Chapter 2

2

JONAH

T he icy wind swept through the dense forest, carrying the faint scent of existence beneath the snow and earth. When spring came, life would renew itself. Jonah Locke reveled in the clean air filling his powerful lungs as his paws thudded against the frostbitten ground. In his shifted form, he was a blur of white and silver, a predator perfectly adapted to this rugged, unforgiving wilderness.

As a snow leopard, every muscle in his body moved with precision, and his senses were heightened to a clarity that his human form could never achieve. Here, in the deep silence of the mountains, there were no half-truths, no shadows of doubt clouding his mind—just freedom. Solace. And focus.

Even after all these years, his father’s death was still a raw wound, and Jonah had come here to uncover the truth, to retrace the last steps of a man who’d taught him everything about survival and yet kept so many secrets. The wilderness whispered answers, and Jonah intended to hear them all.

The snap of a distant branch jerked him from his thoughts. His ears swiveled, tracking the sound. The wind shifted, and with it came something foreign—a scent that didn’t belong. Metal, oil, and… fire? Even though the chances of a wildfire catching and doing much damage in the Alaskan winter were fairly remote, Jonah wanted to check out the disharmonious smells that pricked his nostrils. His whiskers twitched as unease trickled down his spine.

He slowed, his massive paws sinking silently into the snow. Cautiously, he wove between the trees, his ice blue eyes scanning for the source of the disturbance. Then he saw it, through the blackened branches and rising smoke: a downed aircraft.

Jonah’s first thought was to retreat. Whatever had happened here wasn’t his concern. The fighter jet was not a design he recognized. Its sleek, ruined frame was a glaring symbol of human conflict, and he wanted no part of it. But as he turned to slip away, the air shifted again, bringing a scent that hit him like a punch to the gut.

Dizziness overtook him, urgent and sudden. His claws dug into the frozen ground to steady himself as his vision blurred for an instant. His heart thundered in his chest—not from fear, but from something deeper, primal. A presence tugged at him, invisible yet undeniable.

Mate.

The word echoed in his mind like a whisper and a roar all at once. He growled low in his throat, shaking his head as if to dispel the disorienting pull. This couldn’t be real. Fated mates were a myth—a romantic notion his father had scoffed at and Jonah himself had dismissed long ago. Yet here it was, coursing through his very blood, pulling him toward the wreckage.

The human in him screamed at him to walk away. To leave this entanglement behind before it could upend his carefully controlled world. But the shifter in him, the beast, refused to yield. She was here. He had to find her. He had to protect her.

Jonah slipped out of the pack he had rigged to carry his clothing and boots when he was in his leopard form. Shifting to his human form without clothing to change into could result in injury or even death here in Alaska. He shifted back into his human self, his breath misting in the cold air as he hunkered down behind a fallen log and pulled on his boots and clothes. His chest heaved, both from the exertion of the run and the unexplainable urgency gnawing at him. He scanned the scene again, his eyes narrowing. A figure moved in the shadows near the wreckage. He scented the air—female, and definitely his fated mate. She was injured, struggling to stay upright as she dragged herself away from the debris field of the burning aircraft.

Even from this distance, he could feel her presence like a storm pressing against his skin. She was curvy yet strong, her movements determined despite the obvious pain she was in. His gaze lingered on her face—smudged with soot, framed by strands of blonde hair that glinted even in the dim light. And her eyes… those green eyes… burned with a fierce intensity that made his chest tighten.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus. She was in danger, and he couldn’t leave her here—not with the predators, human and otherwise, that prowled these mountains.

Still, his rational side warred with his instincts. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. Getting involved with her would mean trouble, and trouble was the last thing he needed.

But then she staggered, nearly collapsing into the snow. A growl rumbled from deep in his chest before he could stop it. Whatever reluctance he’d felt melted away as the beast within him roared to life. She was his. And nothing—not fear, not logic, not the walls he’d built around himself—would keep him from her now.

Without another thought, Jonah stepped into the clearing, his booted feet moving through the snow. "You shouldn’t be out here alone," he called, his voice low and steady but carrying enough authority to cut through the stillness.

The woman whipped around, her stance defensive despite her obvious pain and exhaustion. Her gaze locked onto his, and for a moment, the world seemed to freeze. Jonah felt the full force of that connection—a searing, electric current that raced through his veins and set his nerves alight.

She didn’t lower her guard. "Who the hell are you ?" she demanded, her voice strong despite the pain that etched her features.

Jonah took another step forward, his movements slow, deliberate. He didn’t smile, didn’t soften his expression. "Someone who doesn’t plan to let you die out here."

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion and determination warring in her gaze. "I don’t need saving."

"That’s the thing," he replied, his voice dropping to a gravelly edge. "You don’t have a choice."

The woman sort of fell back until she was half-sitting, half-leaning against a large rock, her shoulders hunched against the cold as she cradled her arm. Her face was pale, streaked with soot and blood, but her eyes burned with a ferocity that sent a ripple of interest and arousal through him. She looked like hell, but there was something magnetic about the way she carried herself—unyielding and defiant, even now.

"I told you, I’m fine," she said her voice edged with exhaustion but still strong. She looked around as if searching for a weapon.

Jonah crossed his arms, his eyes studying her. "Fine’s a hell of a word for someone who can barely sit upright."

Her jaw tightened and she straightened, trying to hide the tremor in her hands. "I don’t need your help."

He snorted, stepping closer until he loomed over her. "You’re bleeding, probably concussed, and stuck in the middle of nowhere in Alaska in the winter. Humor me and drink some water before you pass out." He pulled a canteen from his pack and held it out to her.

She hesitated, glaring at him as if debating whether to take it or swat it away, but then her desire to survive this ordeal seemed to win out. She snatched the canteen and drank, gasping as the cold water hit her throat.

Jonah squatted in front of her, his movements deliberate, his gaze steady as he looked her over. "Let me see that arm."

"It’s fine," she insisted, trying to pull away, but he caught her wrist gently but firmly.

"It’s not fine." His tone was low, edged with command, and it froze her in place. She stared at him, her lips parting slightly, the defiance in her eyes faltering under the intensity of his gaze. Jonah took her silence as permission and carefully rolled back the sleeve of her jacket. The deep gash on her forearm was ugly, the edges caked with dirt and blood.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus. "You’re lucky this isn’t infected yet."

She let out a bitter laugh, breaking the tension. "Lucky. Sure. Let’s go with that."

Jonah chuckled despite himself, shaking his head as he pulled a small first-aid kit from his pack. "So, are you going to tell me what really happened up there?" he asked casually, nodding toward the plume of smoke still rising from the wreckage.

Her expression hardened instantly, her walls snapping back into place. "Mechanical failure," she said too quickly, too evenly.

Jonah raised an eyebrow. "Really? From where I was standing, it looked like your aircraft suffered some kind of catastrophic failure. Mechanical might have been part of it, but I don’t believe for a second that was all of it."

She glared at him, her jaw tightening. "It’s classified."

"Classified," he echoed with a scoff. "Right. Because that explains everything." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low growl. "You’re hiding something, and whatever it is, it almost got you killed."

Before she could respond, a distant sound cut through the stillness of the forest—voices. The sound of men moving through the snow. Jonah’s head snapped up, his senses instantly on high alert.

Jonah’s expression darkened. He stood quickly, his eyes scanning the tree line. "We’ve got company," he said, his voice low. “And they don’t sound friendly.”

“What makes you say that?”

“If they were looking for you to help, they’d be calling your name. They aren’t.”

Phoebe’s body tensed as she struggled to her feet. "You need to go," she said urgently. "Now."

Jonah turned back to her, his expression dark. "Not happening."

"I’m serious," she hissed, her voice urgent. "They’re after me. Go."

He straightened, the corners of his mouth curving up humorlessly. "Lady, you can forget that idea. I’m not leaving you out here for them to find."

"They’re looking for me," she insisted, her voice strained. "If they find you, I don’t think they’ll hesitate to kill you."

He scoffed, his smile cold. "I don’t scare that easy. And I’m not about to leave you here to face them alone."

Her protest died on her lips as she tried to stand up straight and her knees buckled. Jonah lunged forward, catching her before she hit the ground. Her body was limp in his arms, her breathing shallow but steady.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.

He glanced back at the trail. The voices were closer now, their owners moving with purpose. Whoever they were, they weren’t amateurs.

He didn’t have time to figure any of it out. Bending over, Jonah hoisted her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, careful not to jostle her injured arm too much. She was lighter than he expected, but the weight of her unconscious form felt heavier than anything he’d carried before. The warmth of her body seeped through his jacket, a stark contrast to the frigid air around him.

With practiced ease, Jonah moved off the trail, his experience guiding him toward higher ground. The search party’s noise grew fainter as he climbed, his steps silent, deliberate, avoiding the loose snow and dead branches that would betray their position.

When he reached a rocky outcrop, he paused, lowering Phoebe carefully onto a patch of moss and covering her with additional moss and fallen evergreen branches—that would help to keep her warm and hidden from casual sight. He scanned the forest below, his eyes narrowing as the search party moved in the direction of the wreckage.

His jaw tightened. Whoever they were, they weren’t just hikers stumbling through the woods. They moved with precision… purpose. And they were armed.

Jonah’s gaze flicked back to Phoebe, her face was pale, but he sensed strength even in her unconscious state. Whatever trouble she’d brought into his territory, it wasn’t just hers anymore.

He pulled his coat tighter against the cold and turned back to crouch beside her, his hand brushing her cheek briefly as he murmured, "You’ve got answers I need, sweetheart. But first, we’re getting out of this alive."