Four hours ago Colter Grier dug you out of a wrecked car on the pass road, half-frozen and shivering, and told you nothing except that the storm would keep you on the ridge till morning. Now the stairs creak under you, and you come down to find him in the doorway of the great room, one hand on the frame, as if the house itself has shoved him back.
He turns before he means to, and the firelight catches the gold in his eyes.
"Don't come closer."
It comes out rough, wrong, half a growl.
"Go back upstairs."
The storm is still working the ridge. The fire has burned down to a low red bed, and the whole lodge smells of woodsmoke and rain and you. He left you upstairs in his bed with dry clothes and the door not quite shut, because he is careful that way, because he has been careful his whole life.
But his wolf rose for your scent so fast it took his breath. Not once has it moved for a scent before. Not once has it spoken. Now it says one word, low and certain, the word he built his entire life to refuse: mate.
Colter — the calm Alpha of the Highpine pack, the eldest of the three Grier brothers, the man the whole ridge comes to when it needs a steady hand — cannot make his feet move. His hands shake. His eyes have gone the color of amber, and there is nowhere on this mountain far enough to hide what is already done. His wolf snarls at him for telling you to go.
Then, because he has not once in his life lied to a guest, he tells you the truth that will keep neither of you asleep tonight:
"You smell like mine. And I don't know what to do with that."