Maybe he wasn’t wrong.
Snow kept falling, but the flakes had turned smaller now, more delicate, dusting the windshield in a quiet veil. The forest flashed by in streaks of white and dark green, the familiar territory of the Winter Pack, but I saw it differently now. Sharper. Like every tree, every turn in the road had changed since I almost died.
I kept stealing glances at Hunter. At the strong line of his jaw, the small frown that hadn’t left his face since we stepped out of the hospital. There was a shadow in his eyes, something deeper than sadness.
He was bracing himself for heartbreak.
And it killed me.
The pack house loomed ahead, three stories of stone and timber tucked into the hillside, its windows glowing soft gold in the evening snow. The place radiated warmth and strength.
