Chapter 1: The Scent of Him
The soup sloshed dangerously in the mason jar as Winter’s mother slammed her hand on the kitchen table. “You are not going out there, Elizabeth. It is not a discussion.”
The sound of his dead name was a physical jerk, a cold splash right in the face. Winter tightened his grip on the cloth bag holding the jar, a loaf of rye bread, and a small tin of lemon cookies. “My name is Winter, Mom. And I’m just going to Kane’s. He’s sick.”
His father didn’t look up from his newspaper, his voice a low grumble. “Sick. Right. That man is never sick. Built like a damned brick outhouse. You think we’re stupid?”
“I think he’s my friend and he’s alone.” Winter kept his voice even, a practiced calm. “I’m bringing him some things. That’s what people do.”
“People.” His mother spat the word, her lips a thin, pressed line. “That is not a person you’re going to see, and you are not a person who should be seeing him. Walking through those woods, with whatever beast is out there tearing people apart? It’s suicidal. And for what? So you can go prostitute yourself to that… that bull?”
The word hung in the air, ugly and final. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. But tonight, it sanded directly against a raw nerve. Winter felt the heat climb up his neck, a mix of shame and defiant rage.
“I am not a prostitute. I am not your daughter. I am a man, going to check on a friend.” He bit out each word, his knuckles white around the bag’s handles. “My name is Winter.”
His father finally lowered the paper, his eyes cold. “You live under our roof, you follow our rules. You are not going. End of story.”
For a decade, that tone had been a cage. Tonight, it was just a sound. Winter looked at the bag in his hands, at the careful knots he’d tied in the cloth. He thought of Kane’s silent, empty stall at the market yesterday, of the missed dinner, of the text message that just read, “Don’t come by.” Not “Can’t.” “Don’t.”
“Then I guess I’m leaving,” Winter said, his voice quiet.
He turned and walked out of the kitchen. The shouts followed him—Elizabeth, you get back here, you ungrateful girl—fading into static as he grabbed his thick wool coat from the hook and pushed out into the brittle evening air.
The woods were a different kind of silence.
It swallowed the sound of his parents’ house, of the village, of everything but the crunch of his boots on frozen leaves and the distant sigh of the wind in the pines. The path to Kane’s estate was a old logging trail, wide but swallowed by deepening shadows as the sun died behind the mountains.
His bravado faded with the light. The recent attacks were all anyone talked about. Old Man Gable’s prize bull, found ripped open, insides gone. The Jennings’ sheepdog, just a bloodstain and a collar. Something big, the sheriff said. Something with teeth no native animal had.
Don’t be stupid, he told himself, shifting the bag to his other hand. It’s a ten-minute walk. You’ve done it a hundred times. Kane’s place is the safest spot in the valley.
He tried to focus on the smell of pine sap and cold earth, but his mind kept circling back to the feral, gleaming eyes of his imagination. His hand drifted to the pocket of his jacket, where he kept his folding knife. It was a tool for whittling, not fighting wolves. He walked faster.
The towering iron gates of Alderwood Estate were never locked. Kane said he liked knowing who was brave enough to walk in. Winter pushed one open, the hinge groaning a low welcome. The manor house was a monolith of dark stone and taller windows, blotting out the twilight sky. A single light glowed upstairs, in the window he knew was Kane’s bedroom.
He took the front steps two at a time, the cold stone biting through his boots. He knocked, the sound too small against the massive oak door.
For a long moment, nothing. Then a heavy tread, slow and deliberate, from inside. The door swung inward.
Kane filled the doorway, a mountain of shadow and heat. He was shirtless, his massive chest a landscape of muscle and dark, curling hair, sheened with a fine layer of sweat that caught the dim hall light. His sweatpants hung low on his hips. His jet-black hair was disheveled, and his beard seemed wilder, thicker. His brown eyes, usually so piercing and controlled, were dilated, the black swallowing the amber. He looked feverish, vibrating with a trapped energy.
He blinked, as if struggling to place the small figure on his porch. Then his expression cleared, morphing into something like bewildered delight. “Winter?”
Before Winter could answer, Kane stepped forward and enveloped him in a hug. It was overwhelming—the sheer heat of him, the scent of rain on hot stone, of iron, of a pure, animal musk that went straight to Winter’s head. Kane’s arms were like bands of steel, crushing the breath from him for a second before releasing.
“What are you doing here?” Kane’s voice was a rough scrape, lower than usual.
“You said you were sick.” Winter held up the bag, feeling suddenly foolish. “Brought you some… medicine. Soup. Things.”
Kane stared at him, then let out a soft huff that wasn’t quite a laugh. He stepped back, gesturing him inside. “Get in. It’s freezing.”
Winter stepped into the monumental foyer, the warmth of the house immediately seeping into his bones. Kane closed the door, sealing them in. He didn’t move to lead the way, just stood there, looking down at him. His nostrils flared, once, twice.
“You smell…” Kane began, then stopped, his brow furrowing. He leaned in, just slightly. “You smell really good. Are you wearing something new?”
Winter’s heart did a stupid little flip. He’d applied his testosterone gel that morning, the usual citrus-and-alcohol scent. Kane had never mentioned it before. “No. Same me.”
Kane held his gaze for a beat too long, his eyes roaming Winter’s face. The intensity was dizzying. Then he seemed to shake himself. “Right. Sorry. I’m… not right. Come on.”
He turned and led the way to the great room, moving with a strange, careful gait, as if every muscle was sore. A fire roared in the hearth. “Sit. I’ll… I’ll put a shirt on.” He said it like a concession, running a hand through his hair before disappearing toward the staircase.
Winter sank onto the huge leather sofa, placing the bag beside him. The encounter at the door replayed in his head—the hug, the intense scrutiny, the raw, undisguised heat coming off Kane in waves. This was more than a flu. This was something else entirely. The air in the house felt charged, thick with a tension that had nothing to do with the cold outside and everything to do with the man now climbing the stairs to his bedroom.