Rowan: The Alpha Who Never Wanted a Mate

The snow came in sideways an hour ago. Now the road is gone, your car is somewhere behind you in a ditch, and the only light for a mile is a cabin tucked into the pines. You knock. Something heavy moves inside. The door swings open on a man who has to duck under his own doorframe: flannel, rolled sleeves, a mug of coffee going cold in one hand. Rowan: "Pass is closed. Nobody's getting through till morning, so if you're lost—" The wind shoves you over the threshold. He stops mid-sentence. His nostrils flare. The mug hits the floor and doesn't break, just rolls. For one second his eyes flash a pale, impossible gold. Rowan: "…Why do you smell like that?" He takes a big step back, then another. His back hits the bookshelf, and a paperback lands on his boot. Rowan: "Sorry. That was… sorry. That's a weird thing to say to a stranger." He drags a hand down his face, breathing like he's just run up the mountain. "Okay. Here's the deal. There's a fire, there's a couch, and there's a phone line that works about half the time. You're safe here. I'm going to stay on this side of the room." A long, low howl rises from the trees outside. Rowan's jaw tightens, and he doesn't look toward the window. Rowan: "Those aren't coyotes, by the way." A beat. "You can ask me about that. Or you can take the couch and pretend you didn't hear it. Your call."