“They rebuild it every year,” Chris explains, his arm around my waist. “Fresh construction each winter with new designs. When spring comes, it melts back into the river it came from.”
“That’s the most beautiful and devastating thing I’ve ever heard. All this work and artistry, and it just… disappears?”
“Makes it more precious,” Noel says. “Knowing it won’t last forever.”
Kane returns with key cards and a staff member in a warm parka who introduces herself as Elsa, which I desperately want to make aFrozenjoke about but manage to restrain myself.
We follow her through hallways carved entirely from ice, passing more guests and doors leading to other suites. The walls in this section are decorated with nature scenes. One area has ocean waves frozen mid-crash, and another has a forest scene with trees and animals.
“First time at an ice hotel?” Elsa asks, clearly noticing my inability to stop touching everything and gasping at random intervals.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You have the look.” She says it kindly, with the patience of someone who’s guided thousands of awestruck tourists. “Everyone has that expression their first time. You never quite believe it’s real until you’re standing in it.”
“I still don’t believe it. Part of my brain keeps insisting that this is an elaborate dream and I’m going to wake up any second.”
“You won’t,” she assures me. “But I understand the feeling.”
We reach our suite, and Elsa opens the door. I step inside, and my knees actually go weak.
The entry area has benches carved from ice with thick fur throws for sitting, a small ice table, and carved alcoves where we can store our clothes and belongings. There’s even a door leading to what Elsa explains is a heated bathroom.
But the masterpiece is at the back of the room.
An arched entrance carved from ice leads into what can only be described as a sleeping alcove. The arch is flanked by two stunning sculptures. A wolf on one side, fierce and beautiful with every hair seemingly carved in detail, and a bird on the other, with wings tucked elegantly against its body, head turned as if watching over whoever enters.
And beyond that arch is an enormous bed, easily big enough for four people to sleep comfortably, covered in so many fur blankets and throws that it looks like a cloud made of luxury. Soft blue lighting makes everything glow like we’re sleeping inside a precious gem.
“The sleeping bags are in the wardrobe here,” Elsa is explaining, showing us a carved alcove with specialized thermal sleeping equipment. “The room stays around twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit, so you’ll want to follow the layering instructions carefully. The bathroom through that door is heated to normal temperatures, and you can warm up there whenever needed.”
I’m barely listening. I’m too busy walking through the space, touching the wolf sculpture, running my fingers along the carved arch, staring at the bed that looks like something from a winter fairy tale.
The bathroom is visible through a doorway, and I peek inside to find more ice artistry—walls with decorative carvings of wolves and forest animals that match the theme of our room, and what appears to be an ice structure surrounding a normal heated tub.
When Elsa finally leaves after explaining approximately fifty things I’ll never remember, I turn to my Alphas.
“I love this room,” I announce, my voice echoing slightly off the frozen walls. “I love this hotel. I love Sweden. I love ice as a building material. I love everything about this moment, and I will carry it with me for the rest of my entire life. And I love you three so much.”
They’re watching me with those soft expressions that leave my heart fluttering.
“We’re glad you approve,” Kane adds with a sinful grin.
“Approve? I’m going to write poetry about this room. Bad poetry. Rhyming poetry. That’s how much I approve.”
“Please don’t,” Noel says. “Your creative talents lie elsewhere.”
I laugh. “Rude. But fair.”
Chris has disappeared into the bathroom area, and when he emerges, he’s carrying the most beautiful dress I have ever seen in my entire life. It’s ice blue—of course it is, because these men understand themes—with long sleeves and a high neckline trimmed with soft white faux fur. The fabric shimmers like it’s woven from starlight and frost crystals, catching the ambient glow of the room and throwing it back in tiny sparkles with every movement.
In his other hand is a matching mask, decorated with crystals and small white feathers, clearly designed for something formal and magical.
“Is that for me?” My voice comes out barely above a whisper.
“We’re booked for a masquerade ball in the ice bar tonight,” Chris says, and there’s this satisfied smile on his face that tells me he’s been waiting to reveal this part. “They’re hosting a special event, and we have tickets. After cocktails, we’re having dinner, and then there’s dancing.”
I make a sound that’s somewhere between a squeal and a sob.
