Cold Mountain Novel Novels & Stories

The impact of Roger’s boney whither against my tender crotch hindered my riding ability until I managed to put mind over matter and block out the discomfort. Using the light of the moon and trusting our mounts, we raced like the wind into the bowels of Wolf Mountain’s reserve. I remembered discovering a small cavern during one of my many days of exploration. It seemed like a good place to hide, so I headed us in that direction. Cindy was silent as she and Daisy kept pace with Roger and me as we rode like our lives depended on it to safety.

He's lying there lifeless in a pool of his own blood, his white polo shirt ripped off at the chest and fresh blood oozing from what looks like a fresh wound around the left breast. My heart stops beating for a moment as I throw myself on his body, picking the murder weapon which is a Ceska pistol and throwing it beside him.. Placing my ear on his chest, I feel his faint heart beat and my face lits up. I try resuscitating him without minding the blood....that's when the unthinkable happens.. Sirens rent the warm afternoon wind! It was a set up! A damn fucking set up! It's already too late to redeem myself.

The storm had been relentless for hours, casting an oppressive atmosphere over the house. Rain drummed against the windows, streaking down the glass in chaotic patterns. Inside, the fire crackled weakly in the chimney fireplace, but its warmth felt distant compared to the icy knot in Lily’s stomach. She sat curled in the deep armchair, a blanket draped over her shoulders and a half-empty cup of coffee growing cold in her trembling hands. Her eyes were fixed on the flickering flames, but her mind was far away-trapped in a loop of memories she couldn’t silence.

His mood changes in an instant. He looks like Sunny just asked one of the most dangerous questions that she could ask. The sweetness of the candy is already gone and his stares send shivers down her spine. If glares can do something to a person then maybe she’s dead and cold meat already. That’s how dangerous he looks right now.

The Snow Mountains had always been a place where few dared to travel. Jagged peaks cut into the sky like ancient blades. Snowstorms swept across the valleys without warning, swallowing entire paths within minutes. Even the strongest wolves avoided the region unless absolutely necessary. That was exactly why Kaleb Wilder had chosen it. Hidden deep within one of the mountain’s narrow passes stood a small wooden cabin, half-buried beneath layers of snow. Smoke curled weakly from the chimney as the fire inside struggled against the bitter winter winds.

“It was February, the heart of winter. I landed in a tiny airstrip outside Yakutsk, the kind of place where the cold cracks your skin. I had a jeep for the first leg, but the snow got too deep, so I went on foot—me, a backpack, a rifle, and a map that was half guesswork. The locals said Dmitri was hiding in a trapper’s cabin, three days into the taiga. The cold was relentless, Pamela. It clawed at you, sank into your bones. The first night, a blizzard hit. I dug a snow cave to survive, curled up with a thermal blanket, listening to the wind scream like it wanted me dead.” Pamela’s eyes filled with tears, her imagination painting a lonely, frozen world. “That sounds so lonely,” she whispered,

Ethan stood there like a shadow against the white snow, looking perfectly calm. He was wearing a long, expensive overcoat that looked like it belonged in a city office, not on a freezing mountain. Not a single hair was out of place, even though the wind was screaming around us. He wasn't holding a gun, but he didn't need one. He had all the power, and he knew it. Behind him, the cliff dropped off into a black hole, and the silence of the mountain felt like a heavy, cold blanket over my head.

I stood side-by-side with Mara in the glittering northern daylight and heard the echo of three weeks’ worth of labor being officially catalogued, and in that moment — beneath my throbbing shoulder and the cold morning and the tension of the two days that were starting to release — I experienced the peculiar calm that follows closure. It was done. A thing or two that began on a rainy night on a country road and wound through woods and ridges and pack houses and storage units and Council chambers and a blood challenge ground to find its way here — to a Saturday morning in the north with frost on the ground and a woman beside me who’d held through all of it so that she could for others. “Ready?

The cold was an ache, a deep, penetrating thing that went beyond flesh and settled in my bones. Time lost all meaning. Was it minutes? Hours? The world was reduced to a sphere of white pain a few feet in front of my face. My only companions were the howl of the wind and the frantic, thudding beat of my own heart. I walked. I stumbled. I fell. I got up. I walked again. In the back of my mind, a question burned, a single point of heat in the frozen wasteland. Who was Daniel Rovik? Who was the woman in the snow? Who was the person sending the texts?

The night on this unfamiliar planet in the Andromeda galaxy was strangely beautiful. The diamond-made mountains shimmered in the moonlight, and a gentle fragrance drifted from the blue-colored trees. Inside our small cottage, Sona was sleeping peacefully. I stood on the balcony, lost in that beauty. It felt as if the cursed history of the Moreno lineage, the laboratory in Quebec, the ice of the Himalayas, and the catastrophic war inside the sun—all of it had been nothing but a nightmare that had faded away in this new dawn.