She’s fire, wrapped in too-thin wool and buried under grief, and I can already tell she’s going to be a goddamn thorn in my side.
I cross the room slow enough to make a point. My boots thud against the polished floor, the weight of my frame announcing itself with every step. I don’t dress to impress—there’s no need—but I wear power the way she wears indignation. Custom suit. Clean lines. Black as the blood in my family’s history. And a coat that still carries the scent of cold steel and jet fuel.
The mayor is talking again, something about permits and timing and how this should be handled delicately, but I barely hear him. My focus stays locked on Clara. She looks like she hasn’t slept. Like she’s been running on coffee and fury since thefuneral. There’s something wild in her eyes. Not unstable. Just... unbroken. She hasn’t been taught to bow, not even when the mountain howls.
I admire that, in a detached sort of way. Would’ve admired it more if she wasn’t standing between me and a multi-million-gold return on investment.
“This is theft,” she says now, not yelling, but not hiding the heat behind her words. “You waited until she died. You moved in like a vulture.”
I tilt my head slightly. Just enough to let the tusk on the left catch the light. “No. I moved in like a businessman who recognized undervalued property. The land was for sale. I bought it. Cleanly. Legally. Efficiently.”
She scoffs. “Legally doesn’t mean ethically.”
“Ethics,” I say, tasting the word like it’s spoiled wine. “They don’t build resorts.”
Her face flushes; full, red, unfiltered emotion blooming across her cheeks like a challenge. “Neither do wrecking balls.”
A murmur ripples through the room. One of the older council members—the gnome with spectacles too big for his face—coughs into his hand. Thorne rubs his temple like he’s already regretting putting us on the same agenda. Clara turns slightly to face the mayor again, her shoulder twitching as she refuses to give me any more of her attention than she has to.
“I’m not leaving,” she says. “You can file whatever permits you want, but this lodge is still standing, and I’m going to make sure it’s open in time for the festival. Gran’s last request was to host it one more year, and I’m not letting some corporate?—”
“Corporate bully?” I interrupt, just to see if she’ll bite.
She turns back to me, slow and furious. “If the tusks fit.”
That draws a quiet snort from the elf at the end of the council table. Clara doesn’t notice. Or maybe she doesn’t care. She’s stillglaring at me like I just spit on her grandmother’s grave. Which, for all she knows, I practically have.
I smile. Small. Tight. Not real. “You can call me whatever you like, little teacher, but it won’t change the ink on the deeds. The land is mine. And unless you have half a million tucked under your mattress, the decision’s already made.”
The words hang between us, brittle as ice on a branch.
She doesn’t break. I thought she might, just a little. Most people do when they hear the numbers. But she just straightens, lips pressed into a line so thin it might slice through me if I lean too close.
“Then I’ll see you in hell,” she says.
“Silverpine’s close enough,” I reply.
After the meeting, I step out into the brittle afternoon air, and it’s like the cold hits harder here. Not sharp, exactly, but persistent. A clinging kind of cold, the kind that crawls under cuffs and down collars no matter how tailored your coat is. I hate this place already. Too many trees, too many traditions, too much damned sentimentality clinging to every hand-painted sign and snow-covered lantern.
Thomas is waiting by the SUV, flipping through something on his tablet. He’s dressed like a city lawyer trying to play outdoorsman: sleek navy parka, immaculate gloves, and boots too clean to have ever seen actual snow.
“Well,” he says, not looking up. “That went predictably.”
“She’s not a problem,” I answer, stepping into the warmth of the vehicle and stripping off my gloves one finger at a time. “She’s a delay.”
He chuckles. “A very vocal, very stubborn delay.”
I glance out the window as the SUV pulls away from the hall, and sure enough, Clara’s still standing at the top of the steps, arms crossed, watching us drive off like she’s memorizing the plates so she can slash the tires later. The wind tosses her darkcurls across her face, and she brushes them aside with a flick of her wrist, sharp and practiced.
“Send the revised permits tonight,” I tell Thomas. “We’ll expedite the demo order. I want the site cleared before the second snowfall.”
“There’s talk in town about the Winter Festival,” he says. “They’re tying a lot of emotional capital to that lodge.”
“They can tie all the ribbon they want. It won’t stop progress.”
Thomas shifts in his seat. “Do you want me to handle her? Maybe a formal cease and desist. Or a buyout offer. Sweeten it, just enough to make her rethink.”
“No.” I close my eyes for a beat. “Let her fight. She’ll tire herself out.”
