Snowed In with the Mountain Man Orc (The Men of Orc Mountain #3)

Chapter 1

Lila

The cold doesn't just bite, it excavates. Each breath scrapes my lungs raw, and my fingers have gone from aching to eerily numb inside my gloves.

That can’t be good.

So much for my quiet winter retreat to finish my latest paranormal romance novel. The listing photo showed the perfect little cabin for buckling down and pounding out the rest of the book. But reality is a frigid, powerless shack in the middle of a blizzard.

“Where’s a bear shifter when you need one,” I grumble, casting a glance at my unfinished manuscript on my laptop. What I wouldn’t give for the hero to come barreling in to rescue me right now. In his human form or his bear form… I don’t care.

I crouch by the stone hearth, examining the woodpile with my phone's flashlight.

Every log gleams with moisture. I dig through my bag for the fire starters I picked up from the gas station on the way here.

The waxy brown squares promised to burn "under any conditions,” but they crack like old bones when I try to peel one apart.

So much for that.

If I don’t get the fire going soon, I’ll freeze to death.

I look around the room for something to burn.

My notebook sacrifices itself first. Pages of scenes that never worked, dialogue that read like instruction manuals.

I arrange kindling the way YouTube taught me, strike a match, and watch the flame catch for exactly three seconds before the damp wood smothers it with a hiss.

“Noooo,” I moan.

My hands shake as I light another match. This time I don't even get smoke.

Outside, wind shrieks against the windows. Inside, my breath fogs the air.

The woven runner under the coffee table catches my eye. Not ideal. Not smart. But my jaw aches from shivering, and with any luck, it’ll burn hotter than the damp logs.

I tear it into strips, nest them under the kindling, and strike the third match. The cloth blackens, curls, then blooms into a hesitant flame. Relief floods my chest.

"Yes. Come on, please—"

The runner flashes bright, burning too fast. A crackle pops through the hearth as the heat hits the damp wood beneath it, sending up a fresh wave of smoke that stings my eyes.

I jerk back as the flame licks higher than expected.

In the scramble, my hip bumps a small side table.

A wicker basket filled with fake flowers tips, wobbles once, and then tumbles straight into the hearth.

It hits a log and collapses sideways, catching instantly, flames racing through the dry reeds.

"Oh no—no, no—"

A burst of sparks spits outward. Something hot lands on my sleeve. I feel the heat through the fabric as a glowing ember eats into my coat. The material smolders, darkens, and then flares in a terrifying flash.

For a panicked moment, I watch with fascination as the fire spreads across my coat. Then I dash for the door to throw myself into a snowbank.

Before I reach the door, it explodes open. Snow swirls in through the opening and with it, a shape. An absolutely massive man.

But is it a man…? He’s impossibly tall, impossibly broad, filling the entire doorway.

The flames leap at the sudden introduction of oxygen in the space, then falter as the figure storms straight into the cabin and seizes the burning basket, hurling it out into the snow.

I'm pressed against the wall, smoke and fire still threading up from my sleeve. The shape turns with predator efficiency, and through the thinning haze I see… green. His skin is the color of lichen on ancient stone. My gaze lifts to his face and I gape in amazement. He has tusks.

Definitely not human.

Every paranormal hero from every book I've written pales in comparison to this magnificent creature.

He crosses the room in two strides. Something heavy and warm drops over my shoulders—a pelt that smells like snow and smoke and something wilder. He smacks my sleeve with his bare palm, extinguishing the last singe. His hand is callused, blunt-fingered, impossibly warm.

"Breathe," he says. His voice is tectonic, like the mountain itself learned to speak. "Are you hurt?"

I cough instead of answering. He drops into a crouch, bringing those strange bright eyes level with mine. He adjusts the pelt, tucking the fur gently under my chin. The gesture is absurdly careful on someone—something—so enormous.

"Stay low. Keep this over your mouth."

My brain finally reboots. "My bag," I rasp, pointing.

He moves with economy, scooping up my duffel and suitcase one-handed like they weigh nothing, then herds me toward the door. The blizzard screams. Snow stings my face until my eyes stream. He lifts me without asking, as if my input stopped mattering the moment I set that fire.

"Hey—" The protest is weak even to my own ears. His chest against my cheek is a furnace, solid and real.

"Fire's not contained," he says. "We go now."

I don't argue. Can't. The cold outside should hurt, but his body keeps me warm. Snow erupts around us with each of his massive strides. The world narrows to white and him, and somewhere behind us the cabin is probably burning to the ground.

He doesn't follow any path. He cuts between trees, moving over drifts that would swallow me. The pines bow under their burden of snow, and through it all his breathing stays even, purposeful.

"Who are you?" My voice muffles against fur.

His chest rumbles. "Later."

"Are you—" The question sticks in my throat. "Human?"

Something almost like a laugh ghosts through the air between us, but there's no mockery in it. If anything, it sounds apologetic.

"No."

The word should terrify me. Instead, something in my chest loosens. Of course. Of course my retreat came with snow and fire and a rescuer who looks like he walked out of my midnight thoughts and decided to be real.

We break into a clearing. A structure looms ahead, darker than the storm, tucked into the trees like a secret. He shoulders the door open and the world transforms. Heat rushes out to meet us. Firelight glows steady and low. The air smells like smoke and leather and roasted meat and him.

He’s brought me home.

He sets me down but keeps one hand on my arm until my legs remember how to lock. The pelt slides to the floor. I crane my neck up, and up. The ceiling beams nearly brush his head. Snow melts in his hair, tracks down his neck in bright beads against green skin.

"Thank you." My voice comes out smaller than I want.

He studies my face like he's memorizing it. Or reading it. The intensity steals what little breath I have left.

"You were freezing," he says. Simple. "And about to burn yourself up in a fire.”

Heat floods my face. "It was an accident."

One corner of his mouth shifts. Almost a smile. "I know."

He moves to hang a kettle over the flames. I peel off my gloves, flexing numb fingers. The space is small but deliberate—one large bed curtained in fur, shelves lined with jars and tools, a weapon rack I'm not ready to examine yet. Everything functional. Everything somehow beautiful.

"Sit." It’s not a command. His voice is surprisingly gentle. He gestures to a low stool by the fire.

I sit. Now that the danger has passed, tremors chase through me in waves. He watches, head tilted, like he's listening to something I can't hear.

"You didn't answer," I say, steadier now. "When I asked your name before."

He turns. Hair wet with snow falls across his brow, framing his golden eyes. Up close, the tusks curve clean and pale from his lower lip. Somehow, they don’t seem monstrous, though. And the scar makes him look perpetually on the edge of saying something reckless.

"Thane."

I smile at him. "I'm Lila."

He nods once, sharp. "Lila."

Hearing him say my name in his deep, gravelly voice sends a shiver of delight down my spine.

Steam whispers from the kettle. He pours something into a carved wooden cup.

It carries the scent of mint and smoke with a ghost of citrus.

He presses it into my hands, his fingers brushing mine.

A spark skips up my arm, bright and startling, nothing to do with fire and everything to do with how my heart stumbles at the contact.

"Drink."

I do. Heat unfurls in my chest, spreads to my fingertips. My lungs finally stop feeling like they’re scraped raw. My eyes sting and I blame the smoke inhalation, because any other explanation feels dangerous.

"Thane," I say again, just to feel his name on my tongue. "What are you?"

He considers. The storm rattles the windows. The fire pops. He kneels, bringing us eye-level. His gaze sweeps my face, catches on my mouth, returns to my eyes like he’s searching for something.

"I’m not human. But I won't hurt you,” he says. “I promise.”

“I believe you,” I whisper.

He looks at my scorched sleeve, then at the tremor still running through my hands. Something in his expression shifts—tightens, darkens, goes intent.

"Until the storm ends," he says, "you stay here."

I lick my lips. "And after?"

His jaw flexes. For one breath, the world narrows to the space between us. "We'll see if you still want to."

I think I already do.

I must be losing my mind. A not-human mountain man has carried me to his home in the middle of nowhere, and I not only trust that he won’t hurt me, I’m thinking about staying here?

“My mom always said my imagination would get me into trouble,” I mutter.

“Hmm?” he asks.

My cheeks grow hot. “Nothing.”

Just that I’ve been dreaming of paranormal heroes practically my whole life and have even made a career out of writing about them. And now one has come along… for real.