I don’t wait to hear more. The mug slips from my hand into the bucket with a clatter that echoes like thunder in my ears.Dee calls my name, but I’m already out the back door, the cold slapping me so hard it burns.
The snow crunches under my boots as I stalk down the path behind the lodge, my hands shaking, my breath coming fast and furious. A ploy. That’s all it was. A carefully calculated ploy to get me pliant, to make me believe there was something real between us, when all along he was sharpening the knife he meant to drive through this place.
I should have known better.
The memory of last night is still raw on my skin, every kiss, every whispered word. The way his hands trembled just once, the way he said my name like it was sacred. Lies, all of it. Or worse: truth twisted into something he could use against me.
I hear the crunch of snow behind me, heavier than mine, deliberate, measured. I don’t turn.
“Clara,” his voice calls, low and rough, closer than I want it to be.
“Don’t,” I snap, my throat tight, my back stiff. “Don’t you dare.”
He stops, the sound of his boots stilling in the snow. “What did you hear?”
I whirl on him, the cold biting my cheeks, fury sparking through the hollow ache in my chest. “I heard enough. Enough to know that nothing about last night mattered to you. That while I was fool enough to believe you wanted me, you were already planning how to tear this place down.”
His jaw flexes, his eyes narrowing, but he doesn’t deny it fast enough. That pause is damning.
“You think you can just walk into my life, into my home, take what you want and then leave the ashes behind? You think I’m that naive?” My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate myself for it.
“Clara—”
“No,” I cut him off, shoving past him toward the tree line. “Stay out of my way. Stay out of my lodge. Stay out of me. Whatever game you’re playing, I’m not your piece anymore.”
His hand lifts, like he might reach for me, but he lets it fall again. That almost hurts more than if he’d forced me to face him.
I don’t look back. I can’t.
By the time I return to the lodge, Dee is waiting with a frown, Pippa hovering at her shoulder, mistletoe trailing like an eager dog.
“What happened?” Dee demands.
“Nothing,” I say, too sharp, shoving past her. “Absolutely nothing.”
But the tears stinging my eyes tell another story, and no amount of stubborn pride can stop the crack in my voice when I add, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
For once, Dee doesn’t push. She just watches me climb the stairs with that look of fierce loyalty she saves for moments when she knows I’ll break if she touches me.
I slam the bedroom door, throw myself against it, and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, fists pressed to my temples.
The lodge creaks around me, steady and familiar, but tonight it feels like a coffin.
CHAPTER 18
DRALGOR
Snow falls in thin, relentless sheets, not heavy enough to bury but steady enough to coat the world in silence. The kind of storm that doesn’t howl or rage but smothers. My boots crunch with each step as I move down the ridge path, the lodge shrinking behind me until it’s nothing more than a dark shape pressed against the white slope. Every board in that house carries her scent, her voice, her defiance, and now her rage.
Her words still burn in my ears. Stay out of my way. Stay out of my lodge. Stay out of me.
I’ve heard worse. I’ve been cursed by clan chiefs and threatened by board members, had whole cities turn their backs on my presence. But none of that ever pierced the way her voice did when it cracked on the last word. It wasn’t just fury she threw at me. It was disappointment. Hurt. The kind that can’t be answered with contracts or force.
I keep walking because if I stop I’ll turn back, and I can’t face her again without answers of my own. The town waits below, lanterns guttering against the snow, roofs sagging under white weight. The air is sharp in my lungs, metallic almost, as if winter itself wants to draw blood.
The streets are mostly empty, though a few figures trudge home with sacks of flour or kindling strapped to their backs, hoods pulled low. The tavern hums at the corner, the muffled thud of laughter and boots carrying through the wood walls. Even the forge glows faint tonight, its smoke trailing thin into the air.
But one building cuts through the quiet with its straight lines and polished glass, the little office Thomas insisted we rent. It looks absurd against the rest of Silverpine, brass plaque gleaming, door handle shining like it belongs in a city tower, not a mountain town that smells of pine and smoke. The windows glow yellow, the kind of light that doesn’t invite but challenges.
