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 lonely thing, 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 very unlikely 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.
Was he always like this? All noise and sharp edges?
Or was I the one rattling him? I tightened the blanket around me and rose from the fire, drawn toward him despite myself.
“Sorry about breaking that silence,” I said softly, stepping up to the counter where his broad back loomed, flannel shirt temptingly stretched over impressive muscles.
“This wasn’t how I planned my day to go either.
If I’d known about the snowstorm, I never would’ve gone out with Kevin on that snowmobile. ”
The words tumbled out, and with them came the memory of that morning: Kevin at my door, grinning too wide, dangling pamphlets in my face like some kind of prize.
He’d asked me to come, and I’d hesitated, already uneasy.
Normally, I’d have been more prepared: weather apps checked twice, emergency pack ready.
But Mom had been there, eyes bright with hope I didn’t want to crush.
She’d practically shoved me out the door, whispering something about how nice it would be if Kevin and I “worked things out before Christmas.”
She was not subtle about her desire to have grandbabies to pamper someday soon, and as the only one with something of a dating life, I bore the brunt of her interference.
I’d gone to please them both—to silence the wrongness I’d felt, even when the rental guy at the shop had shifted uncomfortably at my questions about the weather.
I’d ignored my instincts, and now I was here, wrapped in a stranger’s quilt while the storm raged outside.
Something nudged my hands, pulling me back to the present.
A bowl—warm and steaming—was pushed across the counter toward me.
The smell rose up, savory and rich, making my stomach twist painfully with hunger.
At that exact moment, my traitorous belly let out a growl so loud it echoed in the small cabin.
My face went hot. His pale eyes flicked to mine.
I opened my mouth, desperate to fill the silence, but nothing came out.
He said nothing either, just watched me—unreadable—while the steam curled between us.
Oh God, that had never happened before. What time was it?
I hadn’t seen a clock anywhere, and I hadn’t thought to check my phone once.
It must be well past dinner time for my stomach to make a noise like that.
I dropped my gaze, clutching the bowl and trying to ground myself in the simple act of eating.
He did the same—just as silent—except for the scrape of our spoons against the ceramic.
Then I lifted my gaze just a tad to see if he was looking at me or not, and my eyes snagged again on that ridiculous helmet: the jagged plastic broken, horns pasted onto it, or…
stuck through it? Pale, sharp, curling through like they had grown there, not been stuck on.
The question slipped out before I could catch it.
“Why are you wearing that? Is it a costume?”
His head snapped up, his jaw tightening, and the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
“It’s none of your business,” he snapped.
I flinched at the bite in his tone, heat rushing to my cheeks.
The bowl in my hands suddenly felt too heavy, too hot.
Even through the sting of his words, I couldn’t unsee those horns, and I couldn’t shake the thought that maybe—just maybe—they weren’t part of any costume at all.
The silence stretched long after I’d finished the last spoonful of stew.
Warmth filled my belly from the stew, and my eyes felt heavy from exhaustion and the heat inside the cabin’s living room.
I set the empty bowl carefully on the counter, trying to find words, something to ease the thick air between us. “Thank you,” I murmured.
He only grunted—a short, low sound—and took both our bowls to rinse them in the sink.
I started to get up to offer to help, but something in the way he shifted made me feel like that would be entirely unwelcome; he’d just snap another “no” at me.
I was almost tempted to do it anyway, just to see if I was right, and the sentiment surprised a smile out of me.
The storm raged against the cabin walls, shrieking and howling.
It rattled the shutters and made the beams groan.
Every sudden gust made me flinch, and I found myself huddling deeper into the quilt, cocooning in warmth that was more his than mine.
This was a terrible storm, and I was afraid to think of what the world looked like outside right now.
It was probably worse here, higher up on a hilly ridge, where most of the country was soft hills or utter flatness.
“You can sleep in my bed,” he said suddenly, his voice gruff. He didn’t look at me. “I’ll take the armchair.” His shoulders were practically up by his ears, hidden beneath the helmet and the long, silky layers of his bright blue hair.
He was so tall his helmet horns nearly bumped into the rafters of the cabin’s wooden ceiling.
I blinked, trying to wrap my head around the image of his tall body in that armchair.
Comfortable to sit in, but hardly a good fit for him to sleep in.
“Oh—no, no. I’ll take the chair. Really. It’s your house. I can’t—”
“No.” The word cracked like a whip, sharp enough to make me jolt.
He turned away before I could argue further, shoulders tight, retreating toward the carved door at the back of the cabin.
It felt as if he were about to let me see into his sanctuary—the heart of his home—and I felt my pulse spike as I waited, full of anticipation.
I didn’t want to invade his space, but I was intensely curious at the same time.
When he pushed it open, I caught my breath.
The door itself was a work of art, carved like a winter landscape: snowflakes drifting over trees, a pair of deer caught in mid-step.
I reached out to brush my fingers over the detail, half-distracted even as I tried to insist again, “It’s not right, you taking the chair.
I can—” He shoved me gently but firmly over the threshold, cutting off my words.
The bedroom was like stepping into a dream.
The four-poster bed looked as though it had grown there, its posts carved into twisting frozen trees, branches stretching to hold up a velvet canopy, deep blue and studded with tiny stars.
They shimmered faintly, catching the firelight from the hearth in the other room.
I couldn’t help the little gasp that escaped me, it was so fanciful, so unexpected.
“I’ll take the chair,” I tried again, turning back to him.
He didn’t even answer, just strode to the wardrobe.
That, too, was one of a kind—carved with curling vines and frost patterns, polished until it gleamed.
He yanked it open, pulled out an armful of blankets, and tossed them onto the foot of the bed.
There was such a closed-off, surly glare on his face, almost a dare for me to open my mouth again.
“Sleep.” His voice was flat, final. Then the door slammed shut, hard enough that I jumped.
I stood there, stunned, staring at the closed door.
My first instinct was to follow, to argue again, to insist on fairness.
But… it felt rude, somehow. Truth be told, I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open.
It had to be later than I thought it was, though darkness did fall early this time of year.
Maybe the cold and the fear had sapped me of all my energy, that was plausible.
With a sigh, I pulled the extra blankets up onto the mattress, smoothing them out over the velvet canopy’s shadow.
The bed was softer than I’d expected, the carvings around it somehow comforting, like sleeping in the embrace of a winter forest. His embrace, I thought fancifully.
And then, abruptly, I realized we hadn’t even done proper introductions.
I didn’t know his name. How had that happened?
He’d made me blurt out mine, right on his threshold, but he’d never offered me his.
I sank down on the soft mattress, the quilt still wrapped around me, and let my body give in.
My eyes slid closed as I pondered how incredibly weird this entire situation was, how weird my host was, while still being kind at the same time.
Aside from the snappy, one-word answers and growled “no’s,” he’d done everything right.
He fed me, warmed me, he even gave up his bed.
The storm howled, the wind shrieked, but in here, I was warm. Safe.
Sleep came fast, and with it the dreams came.