1
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.”
