The Alpha’s Frozen Heart

Caroline’s POV

The snow hammered against the windshield as if some pissed-off giant were hurling fistfuls of ice straight at me. I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ached, certain my hands would go numb any second—but if I loosened my hold even for a moment, the car would absolutely slide off the road. The storm swallowed my headlights almost instantly, as though the mountains themselves refused to let anyone pass.

“Brilliant idea, Caroline,” I muttered under my breath. “Which part of your brain decided this was smart? Driving into the mountains. In a snowstorm. Right before Christmas. Alone.”

Driving in the city had never been a problem. At worst, I had to dodge a bit of slush. But here I was at the end of the world, where there was more snow than oxygen and more pine trees than people.

My parents’ house couldn’t have been far now. Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself, right up until my foot started shaking on the pedal and a tight, unpleasant knot twisted in my stomach.

Then the tires suddenly skidded.

“No, no, no, no—!” I screamed, instinctively slamming my foot on the brake.

Huge mistake.

The car spun as if I’d boarded some deranged carousel. The world jerked and tilted violently; my heart pounded in my throat, and then—crunch. We slammed into something solid.

My body whipped forward, pain slicing through my side, and for a moment everything went dark.

When I came to, a blast of icy air slapped my skin. The passenger-side window was shattered completely, and snow was pouring in like a white waterfall.

“Shit…” I groaned, trying to move.

My legs tingled, my lower back throbbed, and my hands trembled uncontrollably. The cold seeped through my clothes within seconds, a creeping knife dragging itself slowly along my spine.

I tried the door, but it felt stuck. Jammed. I shoved harder, hoping to force it open, but the metal creaked like a crushed tin can. Panic clawed at my throat. I glanced at the clock, though I had no idea how long I’d been out. The steady tapping of snow softened into a dull, hypnotic buzz, and my eyelids began to droop.

Don’t fall asleep. DON’T fall asleep. If you sleep, you die.

But staying awake felt impossibly hard.

Then—footsteps.

A strange sound broke through the storm. Crunching. Several sets of heavy steps drawing closer, sinking deep into the snow.

Then came the growl.

The cold air itself seemed to vibrate with the sound.

“What the…?” I whispered, though only a cloud of white mist escaped my lips.

The next instant someone kicked the door.

Metal screeched, then tore free entirely. I flinched at the impact, covering my face, but a strong hand was already on my shoulder.

I lifted my head, desperate to see who the hell could rip a car door off its hinges—and then I saw him.

A man stood over me, his shoulders so ridiculously broad he looked like someone had sketched a superhero into the storm. His black hair clung damply to his forehead, sprinkled with snowflakes, and his eyes—

God. His eyes glowed a feral, unnatural green in the darkness, so vivid I forgot how to breathe for a second.

He didn’t look human.

He didn’t look real.

“Fantastic,” he muttered, voice low and raspy. “Another idiot who thought driving up here was a good idea.”

Great. My rescuer was an asshole.

I tried to move, but my limbs refused to cooperate. I felt like a rag doll left out in the cold.

“You awake?” he asked gruffly, leaning closer. His gaze swept over my face, then down my body, cataloguing every injury with clinical detachment. He looked at me more like a problem than a person.

“Well… I’m trying,” I managed. “But I wouldn’t call this the highlight of my year.”

He snorted, the sound sharp and irritated, like I was a particularly annoying squirrel.

“At least you’re talking,” he said. “That’s progress.”

In one fluid motion, he unbuckled my seatbelt and lifted me out of the wreck as though I weighed nothing. His chest radiated heat—actual heat—in the frigid air, his arms solid and steady around me. And despite myself… my body leaned into him.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Is this some kind of near-death survival instinct?

“H-hey…” I mumbled, my head lolling against his shoulder. “Who… who the hell are you?”

“The reason you’re not a frozen corpse yet,” he growled. “Shut up. It’s cold.”

He grumbled, but his grip tightened around me, protective and sure, as though dropping me wasn’t even a remote possibility. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and my eyes grew heavy again.

“Rowan!” someone shouted from the storm behind us. “You still alive? What’d you find?”

Rowan.

So that was his name.

He glanced at me, then called over his shoulder:

“A girl. Half frozen. If we leave her, she dies. And my mother will rip my damn head off if she finds out.”

Laughter echoed from somewhere in the blowing snow.

“Your mother always rips your head off.”

Rowan growled—deep and animalistic. The sound rolled through his chest, and a shiver ran across my skin that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Shut it,” he snapped. “We’re moving.”

His voice vibrated through me, ancient and wild, like something primal simmered beneath his skin.

That was the moment I knew I was going to pass out.

The world smeared into shifting shadows, the voices fading into distant echoes. The last thing I felt was Rowan pulling me closer, his arms a fierce, warm barrier against the storm.

Darkness swept in.

And just before it swallowed me whole, one absurd, embarrassing thought slipped through the chaos:

What the hell just happened?

And why does this man feel like a walking furnace in the middle of a blizzard?