Chapter 17
CLARA
Morning light does not care about what happened the night before.
It cuts through the curtains, bright and cold, painting the floorboards in pale strips that make my head ache and my stomach twist. I lie still for as long as I can stand it, bundled in quilts that smell faintly of pine smoke and something darker, something that clings to my skin even now. His scent.
I should be giddy. I should be floating on the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing left worth fighting for. Instead, there’s a knot in my chest so tight I can barely breathe.
Because I know him. I know men like him, men who play games with the people around them until they get what they want, then vanish back into whatever kingdom they came from. I don’t want to believe Dralgor is one of them, but my heart knows better than to hand itself over without consequence.
I drag myself out of bed, shivering when my feet touch the floor, and splash water on my face from the porcelain basin. The reflection staring back is a stranger: flushed cheeks, lips still tender, eyes too bright and tired all at once.
By the time I make it downstairs, the lodge hums with the aftertaste of the festival, the kitchen cluttered with mugs waiting to be washed, crumbs littering the tables, boots and scarves left behind in corners.
Dee is already there, hair pulled up in a messy knot, scribbling on her clipboard with the intensity of someone running a war campaign.
“You survived,” she says without looking up. “Congratulations. People are calling last night the best kickoff the Winter Festival’s had in years. Even Henrik cracked a smile, and I thought his face would break if he tried.”
“That’s good,” I murmur, reaching for the nearest mug and dunking it in the bucket.
Dee finally looks up, her gaze sharp. “That’s all you have to say? Not even a little brag about how you danced with the biggest, broodiest man in the room? Clara, darling, if you don’t give me details, I will invent them myself, and trust me, my version will be much spicier.”
I open my mouth to snap back, but voices drift in from the hall. Low. Male. One of them is unmistakable: Thomas, nasal and eager, every syllable slick with practiced courtesy.
“Once the paperwork is filed, it won’t matter how many lanterns they hang,” he’s saying, too loud for comfort. “The board expects progress. Level the lodge, build the resort, move on schedule. No festival can change that.”
My blood turns to ice.
The other voice is harder to catch, lower, steady. Dralgor. He doesn’t raise it, not even to contradict. Silence stretches before Thomas speaks again, softer now, but the words still carry.
“You can’t let sentiment distract you. Wynn is temporary. The land is permanent. Remember why we’re here.”
I don’t wait to hear more. The mug slips from my hand into the bucket with a clatter that echoes like thunder in my ears. Dee calls my name, but I’m already out the back door, the cold slapping me so hard it burns.
The snow crunches under my boots as I stalk down the path behind the lodge, my hands shaking, my breath coming fast and furious.
A ploy. That’s all it was. A carefully calculated ploy to get me pliant, to make me believe there was something real between us, when all along he was sharpening the knife he meant to drive through this place.
I should have known better.
The memory of last night is still raw on my skin, every kiss, every whispered word. The way his hands trembled just once, the way he said my name like it was sacred. Lies, all of it. Or worse: truth twisted into something he could use against me.
I hear the crunch of snow behind me, heavier than mine, deliberate, measured. I don’t turn.
“Clara,” his voice calls, low and rough, closer than I want it to be.
“Don’t,” I snap, my throat tight, my back stiff. “Don’t you dare.”
He stops, the sound of his boots stilling in the snow. “What did you hear?”
I whirl on him, the cold biting my cheeks, fury sparking through the hollow ache in my chest. “I heard enough. Enough to know that nothing about last night mattered to you. That while I was fool enough to believe you wanted me, you were already planning how to tear this place down.”
His jaw flexes, his eyes narrowing, but he doesn’t deny it fast enough. That pause is damning.
“You think you can just walk into my life, into my home, take what you want and then leave the ashes behind? You think I’m that naive?” My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate myself for it.
“Clara—”
“No,” I cut him off, shoving past him toward the tree line. “Stay out of my way. Stay out of my lodge. Stay out of me. Whatever game you’re playing, I’m not your piece anymore.”
His hand lifts, like he might reach for me, but he lets it fall again. That almost hurts more than if he’d forced me to face him.
I don’t look back. I can’t.
By the time I return to the lodge, Dee is waiting with a frown, Pippa hovering at her shoulder, mistletoe trailing like an eager dog.
“What happened?” Dee demands.
“Nothing,” I say, too sharp, shoving past her. “Absolutely nothing.”
But the tears stinging my eyes tell another story, and no amount of stubborn pride can stop the crack in my voice when I add, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
For once, Dee doesn’t push. She just watches me climb the stairs with that look of fierce loyalty she saves for moments when she knows I’ll break if she touches me.
I slam the bedroom door, throw myself against it, and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, fists pressed to my temples.
The lodge creaks around me, steady and familiar, but tonight it feels like a coffin.