Mated to the Cold-Blooded Beast

Chapter 3

Pretty quickly, Grace discovered that the locals of Teekkonlit Valley fell into two distinct camps—those who welcomed her with curious warmth, and those who made it clear she was trespassing on something sacred.

It was at breakfast, over steaming bowls of oatmeal and burnt coffee at The Spruce, that she began to feel the lines drawn most sharply.

“Not the big adventure you expected, is it?” Harry Lance, broad-shouldered and red-faced from the cold, demanded one morning. His tone carried more scorn than conversation. “Bit darker, bit colder than you were ready for, I bet.”

Grace lifted her spoon to her lips, unbothered. She’d had years of practice masking her exhaustion beneath calm indifference. “Not really,” she said mildly. “It’s not that different from the Midwest.”

Her casual dismissal stole the smugness from Harry’s expression. His jaw tightened. “Well, there aren’t any grizzlies in Chicago, are there?”

Grace’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes stayed flat. “No. But I haven’t seen any here either.”

Behind her, Arthur Freeman chuckled—a low, warm sound that softened the edges of the room. “She’s got you there, Harry.”

Arthur was another local, broad and steady as the mountains outside. His gray-shot hair framed eyes the color of river stones, and his Sam Elliott mustache gave him a gravity she couldn’t help but respect. He was everywhere in the inn: fixing sinks, nailing down floorboards, coaxing stubborn machines back to life. Unlike Harry, Arthur’s silences felt safe. Grace liked him for that.

Natasha Freeman, Arthur’s wife, was nothing like her husband. Natasha filled every space she entered—brisk, bossy, brimming with maternal energy. Every morning, she pressed hot coffee into Grace’s hands and orchestrated the seating arrangements at the counter like a general commanding her troops.

And Natasha had one mission: find Grace a local man.

Within her first week, Grace had endured breakfasts with Natasha’s oldest son, Maxim, the town’s sheriff, who carried his authority with quiet restraint. She had been cornered by Adam Toonikoh, the Blue Moose tavern owner, and Connor Ankkonisdoy, a guide whose amber eyes lingered too long on her face when he asked questions about her weekends. She had even been introduced—briefly—to Harlan Bennett, the striking out-of-state doctor with his deep Georgian drawl, before Natasha intervened and shuffled him toward another woman.

It wasn’t subtle. The Valley wanted her woven into its fabric, and Natasha was its relentless thread.

Grace, though, moved through it all detached. She smiled when expected, answered questions with Midwestern politeness, but always held herself back, keeping her true self folded behind layers of weariness. No matter how charming the men were—or how intently their gazes followed her—she gave nothing away.

And yet, there was one man who unsettled her precisely because he gave nothing back.

Kaleb Kinoy.

The bush pilot. The man who had flown her in from Anchorage, who had seen her at her lowest, shivering on a balcony in nothing but a thin T-shirt and despair. The man who had looked at her once, his gaze cutting through her like the wind off the glaciers, and then dismissed her just as easily.

That morning, when Natasha directed her to the empty stool between two broad-shouldered men, Grace froze as she realized who sat beside her. Kaleb.

His dark eyes met hers, and something hard flickered there before he looked away, as though the sight of her was an irritation.

“Gracie, have you met Kaleb Kinoy?” Natasha’s voice sang out, deliberately bright as she poured Grace’s coffee.

“Uh, yeah.” Grace swallowed. “He… flew me in from Anchorage.”

Natasha gasped, swatting at Kaleb’s arm like an exasperated aunt. “And you didn’t tell me this?”

Kaleb only lifted his coffee to his lips, his beard shifting with the faintest curl of a smirk. “You want a manifest every time I fly, Tasha?”

He didn’t look at Grace again. Not properly. Not like a man noticing a woman. And yet his presence weighed on her more heavily than all the others combined.

Grace tried not to stare, but her eyes betrayed her. He wasn’t polished like Harlan or sharp like Maxim. Kaleb was rough around the edges, rumpled and raw, his hair unkempt, his shirt frayed at the cuffs. He wore the Valley like a second skin, weathered and wild, every line of him carved by survival.

When he finally turned, catching her gaze full on, his voice was flat. “What?”

Heat climbed her neck. She realized she had been staring openly. “Nothing. Sorry.” She tore her gaze away, her fingers tightening around her napkin as silence stretched taut between them.

By the time Natasha set Grace’s food down, she couldn’t escape fast enough. She wrapped the sandwich, shrugged into her coat, and muttered excuses about needing to prepare for class. Natasha protested, but Grace was already backing away, her chest tight.

She didn’t look at Kaleb again.

Not until the hall that night.

The inn was quiet, the air carrying the scent of pine smoke and something wilder that clung to the locals’ skin. Grace climbed the stairs slowly, dreading the empty stretch of weekend ahead. She reached the landing just as another door opened at the far end.

Her breath caught.

Kaleb.

He pocketed his key, his stride long and purposeful. The narrow hallway forced her to flatten against the wall as he passed. He didn’t so much as glance at her, his eyes fixed straight ahead, his jaw set. He moved like a storm contained within a man, and he brushed by her as though she were nothing more than a shadow.

Grace’s heart hammered, an unfamiliar anger igniting in her chest. How was it that the only man who managed to make her feel anything—anything at all—looked at her as though she were invisible?

It stung, more than it should have. More than she wanted to admit. She had trained herself not to care, not to feel, for so long. Yet with him, indifference was impossible.

And she hated him for it.

As his footsteps faded, she stood frozen in the hallway, her fists clenched at her sides. She told herself she didn’t care. She told herself it was better this way, safer. But the truth pressed against her ribs, relentless and unyielding.

Something about Kaleb had stirred her. Against her will, against her exhaustion.

And Grace had the sinking feeling that Teekkonlit Valley—and its brooding, unreadable pilot—would never let her remain untouched for long.