Mated to the Cold-Blooded Beast

Chapter 4

Grace had not expected to miss Chicago.

It surprised her, the ease with which the city slipped out of her bones. The endless grind of traffic, the fight for the latest fashion or sleekest phone, the frantic pace that had once seemed necessary for survival—none of it followed her here. In Longtooth, life was stripped back to the essentials. There was quiet, there was cold, there was space to breathe.

And yet, there was one thing she longed for.

The silken bite of espresso, sharp and bold as fire on her tongue. The rush of invincibility that came with a double-shot macchiato—like armor in liquid form.

On her third Monday in town, she braved a question she knew would sound absurd in a place like this. Natasha was halfway to pouring her usual cup of coffee when Grace caught her wrist.

“Is there anywhere here that makes espresso?”

The diner fell into an instant hush.

Four seats down, Harry Lance barked out a laugh so sharp it nearly knocked him off his stool. “Espresso?” he jeered, as though she had asked for diamonds dissolved in cream. “Might have to go back to Chicago if you’re going to need one of those every morning, darling.”

His voice rang out with mocking amusement, and at the edge of her vision, another laugh rumbled—low and deep.

Kaleb.

Grace stiffened, every nerve bristling at the sound of his chuckle. It was not loud, not unkind, but it slid beneath her skin like a spark catching kindling.

She leaned forward, meeting Harry’s eyes squarely. “Well, darling, Chicago’s a long way from here. I guess I’ll have to rough it. Hopefully I won’t chip a nail lifting one of your rugged mugs of coffee.”

Her words flew sharper than she intended, her pulse thundering at her throat. For months she had been a ghost of herself, too hollow to feel anger or pride. But now, with these men looking at her like she was fragile glass, she could not bear to be diminished.

A faint tremor touched her hand, though she masked it by folding her napkin.

“She’s teaching our kids with that mouth?” Harry muttered.

Behind him, Kaleb smiled into his cup. The expression carved something dangerous out of his features. White teeth flashed against his dark beard, and his eyes—when he lifted them—snared hers.

It lasted only a moment. His grin vanished as though it had never been. But Grace’s chest tightened, her heart battering against her ribs. It was as though something invisible had leapt between them.

Natasha’s voice broke the tension, brisk and unbothered. “Coffee, then?”

Grace nodded quickly. “Black.”

The mug landed in front of her with a gentle clink. She drank without tasting, her mind spinning at the strange, reckless energy coursing through her veins. She had forgotten what it was like to care enough to fight back.

Natasha lingered, wiping a spotless carafe. “Gracie.”

Grace looked up with a carefully even expression, though her insides still quivered from adrenaline.

“This Saturday, Roger Yidineeltot’s birthday party. Everyone will be there. You should come.”

Dread pooled instantly in Grace’s gut. She forced her lips into a smile. “That sounds nice.”

“It will be,” Natasha promised warmly. “Don’t worry about a dress. It’s just food and music. Everyone will want to meet you.”

Everyone.

The word was a weight pressing down on her chest. She nodded again, as though compliance would disguise the storm inside her. “Sure. I’ll be there.”

But when she returned to her room, dread followed like a shadow.

The days leading up to the party became a slow torment. Grace told herself she was being irrational, but her mind clung to every reason to fear. In another life, she had endured bars, clubs, crowds that pressed and shouted and shoved. She had disliked them, yes, but she had survived them.

Now, after Alex, after everything, even the idea of standing in a crowded room made her throat tighten. A room filled with strangers’ eyes fixed on her was no longer a nuisance—it was unbearable.

By Friday night she had worked herself into such a state that sleep abandoned her. She lay awake, shivering though she was buried in blankets, imagining every possible humiliation waiting at the party. The hours dragged until dawn arrived too soon.

Her reflection that morning was cruel: pale, hollow-eyed, haunted. Natasha noticed the moment she saw her.

“Gracie, are you alright?”

Grace forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

But Natasha touched her forehead and gasped. “Cold as ice!”

“I always run cool,” Grace murmured, brushing it aside.

Still, Natasha pressed. Still, she worried. And Grace, caught between cowardice and relief, allowed the idea to fester: perhaps she didn’t have to go to the party at all. Perhaps being sick would excuse her.

That evening, she caved, retreating upstairs with soup while the sound of laughter and music rose from below.

But she could not rest. Not with the accusing thrum of bass whispering coward, coward, coward through the floorboards. Finally, near two in the morning, Grace wrapped herself in a blanket and slipped downstairs.

The dining room was dim and quiet, still scented faintly of food and bodies. She crossed to the window, folded herself into a chair, and pressed her forehead to her knees. Outside, the night stretched vast and sharp, stars spilled across the sky like shards of crystal.

And then, movement.

Wolves.

Three of them emerged from the tree line, ghost-pale against the snow except for the great gray one that led them. They moved like shadows given form, powerful and unyielding. Grace’s breath hitched as the gray wolf lifted his head, golden eyes glowing as though they carried their own light. He stilled, staring toward the inn. Toward her.

She could not move. Could not breathe. His gaze seemed to pin her in place, burning through glass and darkness.

Then, just as swiftly, he turned and vanished into the trees, his companions at his heels.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

Her chest still trembled when a voice cut through the silence.

“What are you doing?”

She jerked upright, heart hammering. A man stood in the shadows of the room, broad shoulders outlined by the faint spill of moonlight.

“Who’s there?” she asked, though she already knew.

Kaleb stepped forward, his parka hanging open over gray sweatpants, boots unlaced. His hair was tousled as though he had been outside in the cold night.

“I’m just…stargazing,” Grace managed.

He leaned against a wooden beam, folding his arms. “Over your stomach bug, I see.”

Heat flushed her cheeks. She looked down at her hands. “How was the party?”

“You don’t care,” he said softly, almost amused.

Irritation sparked. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

Silence stretched, thick and tense. When she dared glance up again, he had crossed the space between them. He sat opposite her, leaning forward, his dark eyes gleaming in shadow.

The air between them shifted, charged. She could smell the cold on his skin, sharp and wild, mixed with something warmer—something that unsettled her.

“For some reason,” Kaleb said quietly, “Natasha and Margaret are attached to you.” His gaze held hers, unblinking. “They’ll take it hard when you leave.”

Her breath caught. “Why do you assume I’ll leave?”

“Because your kind always do.”

“My kind?” she echoed, bristling.

“You don’t want to be here,” he said flatly. “You hide in your room. You faked sick to avoid a party. You don’t belong.”

His words cut deep, because they were too close to the truth. But anger rose to shield her. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough.”

Her pulse raced. She shoved back her chair and rose. “Good night.”

But Kaleb stood, too, his frame towering in the dim light. His presence wrapped around her, suffocating and magnetic all at once.

And though she turned away, her skin burned where his gaze lingered, as if he had touched her without lifting a hand.