Chapter 4

Rhys

Morning comes too soon, the pale winter sun stretching long shadows across the snow. I wander near the edge of the Whispering Pines pack’s territory, my hands shoved deep in my pockets, my thoughts as restless as the wind stirring the trees. The woods are quiet, save for the occasional rustle of branches or the chirp of a bird. It should calm me. It doesn’t.

I hear her before I see her—her boots crunching in the snow, her breath visible in the cold air. My shoulders tense, my wolf perking up as her scent reaches me: cinnamon, pine, and something uniquely hers. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s her.

“Rhys!” she calls, her voice cutting through the quiet.

I stop but don’t turn, my jaw tightening. I should’ve known she’d come after me. She’s nothing if not persistent.

“Hannah,” I say, finally facing her. She’s bundled in a bright red scarf, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her copper hair catching the sunlight. She looks... radiant.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.

She plants her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowing. “I could ask you the same thing. You’re not sneaking off again, are you?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Just needed some air.”

“Good,” she says, stepping closer. “Because if you think I’m going to let you disappear without a fight, you’ve got another thing coming.”

The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. “You don’t give up easily, do you?”

“Not when it matters,” she says, her voice softer now. “And you matter, Rhys. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I look away, my gaze dropping to the snow. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” I mutter. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Yes, I do,” she says, stepping closer. “I’m asking you to stop running. To let yourself see what’s right in front of you.”

I glance up, meeting her gaze. The fire in her eyes is almost too much—too bright, too hopeful. It makes something deep inside me ache.

Before I can respond, something cold and wet smacks against my shoulder. I blink, startled, and look down to see a clump of snow sliding off my jacket.

I glance back at her, and she’s grinning, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Did you just throw a snowball at me?”

“Maybe,” she says, already scooping up another handful of snow. “What are you going to do about it?”

For a moment, I just stare at her, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. Then, before I can stop myself, I crouch, grabbing a handful of snow and packing it tightly. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Thorne.”

“I like danger,” she teases, tossing another snowball. I dodge it easily, a laugh rumbling in my chest before I can stop it.

The sound surprises me—raw and unguarded. It’s been so long since I’ve laughed like this, since I’ve felt anything close to joy. And she sees it, too. Her grin widens, and something in my chest cracks open.

I launch my snowball, aiming for her midsection. She squeals and ducks, the snowball grazing her arm as she dives behind a tree. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Everhart!” she calls, her voice full of laughter.

“Oh, I will,” I promise, already scooping up more snow.

The next few minutes are a blur of flying snowballs and breathless laughter. She’s quick and unpredictable, darting between trees and tossing snow with reckless abandon. I’m bigger, stronger, but she’s got the advantage of sheer determination—and it’s impossible not to admire her for it.

Eventually, we call a truce, both of us breathless and dusted with snow. She’s standing just a few feet away, her hair a mess of copper strands, her cheeks flushed, her smile so radiant it makes my chest ache.

“See?” she says, brushing snow off her scarf. “You’re not so bad at this whole ‘fun’ thing.”

I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my lips. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn,” she counters, stepping closer. “But I think we’re starting to rub off on each other.”

She’s so close now, her breath visible in the cold air, her scent wrapping around me like a warm blanket. My wolf pushes at me, urging me to close the distance, to claim what’s ours. I clench my fists, battling the instinct, but when she looks up at me like that—with so much trust, so much hope—I can’t hold back.

“Hannah,” I murmur, my voice low and rough.

Her eyes flicker to my lips, and I feel the last of my restraint snap. I step closer, cupping her face with one hand, my thumb brushing against her cheek. Her skin is warm despite the cold, soft beneath my calloused fingers. She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering shut, and before I can second-guess myself, I close the distance.

Our lips meet, and the world falls away. The kiss is warm and sweet, tinged with the heat of the bond that’s been pulling us together from the moment we met. Her hands grip the front of my jacket, pulling me closer, and my wolf howls in approval, his joy echoing through my chest.

When we finally pull back, her eyes are wide and bright, her breath coming in quick, visible puffs. “Rhys,” she whispers, her voice trembling with emotion.

“I’m staying,” I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “At least for a little while.”

Her smile is blinding, and for the first time in years, I feel like maybe—just maybe—I’ve found a place where I belong.