Chapter One
Emery
Iswear I’ve passed that same dead Christmas wreath three times.
My breath fogs up the inside of the windshield as I squint through the snow, the defroster wheezing as it dies a slow, dramatic death.
I might’ve been on the same road for five minutes or fifty: I honestly can’t tell anymore. Everything is white, silent, and vaguely threatening. Even the trees seem judgmental, and not in the normal “wow, you’re bad at driving in winter” way. No, this is the omega-specific type of judgment: the kind where my instincts crawl beneath my skin, mutteringturn around, bad idea,even though I’ve been choking them down with suppressants.
Not. Working.
Outside, the world looks like an apocalyptic snow globe that some unhinged child shook too hard before yeeting it off a balcony, and I zip past a mailbox sporting a sad, frostbitten bow that clings on with the stubbornness of pure spite.
I haven’t seen another car in twenty minutes—well, not unless you count the snowplow I may or may not have flipped off when it blasted me with a tidal wave of slush—and my phone has committed a total betrayal by losing battery, which means I have officially have no service, no GPS, and no civilization.
“Come to Iron Lake, Emery. It’ll becharming, Emery.A fresh start, Emery,” I mutter, thwacking the screen. “Nobody mentions being eaten by snow wolves on day one.”
I take a random right turn, and either the universe finally pities me, or it’s setting me up for a dramatic plot twist, because the storm actually eases. It’s as dramatic as it sounds, as if someone cracks open a window in the sky, and there it is:
With old-timey storefronts, chimney smoke curling into the air, and real string lights overhead.
Main Street.
The string lights sway in the breeze, and I have to admit that they look kind of pretty. It's almost like the town itself is trying to say, see? We’re not that bad once you get past the frostbite.
I keep on driving, andfinallystumble upon the diner I’ve been looking for.
The Rusty Spoon.
It had been spelled out to me in the ‘Welcome to Iron Lake’ email I’d received from Coach Phillips.
Meet at The Rusty Spoon, he’d said.Can’t miss it.
Pfft. Tell that to my cracked windshield and whatever nightmare is happening with my left taillight.
I yank the wheel into a parking spot that’s more snowbank than pavement and kill the engine. After three and a half days ofdriving, four gas station burritos, and one emotional breakdown outside Milwaukee, I’m exhausted.
But at least I’m here.
I shove the door open and immediately skid on a patch of traitorous ice, flailing like a baby deer in combat boots. My thermos goes flying, though by some miracle (and one death-grip on a nearby streetlight), I stay upright.
Small victories.
I stand rooted to the spot for a moment, the wind biting my cheeks as I breathe in air so cold it might slap my lungs. My scent—usually calm vanilla with a citrus edge when I’m not panicking—is basically frozen solid, but somehow, it’s not all bad.
There’s something about this place: something scrappy and sturdy and stubborn. It looks like the kind of town where people leave their boots outside and their grudges inside, where diners have laminated menus and gossip networks stronger than the WiFi.
The kind of town where an city girl with a busted car, questionable suppressants, and an even more questionable life plan can figure her shit out.
I square my shoulders, yank my beanie down over my head, and trudge toward the Rusty Spoon. The neon fork above the door blinks, essentially winking at me.
“Alright, Iron Lake,” I mutter. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Violent heat rushes over my body as I enter, and wind slams the door closed behind me. I stand there, panting and snow-drenched, heavily aware that I look every inch the omega who has lost a fistfight with nature.
The diner smells like burnt coffee, over-buttered toast and fryer grease, with a hint of judgment for good measure.
(Quintessential Iron Lake, apparently.)
