Page 23 of Heart of Frost and Scars

“I was?”

“I tracked the timeline in your notes. You turned thirty the day after you died in the lake.” Monty’s gaze drills into me with an edge of accusation undercut by a cloud of regret.

I had sex with Kody the day after I drowned. It was our first time together, Kody’s first time ever, and Monty knows it. He read every detail.

In the tense silence, his stare is heavy and aggressive. His hands clench and unclench at his sides as if wrestling with the urge to reach out or pull back.

Every aspect of him oozes refinement and manners, but I’m well-acquainted with the vicious possessiveness simmering beneath the surface. It’s what drew me in and kept me at arm’s length. A constant paradox wrapped in primal, sexual energy.

As he stands there, looking all stoic and arrogant, I don’t miss the subtle quiver in his jaw, a twitch he can’t control. A silent scream against the pain of losing me and the role he played in our unraveling.

My chest tightens, a knot of confusion and hurt that I struggle to ignore.

How do I reconcile the man who sought me across the Arctic with the one who kept family secrets and wandered from our vows?

“Back off, asshole.” Leo, missing nothing, steps between us.

All I see is his broad back, effectively severing my eye contact with Monty. I exhale a held breath.

“Back off?” Monty asks. “We’re having a conversation.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” Leo crosses his arms, his posture imposing.

“You missed her birthday.”

“So did you.”

I can’t breathe through the fog of testosterone as they puff their chests and mark their dominance with their potent scents.

Too many alphas in the room.

“That’s enough.” I slip around Leo before he escalates this to another fistfight. “There were no birthdays in Hoss, Monty. No holidays, no celebrations, no joy.” I brace my hands on my hips. “But that’s in the past. We’re moving forward.”

I keep my posture rigid, my shoulders firm, but my eyes flit through the room like a captured bird.

The air presses against me, thick with the aroma of rain and old wood, stained with memories, good and bad.

Monty doesn’t blink, his lips pressed into a thin line, the corners downturned in a frown that holds a world of things unsaid.

“Do you still employ a chef and housekeeper?” I ask, changing the subject. “Oliver and Aurora?”

“Yes.” He inclines his head. “And Kai and Greyson.”

The chauffeur and landscaper.

“Until we get on our feet,” I say, “are there any jobs around here we can do?”

“No.” His fingers tap a silent, impatient rhythm against his thigh, a display of controlled annoyance. “No wife of mine will do domestic work.”

“I’m not your—”

“The answer is no, and that’s final.”

“Well, then I guess I’ll be returning to the hospital sooner than—”

Three snarling objections slam into me.

“You’re not going anywhere alone,” Kody growls. “Not for work or otherwise. Not until your life is no longer threatened.”

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