Mated to the Cold-Blooded Beast

Grace’s knuckles tightened against the armrest as the tiny plane dipped low, its wings slicing dangerously close to the jagged tops of pine trees. The gravel runway stretched out like a dare in the middle of nowhere, with a frozen river gleaming pale silver in the darkness. This wasn’t the kind of landing she was used to. Commercial jets felt predictable, mechanical. This was different—raw, unrefined, as if Alaska itself wanted to remind her how small she was. The plane jolted once, twice, then finally rattled to a halt. Silence swept over her like a heavy blanket the second the engine cut out. Grace pulled off her headset, her ears ringing. The door beside her looked unsettlingly like the door of her old rusted car back in Wisconsin—too flimsy for something that had just carried her over mountains and wilderness. Still, she forced her hand to turn the handle and stepped out into the Alaskan night. Cold struck her instantly. A biting, merciless kind of cold that knifed into her lungs and settled deep into her bones. But she didn’t flinch. She had been raised in winters that lasted half the year. She knew the sting of air so sharp it could peel the breath from your throat. She wasn’t afraid of it. The man who had flown her here came around the side of the plane, moving with quiet confidence and arrogance. He has broad-shoulder, taller than any man she had ever stood near, his presence shadowed further by the thick beard covering his mouth. His eyes—dark, stormy, unreadable and scary—barely flicked toward her as he pulled open the belly hatch. Kaleb Kinoy. Grace remembered Margaret mentioning his name once in their phone call. He is the best bush pilot in Longtooth, but “not much of a talker.” During the flight he had spoken only twice. First, when he’d ordered her to buckle in. Then again, when she’d asked how long he’d been flying and he’d muttered, “Long enough.” His silence had been heavy, like the weight of mountains pressing down. For a woman who used to fill silences with nervous chatter, she had found his wordlessness both irritating and strangely attractive. He lifted her suitcase with one hand, her duffel with the other. Grace instinctively stepped forward to take the weight from him, but he didn’t let her even touch her belongings. He carried both bags as if they were nothing, turning away without another word. “You don’t have to—” she began. “Open the door,” Kaleb said, his voice low, deep, carrying authority that slid under her skin before she could even process it. For a moment, Grace froze. That flicker of irritation—sharp, hot, unfamiliar—made her chest tighten. She hadn’t felt much of anything in years, not really. Her emotions had dulled to gray static. But now, at the simple edge in his tone, she felt something spark alive. It was like blood rushing back into frozen fingers, painful but undeniable. She obeyed, tugging the heavy door open, and the warmth of the hangar swallowed her whole. Inside, fluorescent lights revealed a world that smelled of oil, pine, and steel. Another plane sat parked, larger than the one she had flown in, but it was the man beside her who dominated the space. Kaleb moved past her, his sheer size and silence making her pulse race in a way that unsettled her. That was when Margaret appeared—warm, brisk, motherly in her heavy coat and ushanka. Her smile cut through the heaviness like sunlight, and Grace latched onto it with practiced ease. “Grace Russel, at last,” Margaret greeted, shaking her hand. “I hope Kaleb didn’t talk your ear off.” Grace managed a polite smile, though her gaze flickered back toward the silent pilot. “No,” she said softly. “He was an excellent pilot.” Margaret’s gray eyes twinkled knowingly, but Kaleb was already gone, his broad back disappearing through the door into the night without a single backward glance. And yet Grace felt his absence like a pull in her chest. - --- The drive into Longtooth was short, the town nestled like a secret in the valley between towering, jagged mountains. Snowbanks rose taller than the Suburban, and the icy river curled alongside the road like a silver blade. Buildings lined the main street, worn but stubborn against the elements, and the air seemed to hum with a quiet kind of resilience. Grace kept her smile ready, offering it to Margaret, to Wade the postmaster, even to Natasha at The Spruce. She could charm them easily—years of practice had made her smile look natural, convincing. No one ever noticed how hollow it was. But beneath her mask, she felt nothing but fatigue. Endless, gnawing fatigue that no amount of sleep could cure. Until the moment she noticed the paw prints. Massive. Embedded deep into the snow outside The Spruce, too large to belong to any dog she had ever seen. Something primal whispered through her blood, and for the first time since she’d landed, Grace’s hollow numbness cracked. Later, in her room at The Spruce, Grace found herself unable to rest. The cold outside called to her, more honest than the warmth of her blankets. She pushed the window open, and the night’s breath rushed in, fierce and brutal. She stepped out onto the narrow balcony, the thin cotton of her shirt useless against the Arctic air. The pain of it was exquisite. Real. And then, the sound came. A howl. Low, haunting, rising from the darkness beyond the trees. Another answered. Then another. The voices of wolves, weaving together in an eerie chorus that wrapped around her like a spell. Her breath caught in her throat, and for the first time in years, she felt alive. But she wasn’t alone. Her gaze dropped to the street below—and there he was. Kaleb. Boots planted firmly in the snow, shoulders broad beneath his coat, his head tilted up toward her. His dark eyes locked onto hers, and even through distance, through shadow, she could feel the weight of them. There were no words. He didn’t need them. His gaze asked the question she hadn’t dared voice even to herself: What are you doing? Why are you tempting death? Heat flooded her cheeks, an unwelcome rush of shame and something sharper, something that felt like desire. She stumbled backward, slamming the window shut, her chest heaving. Inside, the room felt suffocatingly hot. Her skin prickled, her pulse wild. She pressed a cold towel to her face, willing herself to calm down. But she couldn’t erase the image burned into her mind—those eyes, dark and unyielding, catching her in a moment of raw vulnerability. When the sound of heavy boots echoed in the hallway outside her door minutes later, she froze. The jingle of keys. The click of the lock next door. Her stomach dropped. Kaleb —her brooding, silent pilot—wasn’t just a stranger passing through the night. He was her neighbor. And in that moment, Grace knew Longtooth was going to be far more dangerous than she had ever imagined.