Partly because I’m stubborn, partly because the greenhouse is the only place on this entire estate that feels even remotely mine. The glass walls might be streaked with years of Alaskan grit and shadowed by frost, but in here, I can breathe. There's the scent of earth, faint warmth from the old copper pipes that still fight to pump heat through the walls, and the fragile life of plants that don’t seem to know they were supposed to die out here.
Well, if I can’t care for my patient, at least I can care forsomething.
I tug my cardigan tighter around my arms and press down the soil around the lavender cuttings I’ve been nurturing,ignoring the howling wind outside and the way my fingers have started to go a little numb. The estate felt heavier this morning—like the walls were holding a breath nobody wanted to release—and something about the way Mary watched me when I headed outside told me she knew a storm was coming, but didn’t bother to stop me.
Or maybe she wanted to see if I’d come back on my own.
The last of the natural light dims too quickly, slipping behind the clouds with a final shiver of gold, and I glance up at the sky just in time to see the snow shift from gentle to serious. It slams sideways against the glass like it’s trying to get in. My breath fogs the air, and I rub my arms, suddenly aware that the warmth from those old pipes isn’t doing much anymore.
“All right,” I mutter, brushing dirt off my palms. “That’s my cue.”
I pack my tools into the basket, gathering my gloves and scarf, and pull open the door just in time for a wall of snow-drenched wind to slam into me with enough force to make me stumble. I plant my feet, squinting into the sudden whiteout, but the path back to the manor is already gone—erased by wind and snow and whatever cruel mood the Alaskan wilderness is in tonight.
And then the coldreallyhits.
Not the surface kind. The kind that slides under your skin like it belongs there, a slow, seeping numbness that makes everything sluggish. I push forward, one hand shielding my eyes, the other gripping the basket like it might somehow anchor me—but I can’t see more than a foot ahead. My boots sink with every step. The wind screams louder than I do when I trip, hitting the snow hard enough that the breath rushes out of me in a single gasp.
I try to get up.
Try again.
My limbs don’t listen.
“Okay,” I whisper, blinking against the snowflakes crusting my lashes. “Okay, just... rest a second. Just a second.”
Everything blurs. And then, it just… stops.
I wake up warm, too warm.
The air smells like pine and firewood and something darker beneath it—like wet fur and smoke. My skin tingles, alive and buzzing in ways it absolutely shouldn’t be, and when I shift, trying to make sense of the soft surface beneath me, something shifts with me.
Someone.
I open my eyes, and he’s there.
Darius.
Half-kneeling beside the fireplace, shirtless again—of course—and soaking wet, his hair clinging to his forehead, steam rising from his skin in slow curls as the fire crackles and spits beside us. His expression is tight, unreadable, like every breath he takes is a decision he hasn’t finished making.
I try to sit up and realize, to my horror, that I’m also half-undressed.
My coat is gone. My scarf. My sweater. I’m down to my undershirt and leggings, and the blanket wrapped around me isn’t thick enough to hide the sudden rush of heat that slides from my cheeks down my neck.
“I—what—?” I croak, voice rough and dry.
“You were freezing,” he says, not looking at me. “Unconscious when I found you.”
“I was only supposed to be out there for ten minutes,” I whisper, blinking at the flames. “The snow hit too fast.”
“Yes,” he says, low and grim. “It does that here.”
There’s a silence that isn’t empty. It crackles. And pulses. And stretches so taut between us I can feel it tugging at the space just beneath my breastbone. His jaw is clenched like he’skeeping words—or worse—from slipping out, and his fists are pressed hard into his thighs.
“You carried me back,” I say, softer this time.
“You’re not heavy.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
