His Daughter's Bestie, His Obsession

I hate crying on planes. The recycled air makes my eyes swell, my skin feels like paper, and every time the seat-belt sign pings I want to die all over again. But I cried through the entire eight-hour flight from Paris anyway, because the last photo Jake sent me is burned behind my eyelids. Him tangled in our sheets with the redhead from his econ class, her mouth on his neck exactly where I used to kiss him. By the time the private jet’s wheels touch the snowy runway in Montana, my face is a puffy mess and my heart feels like someone carved into it with a claw. Lila promised no one would see me like this. She lied. The moment the door opens, arctic wind slaps me awake. Lila bounces down the steps ahead of me, squealing about fresh powder and spiked hot chocolate. I follow more slowly, dragging my suitcase, hood pulled up to hide my raccoon eyes. Then I look up and everything stops. Cassian Vale is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Not the driver. Not a beta bodyguard. Him. He leans against the black SUV like he owns the storm itself, long wool coat open despite the freezing cold, hands tucked into his pockets. Silver threads through his dark hair like moonlight on water. Those ridiculously golden eyes lock on me and the air leaves my lungs in one painful rush. I have not seen him in three years. Three years of college, of growing up, of pretending I was completely over the embarrassing crush I had on my best friend’s dad when I was a teenager. He was always gorgeous in a distant and dangerous way. Now he is devastating. His gaze moves over me, slow and deliberate. His nostrils flare just slightly. A growl rumbles out of him, so low only werewolf hearing could catch it. But I do. And it shoots straight between my legs like liquid heat. I almost trip on the last step. Lila barrels into him, arms around his neck, babbling about how she missed him and how the storm is going to be epic. He hugs her back with one arm, yet his eyes never leave me. “Dad, you remember Mia, right?” Lila laughs as she pulls away. “She’s staying the whole break. Her stupid ex cheated, so we’re fixing her with cookies and Christmas movies.” Cassian’s jaw tightens. Something dark flickers across his face when she says the word cheated. Then he steps forward, and suddenly he is right there, towering over me. Snowflakes melt the instant they touch his skin. He smells like pine smoke and something wild I cannot name. My stomach flips. “Welcome home, little one,” he says, voice rough like gravel dipped in honey. Little one. He has not called me that since I was seventeen and spilled hot chocolate all over his kitchen counter. Back then it made me blush. Now it makes my thighs clench. I try to answer, but my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. All I manage is a squeaky, “Hi, Mr. Vale.” His lips twitch, almost a smirk. “Cassian,” he says quietly. “You are not a kid anymore.” Lila is already climbing into the back seat, talking a mile a minute. Cassian takes my suitcase from my numb fingers without asking. His hand brushes mine and electricity races up my arm. I jerk back like I have been burned. He notices, of course he does. The drive up the mountain to the pack house takes thirty minutes and every second is torture. Lila sits between us in the back, playing DJ, kicking her boots against my seat, completely oblivious. I stare out the window so I will not stare at the way Cassian’s hands grip the steering wheel, veins standing out, knuckles white as if he is holding himself back from something. Every time the SUV hits a bump, Lila’s shoulder knocks into mine and I slide a little closer to him. By the time we reach the gates I am practically vibrating with tension. The house appears through the trees like something from a dark fairytale, huge and glowing gold against the storm. Snow piles higher by the minute. The weather report said the roads will be closed by morning. We are trapped. Cassian parks in the garage and kills the engine. Lila jumps out, yelling about needing a shower and cookies. She disappears inside without looking back. Leaving me alone with him. He does not move. Neither do I. Snow taps softly against the roof. The silence stretches until it hurts. Then he turns his head, slow and deliberate, and looks at me. Really looks at me, like he is reading every tear stain and every shaky breath. “Who hurt you, Mia?” His voice is soft and deadly at the same time. I swallow. “My boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. I don’t want to talk about it.” His eyes flash pure gold. “Good,” he says. “Because I don’t want to hear his name ever again.” My breath catches. He reaches out, slow enough that I could pull away, and brushes a knuckle under my eye, wiping a tear I did not know was still there. The touch burns. I feel it everywhere. He leans in, just an inch, and I stop breathing. “You are safe here,” he murmurs, lips so close to my ear that I feel the words more than I hear them. “No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I am breathing.”