The man by the window snorts again, the sound more of a wet rasp than amusement. His eyes, pale and too still, flick over me with the kind of interest that isn't flattering. "Pretty girl likeyou, storm like this, you'll end up in a snowbank or worse." He grins, slow and showing crooked, yellowed teeth, the creases around his mouth deepening. "There are a lot of things living out there. Not all of 'em are human."
His words linger in the air. Something in the way he says it makes the room feel colder, the shadows seem deeper. I don't flinch, but I file his face away under the kind of man who enjoys scaring women just to see what they'll do.
I give him a smile we both know is as fake as a two-dollar bill. "Then it's a good thing I have a penchant for monsters and things that go bump in the night."
He grunts and goes back to his coffee. The woman just mutters something about fools and their own damn funerals as she rings up the rental.
I head back to my rented room and begin to lay out my search grid. Two days later, I'm cutting along the edge of a narrow trail just shy of the tree line, the snowmobile engine humming beneath me like a living thing. The cold burns in my lungs, and the wind slices through my jacket, but the thrill of the chase has kicked in hard, racing through my veins like a shot of pure adrenaline.
Every mile I ride takes me farther from civilization and deeper into a silence so thick it presses against my ears, muffling even my own breath. It's the kind of quiet that makes you feel watched—judged by the land itself. The trail twists, narrowing between walls of snowdrift piled high and untouched. No footprints. No tire tracks. No evidence that any living thing has passed this way in weeks, maybe months. The air sharpens, colder than before, biting at the exposed strip of skin between glove and sleeve. The trees grow sparser, as if even nature hesitates to climb higher.
It's as if the world forgot this place ever existed… and the mountain liked it that way. Or maybe—maybe this place neverwanted to be remembered. Maybe it's meant to stay lost, like a grave with no name and no marker, waiting to swallow the next fool who doesn't take the hint.
The trees thin. The sky opens. The mountains rear up around me, stark and merciless. I slow the snowmobile down and take in the vastness of it—how small I am in comparison. And yet something inside me stretches to meet it. I've never felt more alive than in places like this, where one wrong step can mean death. Where the air tastes like ice and defiance.
The path narrows, hemmed in by ancient spruce and skeletal birch. My breath fogs the visor of the helmet Donny insisted I wear. Every twist in the trail feels like a dare. I pause once to snap a few shots—the treetops haloed in ice, the powder-blasted ridge beyond, stark and cruel.
No signs of life. No trails. Just jagged cliffs and the endless white expanse of Solace Ridge towering ahead.
I should turn around. The wind is picking up. The light is dying.
But something pulls at me. A whisper in the dark part of my soul that likes danger more than it should. I gun the throttle again and press forward.
The world disappears in a sudden roar of wind and white.
The snowmobile lurches unexpectedly, jolting forward as if possessed. I barely have time to curse before the track loses its grip, skidding sideways over a concealed ridge of ice beneath the powdery snow.
My body is dashed against the handlebars, the impact forcing the air from my lungs. Suddenly, the world spins in a chaotic blur of white and shadow. Cold engulfs me, biting through my clothes with a sharp intensity.
Pain explodes through my body, a searing reminder of the violent collision. A crunching metallic scream echoes in my ears,the sound of the snowmobile twisting under the stress of the crash.
Then—darkness.
I come to in an enveloping silence, the relentless wind having ceased its howling. My head pulses with a dull ache. Something warm and comforting encases me—a bundle of furs, perhaps, or animal skins? The light in the room is dim, wavering gently like the heartbeat of the fire casting its glow.
I blink, taking in my surroundings. I find myself inside a rustic cabin. Sturdy wood forms the cabin walls, their surfaces rough-hewn and earthy. Beams stretch above, creating a rugged framework. The air is thick with the scent of smoke mingling with the fresh aroma of pine. Nearby, a cast-iron stove emits a steady heat, its presence both soothing and unfamiliar. My own clothes have disappeared, replaced by a thick thermal undershirt and nothing but weighty blankets enveloping me.
A ripple of panic begins to rise within me. Then, a shadow shifts near the doorway, drawing my attention.
I see him standing there. His figure is imposing—tall and broad, with a worn thermal Henley stretched taut across a chest that seems capable of snapping bones without effort. A dark beard frames his face, and his eyes, deep and unfathomable like polished obsidian, remain fixed on me. He is still a silent observer. A storm wearing skin. Nothing about him feels entirely human—not the way he moves, not the way he looks at me. There's danger in every breath he takes, as if violence is something he exhales without even trying.
I swallow hard. "You going to say something or just keep staring like I'm tonight's main course?"
He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Then finally, in a voice that rumbles like distant thunder, he speaks.
"You should not be here."
His voice is deep, measured—almost gentle. But beneath that quiet tone lies something razor-sharp and immovable, a command not spoken so much as embedded in every syllable. It vibrates through the space like a low warning growl, leaving no doubt that he's the one in control here, and always will be.
I wet my lips, a feeble attempt to steady the tightness winding through my chest. The man standing before me isn't just flesh and blood—he's something older, darker, more dangerous than memory ever allowed. I'd imagined this moment a hundred different ways, but none of them prepared me for the reality of him. The weight of his gaze. The quiet threat in his stillness. Still, I hold my ground, lifting my chin. "And yet, here I am."
He stalks closer, and every instinct in me screams, run.
But I don't. I lift my chin instead. "Are you the one they call the Beast?"
His gaze drags down the length of my body—slow, unapologetic, and hungry. Not like a man checking out a half-naked woman in his bed, but like a predator assessing the weakness of prey that dared step into its territory.
"You're lucky I found you before the storm buried you," he says, voice gravel-deep and edged with something feral.
