Chapter 2
Holt
Fifteen minutes earlier
My phone buzzes, pulling me out of sleep.
If you could call this sleep—this heavy, half-locked state my body drops into every winter.
Semi-hibernation.
Warm, slow, bone-deep.
My excuse for hiding from the world.
I roll over, smack a hand across the nightstand until I find the phone.
Heather—my neighbor.
I swipe it open, blinking at the screen’s glare.
Hey! Sorry to bug you so late. My pet sitter should’ve arrived by now but I haven’t heard from her. Can you go check on her? Make sure everything’s okay?
I stare at the message until the fog clears.
Right.
I must have agreed to help Heather out while she was away for the holidays.
All I really remember is how desperate I’d been to get the manic, high-pitched human off my front porch before she talked me to death.
It’s not just my body that slows down in winter; my mind does, too.
Thoughts slip away before I can get a grip on them.
Makes it easy to live quietly.
Makes it easy to avoid things I don’t want to feel.
But it also means I sometimes wake up half-asleep, with no idea how I promised to spend my evening.
I sigh and swing my legs out of bed.
A promise is a promise.
Even when I’m barely awake enough to walk in a straight line.
I drag on jeans, pull a flannel over my shoulders, and shove my feet into my boots.
Don’t bother with a jacket.
No need—my skin always runs hot.
Outside, the snow is falling again—fat flakes drifting down, taking their sweet time.
Heather’s cabin sits a short walk up the ridge.
I blow out a breath and start trudging uphill. My muscles are still half-asleep, my steps heavier than usual. The snow crunches underfoot—soft, rhythmic, almost hypnotic.
I try to think about what I’ll say when I get there.
Something polite.
Something that won’t scare the crap out of a human.
But my brain won’t hold the thoughts.
The night is so quiet I can hear every tiny thing—the shift of a branch, the soft plop of a pinecone falling, the distant creak of ice settling.
And then—
A sound that does not belong.
Small.
Human.
Tight with frustration.
Or fear.
I stop walking.
Instantly, I’m fully awake.
I tilt my head, listening harder.
There it is again.
A breath caught on a gasp.
A voice carried thinly through the trees.
Female.
Cold.
Scared.
My heart gives an almighty thud.
My beast stirs so fast its claws rake down my spine from the inside.
A voice I haven’t heard in years.
But I know it as well as I know my own soul.
I start running. Charging through the snow, my only thought of her—out here in the dark.
Alone.
Cold.
Calling out.
I push harder through the trees, branches scraping my shoulders, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape.
At last, I break into the clearing and there she is in the half-light—a small figure in a too-thin coat, snow swirling around her, phone light trembling in her hand.
“Smokey?” she calls. “Where the hell are you, you stupid cat?”
I freeze.
She’s not lost. Or hurt. She’s out looking for one of Heather’s domesticated beasts.
Relief shudders through me, and I almost laugh.
But then she slips, goes down, a cry catching in her throat.
I’m on her before I’ve thought it through, instincts moving faster than sense.
Lila.
I force my voice to sound human-soft as I speak her name aloud. But still, she startles, twisting toward me with a gasp.
Now, she’s looking up at me, snow clinging to her lashes.
I take her in one impossible detail at a time: the snow glittering in her dark, curly hair like tiny stars, the pink of her cheeks, the tremor in her lip.
Five years ago, she was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.
Now, she steals the breath from my lungs. Curves I shouldn’t stare at, eyes that could pull a man under. All grown up.
She looks at me, wide-eyed and startled, and something inside me gives.
My beast surges forward with a single thought:
Mine.
My girl.
I bend, offer her my hand. “You’re going to freeze out here.”
She hesitates, staring at it, shoulders tense, her pretty lips pressing together, cheeks quivering like she’s fighting something inside herself.
Then she reaches out anyway, her fingers closing around mine through the glove.
The contact jumps straight up my arm.
My pulse quickens.
So does hers.
When I pull her up, she stumbles, shoulder brushing my chest.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, like she can’t process the fact this moment is happening.
Her scent is thick in my nostrils now—warm and ripe—ready to unravel me.
Everything in me tightens with the need to wrap her up, lift her, warm her, keep her.
“You lose something?” My voice comes out harsher than I intend.
“You could say that.” Her laugh is half breath, half disbelief. “The darn cat escaped.”
I scan the dark, senses wide open. Through the wind I can hear the faintest sound—a fearful meow, far to the left. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait—Holt—”
But I’m already moving.
The snow’s knee-deep in places, but it barely slows me.
I slip between the trees, following the sound until the faint shape of the cat appears, huddled against a tree trunk.
I lunge before it has time to react. It gives a pathetic little hiss as I scoop it up, then curls instantly against the heat of my chest.
“Good boy,” I murmur, rubbing a thumb along its head. The bear inside me settles, pleased with this small act of rescue.
When I turn back, Lila’s a dark outline, one hand lifted to shield her eyes. She looks lost and brave all at once. My chest aches.
I cross the distance quickly. “Found him.”
Her face lights, relief softening her features. “Thank goodness,” she murmurs. “But—how did you even—?”
“Good ears.” It’s true. They’re far beyond the range of any human. But I don’t explain that part.
The cat squirms in my arms, reaching toward her, so I hand him over. Our fingers brush. Even through her gloves, the touch is electric.
Lila hugs the cat close, still staring at me. “You must be freezing,” she says. “You don’t even have a coat.”
“I’m fine,” I say. It’s the truth. My skin’s running too hot to feel anything but her. Snow whirls between us, catching in her lashes. She’s still looking at me like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. I force myself to look away before I do something stupid.
“Come on,” I say quietly. “Let’s get you both inside.”
At the porch, she hesitates, then opens the door. Warmth rushes out—woodsmoke, firelight, the faint scent of cocoa. It wraps around her as she steps in.
She doesn’t look back to check if I’m following, but she doesn’t shut me out either.
I step inside quietly and pull the door closed. The cabin is warm, the way humans like it. Water drips from our clothes onto the boards.
She turns toward me, something held tight behind her eyes. “Welcome,” she mutters.
“Thanks,” I answer, but longing chokes my throat and it sounds careless. I shake the snow from my hair—and that’s when the four dogs come barreling over.
They stop dead. The biggest one—the husky—snarls. The others bare their teeth at me, ears flattened.
“Hey, you guys!” Lila yelps. “Quit doing that.”
They pay her no heed, all eyes fixed on the apex predator that’s just intruded on their territory.
I give out a low growl, and all four of them hunker down in submission. The husky rolls onto its back.
“That’s weird.” Lila blinks at the dogs. “One second they were ready to bite your head off. You the dog whisperer or something?”
She’s standing in front of the fire, clinging to the cat.
Her hair is a little shorter than she used to have it, perfectly framing her heart-shaped face.
Her navy wool sweater and dark jeans cling to womanly curves.
All I can think about is how much I want to hold her close and kiss that rosebud mouth of hers again.
I drag my gaze away from her, force it to the fire instead. “There’s a blizzard coming,” I say. “You have enough wood stacked?”
“Think so.”
I nod. “Keep the fire fed.”
She presses her face into the cat’s fur, like she’s desperate for any comfort, and the gesture just about kills me.
“I will.” Her voice is calm, but I catch the tremor under it. Is she scared to be here alone?
The dogs are watching me from the hearth—ears forward, uneasy. My beast lets out a soft rumble. It means, I’m not going to eat you.
They whine and settle. Lila notices, frowns. “You’ve got a way with them.”
I shrug. “I’m good with animals.”
She hesitates, then gives a small smile—the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes but still feels like sunlight after a long dark spell. “Once they get used to you.”
If only she knew.
I should leave.
Instead, I stand there, letting the warmth crawl over my skin, watching the firelight catch the planes of her face until my self-control feels like glass ready to break.
Then she turns toward me, and I feel her look at me—really look at me.
That’s when the world stops.