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3
Wolfe
I lookup from my laptop when Eyvar, my driver and personal bodyguard, makes a low noise. It’s a cross between a huff and a grunt, but it speaks volumes. The big Icelandic man looks like Thor himself, with a big beard and ice-blue eyes. His hands are so big they nearly cover the top half of the steering wheel and his shoulders bulge out beyond the width of the seat.
He doesn’t usually speak. It’s one of the reasons I hired him.
Even a soft grunt from Eyvar means something’s wrong, and as soon as I glance up from the screen, I know what the problem is.
A woman in a red jacket collapses on the road just ahead of our vehicle. She lands on her back and doesn’t move as the car inches forward, her black suitcase making a slow nosedive into the ditch.
Eyvar slows the car. He wouldn’t normally make an unscheduled stop without my instruction, but we both know what it means for someone to collapse outside in these temperatures.
This is the worst storm I’ve seen in all my life. It’s not even October, but it might as well be the depths of winter, it’s that cold.
The woman has minutes to live if we don’t do anything. Anger flashes through my chest, hot and bright. What kind of idiot goes walking in these temperatures? By the look of her clothes, she forgot she was only a few miles from crossing into the arctic.
Did she not see the storm? Thought it was a good day for a stroll? Has no sense of self-preservation?
Fucking southerners. I can tell just by the look of her unconscious form that she’s not from Nord. Stupid, stupid southerner. They don’t understand this place. They don’t understand the danger. The weakness of the human body. Just how vulnerable we are.
She doesn’t belong here. I know it already.
Eyvar pulls the parking brake and opens his door. A bitter blast of wind slams it closed behind him, and I button my jacket all the way up. My driver crouches over the woman, putting his huge palms to her face and neck, checking for a pulse. I exit the back seat of the car, standing by the open door.
Fuck, it’s cold out. I should have stayed in Stirling, the capital city, instead of coming all the way to the Summer Palace—but then I’d have to deal with the yearly memorials for my dead fiancée. Coming here was supposed to be my escape, and I’m greeted with yet another woman collapsing at my feet.
My heart aches.
Eyvar glances up at me, pale eyes somber. With a grunt, he scoops the woman up and starts marching toward the car. Even that mountain of a man has to brace himself against the wind, the woman limp in his arms. A strand of red hair falls free from her hat, whipping against her lily-white face.
Between her hat and her scarf, I see delicate features. A pink mouth. Eyes closed, with frost clinging to the lashes. Her skin so frozen it’s almost transparent. She looks like some sort of ethereal ice goddess.
What the hell is she doing walking to the Summer Palace in this weather?
A protective instinct flares inside my chest. I nod to the back seat. “In here,” I say.
“I can put her up front,” Eyvar says. The back seat is reserved for me.
I shake my head. “Lay her down there. I’ll try to wake her up. Grab her bag.”
Eyvar grunts, his eyes lingering on mine. He doesn’t approve. I don’t give a shit.
Why don’t I give a shit?
I’m not some Good Samaritan out to save some moron who decided to take a walk along the Arctic Circle. Does she have a death wish? As far as I’m concerned, this woman deserves to freeze. Where was she headed, anyway? The castle? With a fucking roller suitcase?
After Eyvar puts her in the car, I slip into the back seat and lift her head onto my thighs. Her skin feels like ice, but there are soft breaths passing through her lips. I close the door again, thanking everything that’s holy for heated seats.
Unwinding the woman’s scarf from her head, I toss it aside. It’s half-frozen-stiff and half-soaked with melted snow. She’s wearing a second scarf underneath, soaked in sweat. Her hat is the same. If she’s hypothermic, those garments will only make it worse.
She needs to get warm and dry. Fast.
Eyvar hauls her suitcase over, slams the trunk, and gets in the front seat. My bodyguard glances at me in the rearview mirror. I jerk my head at the gate. “To the security lodge. It’s closer, and it’ll be easier to warm up a small room. We don’t have much time.”
“You know her?” His eyes narrow, flicking to the woman in my lap.
I bristle. I don’t like his tone. Maybe my employees are getting a little too comfortable with me. No matter how close we are, Eyvar still works for me. I’m his liege. He should act accordingly.
