Page 4 of Jilted By Jack Frost

I would guess I’m about halfway between the hospital and my house when they go out completely, and I’m left in the dark with nothing but the howling wind in my ears and whirls of snow to keep me from seeing straight.

Definitely should have stayed at the hospital. I should have listened to Alana, bit the bullet, and waved my dignity goodbye. But I’m almost home, and I haven’t died, so I might as well keep going. Especially since if I try to turn around, I might lose my footing against the wind and end up lost in this absolute void of darkness.

I take a few more steps into the night, and then I swear to shit the wind picks up even more. So much so that I wince, and my knees buckle as I try to hold myself up. Then it’s spiraling more and more, and getting colder and colder with every sharp gust of wind.

It feels like it’swrappingaround me. Like it’s tightening around my body, like I’m not just in the storm’s eye but that Iamthe eye of the storm.

It had been a joke before, when I told Alana I’d curl into a ball. But I find myself doing it, crouching down and wrapping my arms around my legs to try to keep steady.My eyes are clenched shut tightly, and I’m not sure that I could open them if I wanted to at this point.

The wind is battering against me so forcefully, socoldly, that I’m starting to believe Alana’s worries might come true and I’ll wind up in a ditch on the outskirts of town frozen solid.

It hits me then that I truly have come to resent being at work so much that I walked home in a blizzard rather than stay there past my shift. I hate being at work more than I enjoy being safe.

And that didn’t use to be me. I used tolovemy job, used to love spending every second of my shift doing what I could for the people who needed me most.

Now, it’s not enough. I would rather be anywhere else than at work.

Which seems pointless to realize now that I’m standing in the middle of a snowstorm, but it’s the truth. One that I’ve been holding in my mouth, refusing to swallow, until this very moment.

Iwantadventure. I want more than staying in this town, tending to the same people I’ve known since I was a baby. I wantnew. I wantexciting. I want to finally live my life formyselfinstead of for everyone else.

Unfortunately, this revelation didn’t slap me across the face until my life started flashing before my eyes, but better late than never, I guess.

With my eyes closed and my whole body braced against the wind, it takes a second for the change to register in my mind, but the second it does, my body tenses even more than before.

The wind stopped. It’s still cold, obviously, and I still feel snow brushing gently against my face, but there’s no wind.

Suddenly, it’s gone. Faster than I could have snapped my fingers.

Holy fuck.Did I actually just die? Am I dead?

Because I’m pretty sure blizzards aren’t just there one second and gone the next. It’s more of a gradual fading, sometimes slow enough that the only way you can tell it’s fading is when your house stops creaking against the brutality of the wind.

I need to open my eyes. But if I open them, I risk not seeing the snow-covered cement beneath me. It might be heaven. Would I even know heaven if I saw it? Would I know I was dead?

“What is this little thing?” A voice says, a chilling and curious voice. It sounds demeaning, almost. But more than that, it sounds… old. Masculine and clear, and not old in a way that leads me to believe it’s an old man that stands there, butancient.

I force myself to uncurl my arms from around my legs. To try to look less meek, lesslittle. Look like more of a threat than I actually am. The chill that rattles through me wraps right around my heart the second I open my eyes and my gaze locks on a pair of icy blue eyes.

When he speaks, it’s not the same voice as before. His voice is one of pure ice, of authority and power and distaste.

“She,” he says, eyes darkening with hatred, “Is my mate.”

The voice from before says nonchalantly, “Is she?”

Surprise adds to the curiosity from earlier, and I tear my gaze away from those blue eyes until I meet a pair of smokey gray ones. His face is all sharp lines and features that seem almost dainty in comparison.

“It would seem so,” the blue-eyed one murmurs. “If the prophecy is accurate.”

Mate. I don’t know what it means, nor do I particularly care for him calling me hisanything, but I’m more worried about looking like I’m not freaking the fuck out than I am about figuring out whatever the hell they are talking about.

I force myself to stand on shaky legs, eyes back on the one who seems to believe he has some sort of claim on me. The one with icy blue eyes and long white hair.And is his skin blue?

“Who are you?”

One of his brows quirks and a dangerous smile teases at his lips, though it is nowhere near an authentic one. Or comforting. It only sets me more on edge than I already was.

“Insulting that you should ask who I am after trespassing into my kingdom. You are the one who needs to explain yourself.”

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