You Had Me at Howl (Snowy Cozy Shifter Romances #2)

Chapter 1 Tessa

TESSA

Inever thought I’d end up somewhere like this: wedged between the edge of civilization and the kind of wilderness that doesn’t care if you live or die.

The air out here isn’t just cold, it’s alive.

It bites like it has opinions. The wind whispers through the trees like it knows all your secrets, and the snow isn’t the fluffy, Christmas-card kind.

It’s sharp. Unforgiving. Just like the man I’m about to meet, if the rumors are true.

I hug my duffel bag to my chest as I step off the rickety little plane that dropped me in this postage-stamp town, no more than a gas station, a diner, and a whole lot of nothing wrapped in frost. The pilot didn’t even wait for me to wave goodbye before roaring off again, like he couldn’t get away fast enough.

Can’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to stick around either if I had wings and a way out.

There’s one vehicle in the lot. A beat-up old truck, idling with a dull rumble that sounds like it could die at any moment. The man inside doesn’t move. He just watches me through the windshield, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m worth the trouble.

“You Tessa Monroe?” he asks once I get close enough for my breath to fog his window.

I nod. “Yeah. That’s me.”

He grunts, then leans over to pop the passenger-side door. “Get in. I ain’t waitin’ around in this bullshit weather.”

Charming.

I toss my bag in the bed and slide in. The heat hits me like a punch to the face—dry and thick, smelling of stale coffee and gasoline.

The man behind the wheel looks like he’s been carved out of jerky: wiry, windburned, cigarette tucked behind one ear like a permanent accessory.

He doesn’t offer a handshake or a name. Just throws the truck into gear and takes off down the snow-packed road like we’re being chased.

The silence between us stretches on. I don't fill it. I’ve learned when a man doesn’t want to talk, it’s best not to push. He eventually breaks it with a grunt that might be a sentence.

“With a job like this, some don't last more than a week.”

I glance sideways. “That supposed to scare me off?”

He shrugs. “Don’t care either way. Just sayin’. Ain’t a place for soft types.”

Good thing I stopped being soft a long time ago.

We drive for what feels like forever, winding deeper into the woods where the road disappears under snow and the trees lean in like they’re trying to listen.

The only light comes from the truck’s tired headlights, barely cutting through the gray.

Just as I start to wonder if we’re lost—or being led somewhere to be quietly buried—the trees part, and the estate comes into view.

It’s massive. Stone and steel and shadow, crouched like some ancient predator waiting in the snow. Black iron gates creak open as we approach, flanked by statues of wolves so detailed I half-expect them to move. The whole place feels… still. Like the very air itself is holding its breath.

The truck pulls up to the front steps, tires crunching over the frost-crusted gravel. He kills the engine but doesn’t get out. Just jerks his thumb toward the house.

“Mary’ll meet you inside.”

That’s it. No goodbye. No luck wished.

I haul my bag out of the bed myself, cursing under my breath when it snags on something. The cold wraps around me like a wet sheet, and I bolt up the steps before my bones turn to icicles.

The door swings open before I touch it.

She’s waiting there like a portrait come to life: tall, elegant, her hair pulled into a braid so severe it looks weaponized. Her coat is black wool, her expression carved from granite. It ages her twenty years.

She doesn’t smile.

“Tessa Monroe.”

It isn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“You’re late.”

“Plane ran behind.”

She nods once, sharp and dismissive. “Come in. Leave your shoes.”

The interior of the house is somehow colder than the outside—colder in that expensive, ancient way, where heat doesn’t reach corners and fireplaces are for show. The floors are dark wood. The chandelier above us is wrought iron, twisted into shapes that might be vines. Or claws.

“I’m Mary Crane. I manage the household.”

“Wife?” I ask innocently.

“Sister.” Her mouth pulls downwards for just a moment. “Younger too, if you can believe it.”

“I appreciate you having me.”

“You’ll be living in the east wing. Meals are delivered. You will not cook. You will not enter the master wing unless summoned. You will not go outside after dark.”

I blink. “Sorry, what?”

She turns her head, gaze slicing across me. “You heard me.”

“I thought I was here to assist a patient.”

“You are. But assistance does not mean curiosity. Mr. Crane is not... a man who appreciates intrusion.”

“Mr. Crane,” I repeat, voice dry. “The one who hired a private nurse and demanded she come alone to the middle of nowhere with no phone and no contact with the outside world?”

“That’s correct.”

“I see.”

No one warned me it would feel like stepping into a gothic novel. I expected it to be creepy. I didn’t expect rules about darkness.

Mary starts walking without waiting, and I follow because what the hell else can I do? My boots squeak on the polished floor. We pass massive portraits: stern men in high collars, women with hollow eyes, and one painting that stops me cold.

A man sits in a high-backed chair, one hand resting on the head of a wolf at his feet. He’s devastatingly handsome in a way that doesn’t feel safe—sharp cheekbones, dark hair swept back, eyes that seem to see even in oil and canvas.

“That’s him,” Mary says, without turning. “Darius Crane.”

Of course it is.

“He doesn’t speak much. Do not expect him to make small talk. He will not eat with you. He will not dine at all unless instructed. He does not require bedside manner.”

“What does he require, exactly?”

She pauses at a heavy wooden door and opens it with a key from around her neck. The room is warm. Cozy, even. A fire is already crackling in the hearth. The bed looks like it could swallow a bear.

Mary turns back to me, eyes hard. “Your presence. Nothing more.”

I nod slowly. “And the forest?”

She stiffens. “You will not go into the woods.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You mentioned that already. You gonna tell me why?”

“No.”

That’s it. Just no.

She leaves without another word, and the door clicks shut behind her like a coffin lid.

I sit on the bed, letting the silence settle. The fire snaps and hisses. The walls don’t creak, but somehow the quiet feels loud. Like something is listening.

I reach into my duffel and pull out the letter, the one promising seventy-five thousand dollars for two months of live-in care, confidentiality mandatory, danger unlikely but possible.

It sounded insane when I first read it. Still does.

But money’s money, and I need out. Out of the city. Out of Holden’s reach.

The kind of money that lets you disappear doesn’t come clean.

I lie back on the bed, staring at the carved ceiling. Something shifts outside, just enough to make the shadows jump.

In the distance, I swear I hear howling.