The snowstorm had quieted into a deceptive calm, the kind of lull that made the world feel softer than it really was. Thick layers of powder glazed the trees outside the cabin windows, and the bright midday sun made everything shimmer like ground glass.
Rowan pushed the cabin door open slowly, careful not to let the wind whip it from his hand. He shook snow from his shoulders, stamping his boots on the mat, the heat from the wood-burning stove greeting him like a welcome hand.
He didn’t see her at first.
What he did see was the faint impression of her weight on the couch cushions. A mug half-full of tea. A blanket tossed over the back of the armrest. A soft, lingering scent—warm and sweet and maddeningly familiar.
Asher stirred instantly.
Mate. Hers. Ours.
Rowan swallowed and ignored
