The snow wasn't cold. That was Winter's first, disjointed thought as the wolves closed in. It was a pristine, blinding white, stretching endlessly under a moon like a frozen coin. Beautiful. Deadly. She stumbled, her bare feet sinking into the deceptive softness, the icy burn finally registering. Then came the growls – low, guttural vibrations that shook the marrow in her bones. Yellow eyes ignited in the encircling light, pinpricks of feral hunger.
Run. The command screamed in her mind, but her legs were stuck. Shadows detached from the trees, resolving into massive, grey-furred shapes, saliva glistening on sharp teeth. The alpha, a monstrous beast with eyes like chips of obsidian, lunged first. Its weight slammed her down, the impact punching the air from her lungs. The snow beneath her cheek was instantly warm. Then came the tearing agony – jaws clamped on her shoulder, wrenching. Another wolf seized her thigh. She couldn't even scream, just a choked gurgle as the world dissolved into hot pain and the coppery tang of her own blood flooding her mouth, spilling crimson onto the virgin snow. So much red…
Winter jerked awake with a strangled gasp, her body arching off the sweat-drenched sheets. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. The phantom pain in her shoulder and thigh throbbed. For a second, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump vibrating through the floorboards felt like the wolves' paws. Then reality crashed in, harsh and unwelcome.
Music. Blaring, bass-heavy, skull-rattling music. Coming from down the hall. Caspian's room.
"Nine times," she rasped into the darkness of her small but elegant bedroom, her voice raw. The ninth nightmare in as many nights. Each one was identical. And each one ending with her ripped apart on snow stained with her lifeblood. She shoved damp, brunette hair off her forehead, her green eyes scanning the familiar room – a stark contrast to the opulent chaos reigning in the rest of the Cross mansion. Just a bed, a worn dresser, a single window overlooking the manicured, moonlit grounds that felt more like prison walls. Her sanctuary was a cell, and the noise test her patience.
Anger, hot and immediate, burned through her. She swung her legs out of bed, the cheap cotton nightgown clinging to her damp skin. Ignoring the tremor in her hands, she stalked out into the dimly lit corridor. The bass intensified, pounding against her temples as she approached Caspian's door. No point knocking. He wouldn't hear it over this din. She turned the handle and shoved the door open.
"Turn it down, Caspian! Some of us are trying to—"
The words died in her throat.
The scene froze her mid-step. Caspian, shirtless, lean muscles taut, his dark hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, wasn't alone. He was bent over the edge of his messy bed, buried deep inside Evelyn Rock. Evelyn, his fucking cousin, her blonde hair fanned across Caspian's rumpled sheets, her head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth forming a silent 'O' of pleasure. Her hands were braced against the headboard, knuckles white. The music thundered around them.
Winter's stomach lurched. Not surprise, exactly. Disgust, yes. Cousins. It wasn't even the worst thing she'd witnessed under this roof. Just the latest exhibit in the Cross family zoo.
Caspian's head snapped up, his playful eyes wide with momentary shock, then quickly shifting to a lazy, unrepentant grin. Evelyn gasped, scrambling to cover herself, her face flushing crimson.
Winter didn't wait. She didn't scream. She didn't even slam the door. She simply jammed it shut with a sharp, final click, cutting off the sight and muffling the music only slightly. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood for a second, breathing through the nausea.
Gone crazy? she thought, the words bitter ash in her mind. They were born this way. Pack of fucking animals. Vincent, the pious Alpha; Sable, his venomous Luna; Caden, the arrogant heir; Ivy, the viper in velvet gloves; and Caspian, the charmingly degenerate bastard. And Evelyn, happily joining the circus. All wolves. All powerful. All despising the human stain they'd been stuck with – her.
Pushing off the door, Winter retreated to her room. The nightmare's icy claws and the scene she'd just witnessed battled within her, but routine was her armor. A cold shower did little to cleanse the feeling of dirt. As she toweled off, her gaze caught on the reflection in the steamy mirror. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks beneath tired green eyes. Cupid's bow lips set in a hard line.
She dressed mechanically in simple black trousers and a grey sweater. Brushed her long, brunette hair into a severe ponytail. Ready to face the wolves at breakfast.
At the top of the grand staircase leading down to the main hall, Winter paused. The opulent chandelier glittered below, illuminating the expensive rugs and polished wood. It looked like a stage set. Taking a deep, steadying breath that did nothing to calm the knot in her stomach, she descended.
The dining room was a study in controlled chaos. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, glinting off silver cutlery and fine china. Platters of eggs, bacon, and pastries steamed in the center. Sable Finch, Luna of the Stone Pack, presided at the head of the table, her expression already pinched as she meticulously spread jam on a croissant. Vincent sat beside her, reading the financial section of the newspaper, the picture of respectable Alpha-dom.
Winter slid into her usual seat at the far end, the chair scraping loudly on the polished floor. She reached for the coffee pot.
"Winter," Sable's voice cut through the clatter of cutlery, sharp as a shard of ice. She didn't look up from her croissant. "The kitchen trash needs taking out. Now."
Winter paused, the coffee pot hovering over her cup. She kept her voice flat, devoid of inflection. "We have maids for that, Sable."
Sable's head snapped up. Her dark eyes, usually cold, held a sudden, dangerous glint. Before Winter could react, Sable was out of her chair. In a blur of movement fueled by supernatural speed, she crossed the distance. Her hand shot out, not with a slap, but a brutal grip on Winter's upper arm. She yanked her bodily out of the chair with terrifying strength.
Winter stumbled, pain lancing through her arm where Sable's fingers dug in like steel claws. Sable hauled her close, her expensive perfume cloying. Her lips brushed Winter's ear, the words a venomous whisper only she could hear.
"You listen, you little human stain," Sable hissed, her breath hot. "The next time I give you an order and you open that ungrateful mouth to argue? I won't just bruise you. I'll use these," her free hand flexed, fingertips elongating slightly into sharp, black claws that pricked Winter's sweater, "to decorate that pretty little face of yours. Permanently. Understand?"
Fear, cold , shot through Winter, momentarily eclipsing her anger. She knew Sable meant it. The Luna's hatred was a tangible thing, a constant, low-grade threat. Winter held herself rigid, refusing to flinch, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing her terror. She met Sable's furious gaze with a flat, icy stare of her own.
"What's going on?" the Alpha lowered his newspaper, his brow furrowed. "Is everything alright over there?"
Sable released Winter's arm with a final, painful squeeze that promised future retribution. She beamed a dazzling, utterly false smile at her husband. "Everything's perfectly fine! Just reminding Winter about her chores. She gets so distracted sometimes." She smoothed her silk blouse, the picture of elegant composure, as if she hadn't just threatened to mutilate someone.
Vincent's gaze flickered between his wife and Winter. It wasn't concern Winter saw; it was assessment. A mild irritation at the disruption. He gave a short, dismissive nod. "See that it's done promptly, Winter. No dawdling." He returned to his newspaper.
Without a word, without a flicker of expression crossing her stone-face, Winter turned. The pain from the nightmare throbbed in time with the fresh ache in her arm. The scent of expensive food turned her stomach. She walked out of the dining room, past the oblivious maids, through the gleaming kitchen, and towards the back door.
The large black trash bag waited by the service entrance. She hefted it, the weight light compared to the burden she carried. Pushing the door open, she stepped out into the crisp morning air. The scent of damp earth and distant pine was a brief, clean reprieve.
She walked the familiar path towards the large, discreet bins tucked away near the garage. Her face remained impassive. It is her carefully constructed mask of indifference. Inside, the storm raged – the wolves tearing flesh, the memory of claws pricking her skin, the visceral disgust at Caspian and Evelyn, the searing imprint of Sable's grip and her whispered promise of violence.
She flung the bag into the bin with more force than necessary. The lid slammed shut with a loud, final sound. Winter Cross stood there for a moment, alone in the sunlight, her breath diming slightly in the cool air.