Chapter Four

I woke to the smell of cold. Not fresh cold, not the kind that bit the nose and stung the skin. This was stale cold, the kind that clung to the walls and sank into the mattress overnight. 

For a few seconds, I lay there, trying to piece together the remnants of the dream I’d been dragged from. There were scratches on my skin. Thin, faint, but unmistakable. Three of them trailed down the inside of my left forearm, another pair across my bicep. The skin around them looked irritated and pink. They hadn’t been there when I went to bed. I was very sure of that.

I pulled the covers back. My legs were fine, there was nothing on them. Just the arms. The marks weren’t deep enough to bleed, but they stung when I brushed my thumb over them. “Great,” I muttered, swinging my feet onto the wooden floorboards. “What did I do, fight a raccoon in my sleep?”

The cabin was quiet. The clock above the small kitchen sink said it was just after seven. The snow outside had stopped sometime in the night, but as I stepped toward the window, something made me freeze.

Tracks. They weren’t boot prints and they weren’t paw prints either… not exactly. The snow around the cabin was in wide arcs, as if something heavy had moved in a circle around the place over and over. The pattern was uneven. Whatever it was had stopped at one corner of the cabin, then doubled back, then stopped again beneath the window I was standing at now. I swallowed hard and stepped back, pulling the curtain closed.

The dream, my eyes glowing in the mirror, the scratches. Now this. “Coincidence,” I told myself, and it sounded weak even to me but it was easier to believe. I pulled on my thermal shirt and jeans, pulled a hoodie over my head, and tried to ignore the way my heart was still racing fast. Today wasn’t supposed to be about creepy nightmares or snow that looked like I was being stalked. It was about the rink.

The local team had agreed to let me skate as part of my “rehab.” This little rink in the middle of nowhere was supposed to help me feel like I wasn't locked out. The rink was smaller than it had been described. The boards were scarred, the ice a little too rough, and the bleachers maybe big enough for a hundred people if they squeezed. A few players were already warming up when I stepped inside, their sticks clacking against the puck, laughter echoing off the rafters.

And then I saw him. He stood near the bench, hands in the pockets of a black training jacket, talking to one of the guys I didn’t recognize. Tall, lean but solid, with dark eyes that swept over the space like they were measuring every inch of it. His hair was black too, curling a little at the ends. There was nothing flashy about him, but something about the way he carried himself made the rest of the rink fade.

I told myself that the tightness in my chest was because I hadn’t been on the ice here before. It was a lie I could live with.

When his gaze landed on me, it stayed there. No smile. He didn't nod. He just stared steadily assessing the place with a look that made it feel like he could see more than I was willing to show. The coach waved me over, running through introductions. Sebastian, this is Rowan Vale, our trainer. He’ll help you warm up, check your form, and keep an eye on that wrist of yours. “It’s fine,” I said automatically.

“Still,” Rowan said, his voice quiet but carrying an edge of authority, “we’ll check it.” I didn’t argue, though I wanted to. Instead, I let him lead me toward the bench. He motioned for me to sit, then pulled a roll of athletic tape from his bag. His hands were steady as he took my arm, turning it round to inspect my wrist.

The moment his skin touched mine, a rush of heat built under the surface like a low, unexpected current. My breath hitched before I could stop it. His eyes flicked up to mine for a brief second. He had felt it too. I could see it in the way his hands tensed, in the way his jaw moved before he returned to the task. I stared at the floor, trying to focus on the scuffed concrete, the sound of skates slicing through the ice, anything but the fact that the simple act of having his fingers on my wrist felt like it was unlocking something in me I didn’t know was tied so tight.

“There,” he said after a moment, securing the tape. “You’re good.”

“Thanks,” I managed to say although my voice didn’t sound like mine. Practice was rougher than I’d expected. The team was smaller, sure, but they were fast, aggressive, and not afraid to throw shoulders. I found my rhythm eventually, letting the muscle memory take over. Still, every time I glanced toward the bench, Rowan was watching. Not in a casual way but in a way that felt like he was cataloging every move and every misstep. When it ended, I was sweaty, sore, and more out of breath than I wanted to admit. I headed toward the locker room, but Rowan’s voice stopped me.

“Sebastian.” I turned round to see that he was closer than I’d realized. His dark eyes were unreadable as he approached.

“Good job out there.”

I stood there frozen and short of words. “Thank you,” I finally managed to muster. 

“Stay inside after dark,” he said quietly. “Don’t go near the treeline.” It wasn’t a suggestion, it was more like a warning.

“Why?” I asked. His jaw tightened. “Just don’t.”Before I could push, he turned and walked away, leaving me with my towel in one hand and a dozen questions in my head. By the time I got back to my cabin, the sun was already dipping low, staining the snow in shades of gold and violet. I locked the door without thinking about it, ate a quick dinner, and tried to convince myself I wasn’t counting down the minutes until full dark.

The wind picked up after nine, and the trees creaked and groaned. I was reading on the couch when I heard a sound so low I almost mistook it for the wind at first. But it wasn't, it was a howl. Not the high, sharp cry of a wolf. This was deeper. Thicker. It rolled through the night like it was dragging something with it. I stood there, my book sliding to the floor. The sound came again, closer this time. My skin crawled. Suddenly, I heard the faint scrape of something brushing against the cabin’s window. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. Whatever it was, it was out there. And it wasn’t leaving.