Chapter 2
DRALGOR
Her voice is sharp. Not shrill, but edged.
The kind of voice that’s used to being heard, not because it shouts over others, but because it carries conviction in every word.
Clara Wynn doesn’t flinch when I speak. Doesn’t shrink back like most people do when they realize who I am.
She rises, if anything. Her spine stiffens, her chin lifts, and her hands curl into fists at her sides like she’s ready to throw punches instead of arguments.
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 the funeral.
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 still glaring 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 dark curls 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.”
“Or she’ll rally the whole damn town.”
“Then we outlast them all,” I reply. “Like always.”
The suite they’ve put me in at the Coldwood Inn smells like cinnamon and dust. It’s clean enough, but the wallpaper peels in one corner, and the water pressure in the shower is barely a whisper. I’ve stayed in worse, but I’ve also built better with one hand tied and a busted crane.
The place sits across the ridge from the lodge, which means I can see the Wynn property from the window.
At night, the silhouette of the old building looks almost like a memory I can’t place—too many stories in its bones, too much history in its frame.
And I can’t decide if that’s irritating or impressive.
There’s a knock on the door around seven. Room service. A young elf girl with a tray of roast venison, roasted parsnips, and a glass of the house wine. She sets it down with a nervous smile, her braid twitching with whatever little magic she’s tied into it.
“Anything else, sir?”
“No.”
She scampers out before the word finishes echoing.
I eat in silence, chewing mechanically, mind not on the food. I scroll through the site assessments, land survey reports, profit projections. Everything lines up. The build is smart. The timing is tight but manageable. The return will be obscene. There’s no good reason to hesitate.
Except there is. Not logical. Not in the numbers. But the way Clara’s voice sticks to my ribs like smoke. There’s a problem in that. Not an obstacle. Not a threat. Just a thorn. Sharp. Unexpected. Persistent.
She’s going to make this messy.
I take out my phone and pull up her file. Schoolteacher. Local. Unmarried. No kids. No siblings. Parents passed in an avalanche twelve years ago. The lodge is the only thing she has left from her family. Emotional leverage. Unreliable but potent.
Thomas sends a message. Drafted the new buyout offer. Want it sent tomorrow?
I stare at the screen. My finger hovers. Then I lock the phone and toss it on the bed.
Let her rage. Let her shout and flail and stomp her boots and shake her fists at the inevitable. She’s got fire, sure. But fire burns out when it runs out of oxygen. And I’ve spent a lifetime making sure I control the air.
I strip off the suit, fold it, set it aside, and sit on the bed in nothing but my undershirt and slacks.
My tusks ache. Old pain. Weather-based. The kind of reminder you can’t medicate, only endure.
I rub the scars on my ribs where the clan mark used to be and wonder, not for the first time, what it would’ve been like to still belong somewhere.
Then I close my eyes, push the thought away, and picture Clara Wynn’s face when she realizes she’s already lost.