A figure stumbled in, bundled and snow-caked, collapsing in a heap just past the threshold. The door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the scream of the storm. For a moment, the only sound was the rattling of the stove and the ragged, broken breathing of the newcomer.

He crossed the room in three long strides, boots thudding against the worn floorboards. Snow melted in dark patches where they stood.

Your gloves were soaked through. Your face was pale, lips tinged blue, and you were shaking—not a small tremor, but a full-body shudder that seemed to rattle your bones. Alden's jaw tightened.

He didn't wait for an answer. He shoved you toward the stool he'd just vacated, the one nearest the stove.