I Brought A Drunk Stranger Home To Save His Life — Now He’s Forcing Me To Play His Fake Mate To Survive
Part 1
The flashing lights of the police cruisers reflect off the fresh snow, but all I can see is the reporter’s smug smile.
He shoves a photograph of a missing teenager into my face.
Her name is Emily, and she vanished from the resort last night without a trace.
My stomach twists into a tight, sickening knot.
He demands to know if it connects to Heather.
Three years ago, my best friend walked into the winter storm and never came back.
I told the police about the ancient cave hidden in the pines, the haunting melody, and Heather trapped inside a solid block of ice.
They told me the altitude and trauma caused hallucinations.
Doctor Goldberg prescribed me pills that made the world numb.
I shove past the reporter, but his clammy hand grips my wrist.
He insists there is a serial situation going on right under our noses.
A heavy hand suddenly clamps onto the reporter’s collar.
With a sharp yank, the journalist goes sprawling face-first into a snowbank.
I stumble back, staring at the man who just materialized from the shadows.
He is unfairly tall, wearing a designer suit ruined by snow and blood.
His dark hair falls over his forehead, and his amber eyes are blown wide.
The heavy scent of cedar and expensive whiskey rolls off him.
He sways on his feet, blinking down at me with profound confusion.
He reaches out, tapping my frozen nose, slurring that he is glad I am not made of ice.
All the air leaves my lungs.
He stumbles away, dragging a bleeding leg through the snowdrifts.
My therapist spent three years convincing me the ice girl wasn’t real.
Now a bleeding stranger is rambling about her in the dead of night.
I grab his arm and drag him toward the staff housing behind the bar.
My apartment is tiny, a stark contrast to the Rolex flashing on his wrist.
I push him onto the worn couch and sprint to the bathroom for my first aid kit.
When I return, he is slouched back, humming a low tune.
The first aid box slips from my numb fingers.
It is the exact same melody I heard in the cave the night Heather disappeared.
I drop to my knees, pushing his torn pant leg aside.
My breath hitches in my throat.
There is a massive tear in the fabric, soaked in blood, but beneath it, his skin is perfectly smooth.
There is no wound.
He flashes a lazy grin, mumbling that he stabbed himself an hour ago to stay awake.
Before I can process that absolute insanity, he passes out.
I throw a heavy blanket over his chest, retreating to my bedroom in terror.
The morning sun barely touches the windowpanes when loud pounding rattles my front door.
I trudge downstairs, expecting the reporter back for round two.
Instead, I find my entire family clustered on the snowy porch.
Mom leads the charge, hauling a massive suitcase, while Grandpa Arthur leans on his cane.
My sister Sarah holds little Emma by the hand, scanning my appearance.
Mom announces they canceled their Bahamas trip to stage a family intervention.
They push past me, flooding my tiny apartment with luggage.
I scramble to intercept them, but Emma points toward the hallway.
She asks why the shower is running.
The bathroom door swings open, releasing a thick cloud of steam.
The mysterious stranger steps out, a small white towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
Water droplets trail down his chest, highlighting muscles that look carved from marble.
Grandpa Arthur drops his cane.
Sarah’s jaw practically hits the floorboards.
Mom demands an explanation in a shrill, breathless voice.
Pure survival instinct takes over my brain.
I blurt out that he is my new boyfriend.
The stranger arches a dark eyebrow, his amber eyes locking onto mine.
I grab his damp forearm and yank him back into the steaming bathroom.
I press my back against the closed door, begging him to play along.
He agrees to the charade, but his voice drops, thrumming with dangerous authority.
He tells me his name is Greg, and I am going to have to do exactly as he says.
Ten minutes later, we walk out together.
Greg wraps a possessive arm around my waist, charming my mother into absolute silence.
He announces he is taking me out for a date on the slopes.
The moment we step out into the freezing air, I yank myself free.
I demand to know what game he is playing.
He mutters that the resort owners are hiding something, and I am his perfect cover.
Before I can argue, a stunningly beautiful woman approaches us.
Brenda Grant owns the resort and commands the entire town with terrifying grace.
Her white-blonde hair whips in the wind as she eyes Greg with absolute venom.
She asks if I am the reason he ran out on their meeting last night.
Greg grabs my waist, pulling my back flush against his solid chest.
He inhales deeply against the crook of my neck.
He looks Brenda dead in the eye and declares that our souls connected.
He claims I am his fated mate.
Brenda’s icy blue eyes literally flash a brilliant, inhuman gold.
A low, guttural growl vibrates in the back of her throat before she spins and storms away.
I try to rip myself from his grip, my mind spinning with words like souls and mates.
I whisper furiously, demanding to know what he just did.
He spins me around, his massive hands trapping me against him.
“I am going to kiss you now,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing my jawline, “and if you want to survive the woman walking toward us, you are going to kiss me back.”
