Eli
Snow has a way of telling stories you’d rather not hear. It remembers. Holds the shape of every trespass, every step that shouldn’t be there.
Which is why I’m standing outside the cabin before the sun’s even scraped the treeline, staring at the imprint of boots that don’t belong to Ronan.
The prints are shallow, made by someone light on their feet. Not my huge, hulking, stubborn asshole of a mate.
I follow the tracks toward the forest, boots crunching through the crusted snow. The wind bites my cheeks, and every exhale curls in front of me like a warning.
The trail peters out under the thicker pines, where shadows swallow the ground. I crouch, fingertips brushing a faint scuff mark. Someone pivoted here, fast. Then… nothing.
A twig snaps behind me and I spin, shoulders tense. It’
