Chapter 7
CLARA
The power dies with a sigh. Not a bang, not a pop, just a soft whimper of surrender from the old fuse box tucked behind the pantry shelves, like the lodge itself is finally admitting defeat.
One second the overhead bulb is flickering dim and sad, the next it’s nothing but shadows and the wind pressing against the windows like it's trying to come in and make itself at home.
I stand there for a second, the lantern in my hand still unlit, the cold already starting to creep back under my sleeves.
I should’ve seen this coming. The wires have been groaning all week, and the storm’s rolling over the ridge faster than the forecast promised.
Still, I was holding out hope, like an idiot.
Like maybe this place had one more miracle in its bones.
“Great,” I mutter, grabbing the emergency matches from the drawer and striking one against the side of the box. It flares bright, sulphur and heat, and I light the lantern before the flame bites my fingers.
The kitchen glows gold for half a second, flickering across peeling linoleum and chipped enamel, and I swear I can hear Gran’s voice in the rafters telling me not to curse indoors.
I curse anyway.
Outside, the snow is thick and fast, swirling like powdered sugar through the trees, and the wind’s howling loud enough to drown out the brittle creaks of the lodge’s tired frame.
I shove the lantern onto the table and cross to the front window, but visibility’s shot to hell.
The drive’s buried, the path to the road already disappeared under a foot of white, and the town might as well be on the moon.
Which means I’m alone. No power. No cell service. No heat except for the fireplace that eats wood like it’s got a grudge.
I wrap my arms tight around myself, biting the inside of my cheek. I should be panicking. I should be pacing or writing a very detailed list of all the ways I’m about to freeze to death. But mostly, I’m just tired. Tired in a way that starts in the bones and makes itself at home in the soul.
I grab my coat off the hook, double up on scarves, and make for the side shed where we keep the firewood. I don’t even bother with boots. Just slippers and fury and sheer momentum.
The shed door jams, of course, swollen from the cold, and I have to throw my shoulder into it twice before it gives.
Inside, the stack of firewood looks sad and picked over.
I manage to gather enough for one good burn and half a bad one, but my fingers are stiff by the time I get back, and my breath is fogging in the hallway.
I get the fire going with more prayer than skill, feeding it like it’s a stubborn child and muttering threats under my breath until the flames finally catch.
The crackle of kindling turns into the deep hiss of wet logs heating too fast, and I settle back on the floor in front of it, hugging my knees.
This isn’t cozy. This isn’t rustic charm and fuzzy socks and marshmallows over the hearth. This is survival, dressed in nostalgia’s clothes, and I’m starting to think I’ve made a mistake in trying to save this place.
I hear the knock before I see the light.
Three sharp raps, not panicked but firm, and the glow of a lantern sweeping across the snow on the porch. For a half-second, my brain jumps to the ridiculous—wolves, ghosts, Christmas carolers possessed by the spirit of demolition—but when the knock comes again, slower this time, I know who it is.
I open the door before I talk myself out of it.
And there he is.
Dralgor Veyr, looking like some kind of storm-tossed nightmare carved from granite and shadow, standing in the swirl of snow with an armful of split firewood and a bag of what smells like food tucked under one arm.
His coat is dusted with snow, his tusks gleaming in the lantern light, and his eyes…
they’re the color of dusk over a battlefield.
Cold, unreadable, but not unkind. Not tonight.
“I brought heat,” he says, holding up the wood. “And dinner.”
I stare at him.
Then I step back and let him in.
The fire pops when he drops the logs near the hearth.
He doesn’t speak right away, just kneels, stacks the wood with a practiced efficiency that shouldn’t surprise me but does.
He’s not the kind of man who fumbles. Every move is deliberate, like he’s done this before.
Like maybe, somewhere in the chapters of his life he doesn’t talk about, there was once a place that needed tending.
He sets the food down—wrapped containers still warm—and only then does he speak again.
“The inn lost power too. Generator failed. Most guests evacuated back down the mountain. I figured you’d be stuck.”
“You figured right.”
“I almost didn’t come.”
I glance at him, eyebrows raised. “But you did.”
He shrugs one massive shoulder, then settles back against the opposite side of the hearth, legs stretched out like he’s already claimed the space. “Would’ve been bad optics if you froze to death.”
“You really know how to comfort a woman.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“Well, congratulations. Mission accomplished.”
He doesn’t smile, but one corner of his mouth twitches like it might be considering it. I pull the food toward me, unwrap the foil from one of the containers. It’s stew. Thick, rich, full of unfamiliar spices that hit my nose before I even take a bite.
“You cooked this?” I ask, because it smells too good to be store-bought.
He nods. “My mother’s recipe.”
That stops me. Not because I don’t believe it, but because it’s such an unexpected offering. A piece of him, held out like it’s nothing, when it’s clearly not. I take a bite before I can think better of it.
It’s delicious. The kind of warm that starts in your mouth and spreads through your chest like something you forgot you needed.
I eat in silence for a while, the fire casting long shadows on the walls, and he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask questions or offer conversation. Just sits, occasionally adding another log, watching the flames like they’re telling him secrets he hasn’t decided how to interpret.
Eventually, I break the silence.
“You always show up like this? Uninvited, bearing warmth and guilt?”
His gaze flicks to me, steady and unflinching. “Only for women who call me a wrecking ball.”
I snort. “Well, if the boot fits…”
He exhales slowly, a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “You don’t make this easy.”
“You don’t deserve easy.”
“That’s fair.”
We sit with that for a moment. The wind howls again, loud and low, and the fire stutters before roaring back stronger. I curl deeper into the blanket I grabbed earlier, tugging it around my shoulders like armor. He doesn’t look away when I move, and when I glance up, I catch him watching my mouth.
Long enough that it’s noticeable.
“You’re staring,” I say, too tired to be coy.
“I know.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. Just keeps watching, like he’s cataloging something for later. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of what he’s not allowed to touch.
I should tell him to stop.
I don’t.
Instead, I shift so my legs stretch out beside his, not touching but close enough that the heat between us changes. Not enough to burn. Just enough to notice.
“You’re not what I expected,” I say finally.
“Neither are you.”
“I expected a machine. Someone cold and sharp and calculated. But you… there’s something under the frost.”
“You’re not the only one trying to protect something,” he says, voice lower now.
I turn my head to look at him fully.
He’s not softened. He’s not broken. But something in him is cracking. Just a little. And for once, I don’t want to push him away from it.