“First competitor approaching start position,” I announce, watching riders guide their horses to the starting line.
The spectators’ excitement builds as Wyatt works the crowd, moving through with trays of his “special blend” hot chocolate. “Get your liquid warmth here!” he calls out. “Regular for the kids, extra kick for the adults who need to stay warm while the vampires keep things cool!”
A network of glamours covers the entire festival, automatically translating any supernatural references into mundane explanations for visiting humans unfamiliar with magic. Locals from Silverwood and nearby Wildwater Falls hear the truth, but the glamours ensure tourists and out-of-town guests remain blissfully unaware. It’s an elegant spell work that keeps the secret without requiring anyone to constantly self-censor.
Across the starting area, Lyanna checks the final harness adjustments. She looks up, finds my gaze, and her smile sends heat spreading through my chest despite the vampire-cooled air.
We built this. Together.
I raise my hand, counting down. “Three, two, one—“
The horn sounds. The first horse surges forward, rider balanced and confident, the skier behind carving clean lines through the course we designed. The crowd erupts.
By the time the third team launches, Lyanna has moved to my side, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine. Kaspian maintains a position near the first curve, his vampiric cold keeping the snow firm.
“We actually pulled it off,” she murmurs, just for me. Our week of planning, unfolding flawlessly.
Several hours later, I check with our final volunteer at the far end of the course, confirming all equipment has been properly stowed.
“All teams accounted for,” I say into the radio. “Last borrowed harness collected and logged.”
The course is transformed from our competition arena to just another part of the festival grounds. Around us, the Spring Equinox Festival has reached its full afternoon glory. The vendor tents line the town square, their colorful awnings snapping in the light breeze. The scent of festival food mingles with the crisp mountain air—hot cider, roasted nuts, and Wyatt’s signature hot chocolate drawing crowds.
“Callum!” Mayor Wilson approaches, hand extended. “That was the best ski-joring event we’ve ever had. You and Lyanna coordinated this perfectly.”
“Thank you, ma’am. We had excellent volunteers.” I shake her hand firmly.
Lyanna appears at my side, her clipboard tucked under one arm. She’s completed her final safety checks, moving with that quiet efficiency that makes my chest tighten whenever I watch her work.
“The horses are all settled,” she reports, smiling at the mayor. “No injuries to report—equine, supernatural, or human.”
“Remarkable organization,” Wilson says, nodding appreciatively. “I knew you two could pull it off.”
I feel Lyanna’s eyes on me, that warm honey-wildflower scent intensifying slightly. When I glance down, her forest green eyes hold heat that has nothing to do with the sun, her tongue darting out to wet her lips before she tears her gaze away.
Desire hits me like a physical blow, my cock hardening as I track the movement of her tongue across her bottom lip.
“We should check on the ice sculpting,” I suggest, my voice more of a growl than speech. I need to move before I do something reckless like pin her against the nearest surface and taste her mouth.
Across the square, Nyxiana and Kaspian maintain their strategic positions around the ice sculpture competition. Thanks to their vampire cold-keeping, the elaborate creations remain pristine despite the unseasonably warm afternoon. Artists chip away at massive blocks, working on this year’s theme: “Supernatural Harmony”—wolves running alongside fae, dragons soaring over peaceful settlements, angels and demons in balanced symmetry.
“Callum! Lyanna!” Kari waves us over to the main refreshment tent, where most of our pack members have gathered. “Get over here and take a proper break. You’ve earned it.”
I lean close to Lyanna, my voice dropping low enough that only she can hear. “Our tactical lead is being suspiciously friendly. Think she’s been sampling Wyatt’s spiked cider?”
Her laugh is soft and genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she tilts her head to look up at me. “More likely she’s just relieved nothing’s caught fire or collapsed yet.” She pauses, a teasing glint entering her gaze. “Unlike someone’s security protocols during the setup phase.”
“That tent pole situation was structural, not my fault,” I protest, fighting back a grin.
“You tied the knots yourself, Gamma.”
“Minor miscalculation.”
Her smile widens, and the sight of it—unguarded, playful—makes warmth spread through my chest despite the winter cold around us.
As we cross the grounds, festivalgoers stop us repeatedly with compliments and thanks. The genuine warmth in their expressions strikes me—these aren’t just polite acknowledgments but real appreciation.
“Your pack has become such an important part of our community,” Mrs. Ashfern says, touching Lyanna’s arm. “And this event! I’ve never seen the ski-joring competition run so smoothly.”
