Christmas with My Hidden Alpha

Chapter 3 – Into the Wolves’ Mountains

*POV: Noelle*

Two days after I signed Rafael’s contract, my life was reduced to one small suitcase.

I sit on the edge of my narrow bed, looking around my shoebox apartment—peeling paint, wobbly Ikea table, the dent from where Lucas and I dropped a shelf. It’s not much, but it’s been mine.

My phone buzzes. I know who it is before I check.

**Lucas:**

*You can’t disappear to the mountains because you’re upset.*

Another line appears:

*Duval said you signed some stupid contract. Be serious, Noelle. Come over and we’ll talk like adults.*

I stare at the screen until the words blur, then block his number. The little confirmation pop‑up feels more final than any conversation we ever had.

I take the framed photo from my nightstand—us on the Pont des Arts, sun in our faces. I slip the picture from the frame, tear it neatly in half, and drop both pieces into the trash. On my way out, I leave his spare key in an envelope with the concierge.

“For Monsieur Moreau,” I say.

She gives me a sympathetic look. “Bonne chance, mademoiselle.”

I step into the cold with my suitcase and the unnerving sense that I’ve just slammed the last door back to my old life.

---

Rafael meets me at Gare Montparnasse with one carry‑on and the same collected calm he had in the hotel.

“You travel light,” I say as we board the train.

“I don’t like keeping more than I can carry,” he answers.

He lifts my suitcase into the rack like it weighs nothing. His arm brushes mine; warmth and that familiar pine‑and‑smoke scent wrap around me for an instant before he steps away.

We sit facing each other. Through the window, Paris glides past—gray buildings, Christmas lights, the hint of the Eiffel Tower—then gives way to suburbs and fields dusted in frost.

The conversation stays safe at first: event logistics, lodge capacity, and how many guests he expects. He listens more than he speaks, eyes intent, giving the impression he could quote back every word later if needed.

As the city vanishes, I find myself watching him instead of the scenery. The strong hands resting on his knees. The small scar near his lower lip. The way he checks the carriage whenever the train slows, as if always counting exits.

We change to a regional line and then to a bus that climbs toward the mountains. At a tiny station café, we grab coffee to go.

A big shepherd dog lying by the heater jolts up as Rafael walks past, hackles up, a low growl rumbling from its chest—as if someone flipped a switch, "

“Lo siento, no suele ser así,” he says. Sorry, he’s not usually like this.

Rafael stops well back, shoulders tensing, and expression shuttered.

Before I’ve really thought it through, I cross the room and crouch a little away from the dog.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Oye, tranquilo. It’s okay.”

He stares, teeth bared. I extend a hand slowly, palm up. His nose twitches. For a moment I’m sure he’ll bite.

Then his body loosens. The growl melts into a chuff. He nudges his head under my hand and leans into the scratching like we’re old friends.

When I glance up, Rafael is watching us with a frown.

“Animals always do that with you?” he asks later, once we’re back on the bus.

“Most dogs,” I admit. “My mom used to call me a dog whisperer.”

He makes a low sound I can’t read and stares out the window. The muscles in his jaw work.

---

By the time the bus drops us at a small valley town, the light is already fading. Snow sits thick on roofs; smoke curls from chimneys. Rafael’s SUV is waiting. We load our bags and begin the climb.

The lodge appears after one last turn, rising from the trees like it belongs there: stone walls, timber beams, big windows glowing gold against the snow. Where Paris felt like glass and edges, this place feels…solid. Rooted.

Inside, the main hall smells of pine, woodsmoke, and something cooking. A huge Christmas tree gleams near a stone fireplace, hung with a jumble of glass ornaments, red ribbons, and simple carved wood.

Two people approach—one woman, one man.

“Sofía Arriaga,” the woman says, offering her hand. Dark ponytail, sharp eyes, practical boots. “Operations.”

“Mikel,” the man says with a nod. Broader than Rafael, with a more relaxed slouch.

“This is Noelle Laurent,” Rafael tells them. “She’ll handle our holiday events.”

Sofía’s gaze flicks between us, quick and assessing.

“Bienvenida,” she says. “Welcome to the middle of nowhere.”

“The middle of nowhere has very good décor,” I say, nodding toward the tree.

Her mouth twitches into a brief smile.

Mikel gives me a considerate look.

“We heard you were bringing more work,” he says. The slight emphasis on “work” makes it clear he means more than spreadsheets.

I smile politely anyway. Low status in a new hierarchy. Story of my life.

---

My room is bigger than my entire apartment back in Paris. Thick rug, carved headboard, balcony overlooking the pines. Someone’s left a plate of small pastries on the desk.

“You really didn’t have to do this for a temporary hire,” I say when Sofía drops my suitcase inside.

“You’re the Alpha’s guest,” she replies. “For now.”

The *for now* is light, but I hear the question under it: how long is this human going to last?

When she leaves, I unpack quickly, if only to feel like I’m claiming the space. My clothes look lost in the big wardrobe. My three pairs of shoes line up neatly like they’re pretending to belong.

---

Dinner is served at a long table near the fire. Amaia, Rafael’s aunt, moves like she owns the place and probably does. She ladles thick stew into bowls, scolding anyone who tries to serve themselves.

“You are too skinny,mija,” she tells me, shoving an extra slice of bread my way. “The mountain will eat you if I don’t fatten you up.”

“I’ll do my best not to get eaten,” I promise.

The food is hearty and hot. Conversation flows mostly in Spanish and Basque. They switch to French, so I won’t be left out completely, but there’s still an undercurrent I can’t follow—private jokes, old scars.

Halfway through, Rafael’s phone buzzes. One glance at the screen, and his jaw tightens.

“Perdón,” he says, pushing back his chair. He steps into the hall and lowers his voice, but some words slip past: *patrol*, *border*, *tracks*.

Sofía’s smile fades. Mikel’s gaze goes distant, watchful.

When Rafael returns, his face is calm again, but there’s tension in his shoulders.

“Everything okay?” I ask under my breath.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he says.

Which, I’m starting to learn usually means I absolutely should be worrying.

---

Sleep doesn’t come easily. The bed is warm, but my mind won’t be quiet. Lucas’s last messages, the dog at the café, the way the pack looked at me, the way Rafael looked at me—they all whirl together in a dizzy loop.

Near midnight, I give up. I pull on a sweater over my sleep shirt and step out onto the balcony.

The air is brutally cold but clear. Stars crowd the sky; snow glows blue‑white in the darkness. For a moment, the silence is so complete it’s almost peaceful.

Then, a howl rolls over the mountains.

Long, low, answered by another farther away. The sound runs along my nerves like a live wire. My heart kicks hard against my ribs.

“It’s just dogs,” I whisper. “Big, dramatic dogs.”

My body doesn’t believe it. Every hair on my arms stands on end. There’s a strange pull in my chest, as if something inside me is leaning toward the sound.

“You should have a coat.”

I jump. My hand slams onto the railing.

Rafael stands in the doorway, shadowed by the warm yellow light of my room. His hair is mussed; he looks like he was half asleep.

He crosses the few steps between us and drapes his coat over my shoulders before I can protest.

“I’m really fine,” I say weakly.

“You keep saying that,” he answers. “I keep not believing you.”

The coat is still warm from his body. His scent—pine, smoke, and a hint of mountain musk or raw leather—wraps around me more completely than the fabric does.

Another howl echoes, nearer this time. I swallow.

“Wolves?” I ask.

He looks out toward the trees. For a second, his profile goes utterly still.

“Sometimes,” he says. “Most people prefer to call them dogs.”

He stands beside me, not touching now, but close enough that I feel his presence like a second railing.

“City’s loud in a different way,” he adds. “You’ll adjust.”

“I’m not sure I want to adjust to howling,” I admit.

“Maybe you need to decide what you want,” he says quietly. “Not what everyone else wants from you.”

The words sneak under my skin. I keep my gaze on the dark line of the forest, uncomfortable with how much he seems to see.

Another gust of wind kicks snow around us. As he turns his head, the light from the room catches his eyes.

For one heartbeat, they aren’t dark at all. They flare a molten, impossible gold.

A word vibrates inside my skull, not spoken, but somehow heard:

*Mine.*

Air leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp. My fingers clutch the railing.

By the time I look fully at him, his eyes are normal again. Human brown. Calm.

“Are you cold now?” he asks, as if nothing just happened.

“A little,” I manage.

“Go inside,” he says. “Tomorrow will be busy.”

He steps back through the doorway, leaving me on the balcony with his coat around my shoulders and that silent word still echoing in my bones.

Wolves are fantasy. Men’s eyes don’t glow. Strangers don’t call you *mate* and mean it.

And yet, as the howls roll over the mountains and the lights of the lodge flicker warmly behind me, I can’t shake the feeling that whatever I’ve agreed to in this place, it’s much wilder—and far more dangerous—than a temporary holiday job.