He gives me another once-over: a silent audit I haven’t agreed to take, and one that isn’t meant to be passed.
“You really drove up in that storm?” he asks.
I glance down at my boots, which are both salt-stained and soaked through. They’re proof of survival, and also proof I’ve made a decision he clearly thinks is dumb.
Still, I shrug.
“The snowstorm was less terrifying than the thought of staying where I was.”
Something cold flickers in his expression, and he lets the silence hang.
I don’t rush to fill it. I’ve dealt with enough men like him before: the ones who use silence as a weapon, who wield eye contact like a blade; especially older alphas who think the whole world lives under their thumb.
“Well,” he says at last, as if it costs him. “Welcome to Iron Lake.”
“Thanks,” I reply, my own voice even but clipped. “I’ve already been gifted coffee, pancakes, and four different weather threats, so I think I’m officially initiated.”
His grunt might be a laugh, but it lands wrong.
“Anything practical you need, you come here. No point going anywhere else.”
“Good to know,” I say, straightening slightly. “Wolfe’s Hardware or bust.”
He nods once, his blue eyes unblinking and unreadable.
I hold his stare just long enough to make it clear I’m not intimidated, but I’m not stupid, either. My heart thuds once,hard, as something primal twists low in my gut. Not fear exactly, but close enough to taste.
I turn, stepping back out into the cold without another word. The envelope in my pocket feels heavy as I slide back into my car, and I can’t help but think of how Ken Wolfe is a very unpleasant man.
Chapter Four
Emery
Ifollow the directions to my new home, winding through narrow side streets where the snow banks rise like frozen barricades.
Porch lights glow behind frosted windows as I pass a park swallowed by snowdrifts, a tiny white church flashing passive-aggressive wisdom on an LED sign (JESUS SEES YOUR BROWSER HISTORY), and a stretch of wind-wrecked homes guarded by slouching snowmen who look like they’ve seen some things and will not be talking about it.
Then, finally, I spot it: a narrow two-story tucked behind a crooked pine tree and a mailbox shaped like a trout. It’s mid-leap with its mouth open and its eyes wide with the permanent shock of something that’s seen too much and isn’t sure it wants to see any more.
The porch leans noticeably to the left, as though the house sat down one day and never got back up, and the steps are half-swallowed by snow. The siding is cracked and wind-scuffed, and one upstairs shutter clings to the frame at an angle that can only be described as aggressively unhinged.
I pull up to the curb, cut the engine, and sit there for a long second, staring through the windshield.
It isn’t awful. It isn’t great, either. The listing photos promised rustic charm, while this feels more… structural anxiety with a splash of optimism.
Still. It’s mine.
For now.
“Okay,” I mutter. “You’re not haunted. You’re just… character-building.”
I grab the keys from my coat pocket, brace myself, and step out into the cold. The wind hits my cheeks as I crunch up the steps, sidestepping a patch of ice. The key sticks in the door—of course it does—before it finally clicks open with a tired groan, and inside is…
Surprisingly warm.
It’s not stale or musty like I expected, nor is it haunted, or creepy.
I let out a long breath of relief as I step into the small living room, my boots thudding against the wood floors. A radiator hisses softly in the corner, and I glance around, taking it all in.
