The Alpha's Winter Game

The Beast in the Chalet

Warmth.

That was the first thing Elara registered. Not just warmth, but a heavy, suffocating comfort that smelled of burning pine, expensive leather, and something else—something wild and earthy, like a forest after rain.

She blinked her eyes open. Above her, rough-hewn timber beams crossed a vaulted ceiling. She wasn't in her car. She wasn't in the snow. She was buried under a duvet thick enough to suffocate a small animal, lying in a bed that could comfortably sleep four people.

"You're awake."

The voice came from the corner of the room, deep and vibrating through the floorboards.

Elara jolted upright, clutching the duvet to her chest. The movement sent a sharp ache through her ribs, a reminder of the steering wheel she’d slammed into.

The man from the door—the giant—was sitting in a leather armchair by the window. The blizzard was still raging outside, turning the world into a wall of white, but inside, the fire roared in a stone hearth.

He wasn't shirtless anymore. He wore a thick gray cable-knit sweater that strained across his shoulders and dark sweatpants. He held a mug in one hand, his amber eyes tracking her every movement with unsettling intensity.

"Where am I?" Elara asked, her voice raspy.

"My home," he said simply. He didn't smile. He didn't offer polite reassurances. He just watched her. "You passed out. Hypothermia and shock. I brought you inside."

Elara’s memories crashed back in a fractured wave. The party. Marc. The drive. The crash.

"My car," she gasped, throwing the covers off. She looked down and realized she was wearing an oversized t-shirt that hung to her knees. It wasn't hers. "And my clothes... did you...?"

"Your clothes were wet and freezing," he said, his tone devoid of anything predatory, yet entirely unbothered. "I wasn't going to let you die of pneumonia just to preserve your modesty. I didn't look. Much."

Heat flared in her cheeks. "Who are you?"

He stood up, and the room seemed to shrink. He was well over six feet tall, moving with a predatory grace that defied his size. He walked to the bedside table and set down a glass of water and two pills.

"Lucian," he said. "Take these. For the bruising."

Elara eyed the pills suspiciously. "I need to call a tow truck. I need to leave."

Lucian let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He walked past her toward the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the Alps. "Look outside, petite."

Elara scrambled out of bed, her legs wobbling, and joined him at the window. Her breath hitched.

There was no road. There was no driveway. There was only snow—feet of it—piling up against the glass. The wind was howling so loud she could hear it even through the double-glazing.

"The pass is closed," Lucian said, his voice low. "The storm knocked out the cell towers an hour ago. The landline is dead. Even if you had a car that wasn't wrapped around a pine tree, you wouldn't make it a mile."

Elara pressed her hand against the cold glass. "So... I'm stuck?"

"We are stuck," Lucian corrected. He turned to face her, and for a second, his eyes seemed to flash that strange, golden color again. He took a step back, as if standing too close to her was physically painful for him.

"For how long?"

"Two days. Maybe three. This is a historic storm."

Elara sank onto the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands. "This can't be happening. I’m supposed to be..." She trailed off. Supposed to be engaged. Supposed to be happy.

"You're safe here," Lucian said roughly. It sounded like he was forcing the words out through gritted teeth. "I have food. I have heat. You take the guest bedroom. Stay out of the east wing—that’s my private space. Do not go in there."

Elara looked up at him. "Why? What’s in the east wing?"

A shadow passed over his face. He looked dangerous then, the scars on his neck standing out in the firelight. "Equipment. Things that are dangerous if you don't know how to use them."

Liar, she thought. But she didn't say it.

"I'll make food," he announced abruptly, turning away as if he couldn't bear to look at her anymore. "There is a bathroom through that door. Shower. Change. There are more clothes in the dresser. They will be big on you, but they are warm."

He walked to the heavy wooden door, pausing with his hand on the latch. He didn't look back.

"And Elara?"

She blinked. "I didn't tell you my name."

Lucian froze. The muscles in his back bunched tight under the gray sweater. He didn't explain how he knew—how he had seen it on her ID, or how his wolf had whispered it to him the moment he caught her scent.

"Your wallet," he said tightly. "It fell out of your coat."

He yanked the door open and left, slamming it shut behind him a little harder than necessary.

Elara sat alone in the silence, listening to the wind howl. She looked at the closed door, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

She was trapped in a blizzard with a man who looked like he could crush stones with his bare hands, who looked at her like he wanted to eat her alive... or worship her. She couldn't tell which terrified her more.

She walked to the dresser and pulled open a drawer. Inside, neatly folded, were stack upon stack of black t-shirts and hoodies. She pulled one out.

It had a logo on the front. A snarling wolf head, and underneath, the words: LYON OLYMPIQUES HOCKEY.

And on the back, the name: SAUVAGE.

Elara frowned. She didn't follow sports, but even she knew that name. Lucian Sauvage. The Enforcer. The man the French press called La Bête—The Beast. The player who had been suspended last season for nearly killing a rival player on the ice with his bare fists.

"Oh god," she whispered, clutching the jersey. "I'm snowed in with the most violent man in France."