Alpha's Christmas Mate

Cabin Fever

The snowstorm showed no signs of letting up. Outside, the world was an endless swirl of white, the wind rattling the cabin walls and sending snow piling against the windows. Inside, Holly curled up in an armchair, the grandmother’s leather-bound notebook open in her lap. The fire crackled, filling the cabin with warmth, yet a restlessness ran through her veins she couldn’t shake.

She glanced toward the window, where the rogue wolf lay in the snow, ears flicking, amber eyes alert but calm. Despite Rowan’s earlier assurances, Holly felt drawn to the creature. She shook her head, blaming her fixation on the cabin’s isolation.

I’m just stir-crazy, she told herself. Snowstorm cabin fever.

She flipped another page of the notebook, tracing the faded handwriting with her finger. The entries grew more philosophical than before—her grandmother had clearly pondered the nature of wolves and humans, bonds and instincts. Holly read passages about wolves’ acute senses, pack loyalty, and the invisible threads that connected mates.

It’s interesting, she thought, nibbling at her lower lip. But probably just superstition.

Still, she couldn’t stop glancing at the wolf outside. Something about her posture—the way she studied the cabin, alert but cautious—made Holly feel… aware. Not just emotionally, but physically. A strange heat pulsed through her limbs, a tingle in her chest, a pull in her chest that she immediately scolded herself for noticing.

It’s nothing, she muttered. Just my imagination.

The wolf tilted her head, ears swiveling, and Holly felt her stomach flutter. The sensation was odd, primal almost, and it made her feel inexplicably protective. She pressed the notebook closer to her chest, biting back a nervous laugh.

Cabin fever, she told herself again. That’s all this is.

Rowan sat across the room, leaning against the wall near the door, his green eyes flicking toward her more often than not. The firelight caught the gold flecks in them occasionally, subtle and dangerous, and Holly felt warmth ripple through her just by looking at him. He said nothing, but the tension radiating off him was undeniable. She shifted slightly, trying to concentrate on the notebook, but her awareness kept drifting back to the wolf and to Rowan.

“Rowan,” she finally asked, voice soft, “does she… do that with other humans? Watch them like that?”

Rowan’s jaw tightened. “No. Wolves are cautious around humans they don’t know. Especially freshly shifted ones. She’s learning. Observing. That’s all.”

Holly nodded, but her instincts told her something more. The wolf didn’t seem dangerous, yet she felt a quiet, unspoken connection to her, something deeper than curiosity. She pressed it down, forcing herself to rationalize it as just snowbound imagination.

I’m just imagining things, she told herself firmly.

The storm outside intensified, snow slamming against the cabin walls. Holly glanced at the notebook again, scanning another entry:

Entry, December 28th:

"A dormant spirit within a human may stir at the scent or presence of a wolf. Awareness is subtle at first—an inexplicable empathy, an emotional pull, a sense of recognition. Most humans dismiss it as coincidence, imagination, or fever. But the stirrings are real. They will grow when the time is right."

Holly’s breath caught. She blinked, staring at the words. A chill ran down her spine—not from the fire—but from something deep inside her, something she didn’t understand.

It’s just coincidence, she whispered. I’m reading too much into it.

The rogue wolf shifted in the snow outside, lifting her head and glancing toward the cabin again. Holly’s chest tightened. The pull was stronger this time, a flutter in her stomach she couldn’t explain. She looked down at the notebook and then back at Rowan, who was now standing, posture taut, every muscle primed as if anticipating something.

“Rowan…” she said, her voice hesitant, “does it… ever feel like they’re trying to talk to you? Without speaking?”

He froze for a heartbeat, jaw flexing, as Asher stirred beneath the surface, nudging him to act, to respond, to acknowledge the instincts stirring in her. Rowan exhaled slowly, controlling the rise of heat in his voice.

“Yes… sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “But humans… rarely understand it.”

Holly pressed her lips together, glancing at the wolf. Or maybe it’s just me being weird, she muttered under her breath.

The wolf pawed lightly at the snow, shifting closer to the cabin. Holly felt a surge of warmth, an unreasonably strong empathy, and immediately scolded herself.

Cabin fever, she repeated. That’s all this is.

Rowan moved closer to her side, subtly placing a protective presence between her and the window. The movement made her pulse quicken, but she didn’t step back. She knew the warmth radiating from him was more than human, yet she still rationalized it as a combination of fear, curiosity, and isolation.

“I don’t think she’s dangerous,” Holly said softly. “She’s… just trying to survive the storm, like me.”

Rowan’s eyes softened slightly, but he didn’t step away from his vigilance. “Maybe. But instincts don’t lie. Even inexperienced wolves have them. And my instincts tell me to keep you safe.”

Holly’s chest fluttered. Even when I don’t understand them… She pressed the notebook against her heart, forcing her curiosity into the pages, pretending the pull she felt toward the wolf was nothing more than the story in her hands.

Hours passed, the storm continuing to rage outside. Holly read quietly, occasionally glancing at the wolf, and every time their eyes met, that flutter of awareness stirred again—but she dismissed it. Every single time.

I’m just stir-crazy, she told herself. Nothing more.

The wolf shifted again, closer this time, settling a little nearer to the cabin. Holly felt it instinctively, a warmth, a pull that she immediately rationalized as a trick of imagination. Rowan’s presence beside her radiated heat and protection, and she realized the strange mix of comfort and tension she felt whenever he moved.

I’m just imagining things, she repeated silently, pressing the notebook closer.

Outside, the snowstorm raged, isolating them from the world. Inside, Holly’s heart pounded at every subtle motion—the wolf’s careful movements in the snow, Rowan’s subtle glances, and the hidden pull she could not explain. She remained unaware that the stirrings she dismissed as cabin fever were the first threads of something far more ancient, far more powerful: her dormant wolf spirit beginning to sense a kindred presence in the newly shifted rogue wolf.

And as the wind howled against the cabin walls, Holly told herself, one last time, that she was just imagining it.