” she whispered. “Out in the woods. Took the snowmobile and just… left.” She shook her head, eyes shining. “I thought he just went to cool his head, but he didn’t come back.” There was a dash of uncertainty in her words, making it clear she wasn’t sure whether he’d left her behind on purpose or had just gotten more turned around. It was unforgivable either way.
The storm outside howled, and it felt like it was inside me, too. Rage burned, sharp and cold. To leave her out there—small and fragile—in this weather? My hands clenched. If this Kevin were here, I’d freeze him where he stood and shatter him to pieces. He deserved to be caught in the grip of my unpredictable powers, and once a statue, I’d take my sledgehammer to him.
Without another word, I stomped past her. She flinched at my sudden movement, shrinking slightly, but I couldn’t stop myself. My feet carried me to the hearth, where I threw more logs onto the fire. Sparks flared, heat licking my face. It was already too hot for me, sweat slicking down my spine, but she’d need it. Worse, the heat was gathering most uncomfortably under the plastic helmet, and the bases of my horns itched.
The kettle went onto the stove with a clang, frustration and anger bleeding through in every one of my motions. Water, tea, warmth—things I didn’t need, but she did. My back stayed to her as I worked, jaw clenched. I could hear her moving behind me:soft, tentative sounds, the shuffle of her boots coming off, fabric rustling.
Don’t look, I told myself. Don’t. But then I did, like I just couldn’t help myself. She was crouched by the fire, and her coat, gloves, and hat lay in a heap beside her. The flames painted her in gold and shadow, her hands trembling as she held them out to the warmth. Her sweater was knitted, snowflakes scattered across soft fabric that hugged her in ways that made my throat dry. Her figure was slender, delicate curves in all the right places. She was too fragile for a storm, and far too tempting for me.
“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath. The kettle screamed as if mocking me. I poured too fast, slamming the mug onto the table beside her. Tea splashed over the rim, hissing on the wood. More spilled than stayed, and I didn’t even care that it might stain the wood of my hand-carved coffee table.
I couldn’t breathe in here, I couldn’t breathe with her filling up the spaces inside my home. I turned on my heel, stalking to the counter where my phone lay. Jackson would know what to do. He had to. Talking on the phone was usually the extent of my social interactions, and I hated every minute of it. Anything to get rid of her, though. I punched in the sheriff’s number, certain he’d help out, it was his job, after all.
“You have to come get her,” I barked the moment he picked up. Panic clawed at my throat, and I twisted to glance at my unwanted guest from the corner of my eye. Had she heard that? She was still by the fire, her back to me, and, damn it, she was bent over, showcasing the delicious curve of her ass cupped in her snug jeans. What was she doing? Was she trying to give me aheart attack? Oh, she was just spreading out her wet winter gear in front of the wood stove so it could dry.
There’d been a pause in answer to my barked-out demand; now, the sheriff scraped his throat. “Is that you, Ísarr?” Jackson’s voice was deep, calm, gratingly patient. It could’ve been my imagination, but it felt like my urgency to get rid of Bianca amused the man.
“Yes, it’s me. There’s a human in my cabin. She wandered in during the storm. You need to come get her.” I didn’t say now—saying that out loud would have made me sound even more desperate. My hand went up to scratch one of my horns beneath the stupid helmet. If she was forced to stay, I’d be forced to keep wearing this terrible disguise and hope she didn’t ask if I was sick, considering my blue skin. What excuse could I give—that I drank too much colloidal silver? That could turn a human’s skin blue, couldn’t it? Would she buy that? Doubtful.
The griffin gave a low whistle. “The storm’s too fierce, and the roads are closed.” No, no! That couldn’t be. I stalked to the nearest window, lifted the curtain to peer out, and swore. It was coming down hard out there already, but it didn’t feel like the storm had hit Hillcrest Hollow quite yet. He could make it.
“I’ll clear you a path,” I hissed, lowering my voice and glancing over my shoulder at the girl by the fire. She didn’t seem to be listening, but still, I kept my words a whisper. “I’ll calm it down, just a corridor of safe passage. You can drive out here. Take her off my hands.” It was a risk; I was not in control of my powers, and I hadn’t made any attempts to handle a snowstorm like this in years. I wasn’t even sure I could do it, I just knew I had to try.
Jackson chuckled, feathered arrogance in the sound. “You’d toy with a storm for one lost human? There’s enough trouble in town, friend. You can babysit for a night.” As if toying with a storm would cause more trouble for them all, the words stung. Not that Jackson had meant them that way, that was just my own insecurity speaking.
My grip tightened on the phone until the plastic creaked. “Jackson—” I began to plead, but the line went dead. I swore, low and vicious, and this time, definitely loud enough for my guest to hear. Now what? She couldn’t stay, there was no way she could stay.
Her voice came from the fire, soft but steady now. “You really don’t want me here, do you?” I turned to look at her, though it was the last thing I wanted to do. She sat with her back straight, shoulders hunched slightly, as though bracing for a blow. Her blue eyes met mine, luminous, too big for her pale face. “It’s all right. I’ll be quiet.” The words lodged in my chest like splinters.
Chapter 3
Bianca
I pretended not to listen, though it was impossible not to. His voice carried—low and harsh—every word edged like broken ice. He wanted me gone. Wanted someone—Jackson, was it?—to come fetch me, as though I were a stray cat that had wandered into his space. The final snap of the phone shutting made me flinch.
I turned my eyes back to the fire, willing myself to ignore how obvious it was: he didn’t want me here. It was silly to feel hurt over that, I mean, I was an inconvenience, after all. Forced to stay in his home thanks to the snowstorm, invading his personal space, his privacy. Something he clearly valued, or he wouldn’t be living in the middle of nowhere like this.
The flames licked up the logs he’d thrown on, chasing the chill from my bones. I rubbed my hands together and tried to focus on anything else. Anything but the thoughts inside my head and the fear that still clung, with cold fingers, to my bones. I’d nearly died today. If not for this cabin and the trail of those strange but beautiful ice sculptures, I would be freezing to death right now. So I focused on the room, on the things around me.
In the far corner, a half-finished wooden bear loomed, caught between blocky cuts and intricate detail. Its face was rough but somehow already alive, as though it might lumber out into the snow at any second. Beside me, the little coffee table bore the casualty of his temper—a cracked mug and a puddle of tea seeping across its surface. The chair it belonged to was a lonelything, a big, lazy armchair clearly meant for one. The rest of the cabin, though…
Immaculate. Every inch of wood gleamed, polished and cared for. The counter and table near the kitchen weren’t store-bought; I could tell. The wood was twisted in a way that seemed purposeful, branches coaxed into elegance and smoothed to a golden honey shine. Above, a chandelier of entwined limbs spread out like captured sunlight. Even the doors were carved, one to what had to be the bedroom, another surely the bathroom. All of it spoke of hands that knew wood, of patience and craft.
It was pretty. Beautiful, even. Some would consider even the furniture art, and I wouldn’t say they were wrong. None of it pulled at me the way he did, though. He was a big mystery, and one that did not seem to care one bit about the season. There was no sign of a Christmas tree anywhere, not so much as a garland or sprig of holly. As if he had no reason to celebrate and no need for anything soft like gold Christmas ornaments or angel hair.
The way he looked, he was all the ornamentation this cabin needed, even with his strange colors. He still had that ridiculous hard hat on, and I couldn’t understand why. It sat crooked, cracked at the crown, as though it didn’t belong to him at all. Everything else did: the worn jeans, scuffed work boots, the red flannel hanging open just enough at the throat to reveal a stretch of chest far too distracting. In the firelight and the soft yellow glow of his artful lamps, he did not look so blue-shaded as he’d appeared when he first opened the door. Rough, strong, grumpy, he was all of those. He shouldn’t have been tempting, and yet my eyes lingered. Maybe it was because he was so clearly the exact opposite of Kevin.
When I’d said it—“You really don’t want me here, do you?”—I regretted it instantly. The words had come out smaller than I meant, and my stomach twisted, certain I’d said the wrong thing. It had sounded so pitiful and dejected, and the last thing I wanted was for him to feel pity and treat me with kid gloves. Not that I wanted to be snarled at, but at least I knew where I stood with him.
Then his shoulders dropped, his jaw loosening. “Used to silence,” he said simply. Then, before I could gather myself, he moved. He crossed the space in two strides, pulling the folded quilt from the back of his chair. I froze, wide-eyed, as he bent down and wrapped it around my shoulders.
Warmth flooded me, not from the quilt, but from him. From the closeness of his chest, from the scent that clung to him: clean snow and pine and something deeper I couldn’t name. He was too tall, too broad, his hands rough but careful as he settled the fabric around me. I should have been nervous—alone in a stranger’s cabin, no one knowing where I was. With a man who clearly wished I weren’t here at all.
Instead, for reasons I couldn’t explain, I felt safe. Safer than I had in a long time. He was so tender and careful as he fussed with the drape of the quilt, his hand smoothing down my shoulder in a way that felt like a caress, even if it was just to get rid of some wrinkles. I tilted my head to the side, watching his face so near to mine, and felt more heat curl deep in my belly. Cold? It was already becoming a distant memory.
His jaw was sharp—definitely not a healthy tan—but at the same time… his skin tone wasn’t sickly either. Darker at that sharp edge, covered in the faintest dark blue stubble. It seemed veryunlikely that he’d dyed that little bit of five o’clock growth. My eyes widened as I thought that through, and his pale blue orbs clashed with mine.
Something moved behind that pale gaze, sharp, hot. Maybe embarrassed to be caught in a moment of caring? He jerked back abruptly, rising to his feet like he had springs in the soles of his shoes. He stalked into the kitchen, heavy boots striking the wood, and began slamming things around: pots, pans, the scrape of metal against the counter. It was so loud after his quiet words a moment ago that I flinched.
