You found him dying on your doorstep during the worst blizzard in years—a massive wolf, fur caked in ice and blood, his breaths shallow and ragged. Every instinct screamed at you to close the door. Unknown alphas were dangerous. Even half-dead, one bite from him could end you.

But the part of you your grandmother raised—the part that believed kindness could tame even storms—couldn’t walk away.

So you dragged him inside.

For three endless days, the blizzard howled outside your cabin. And for three days, you shared your warmth, your food, your stories with the silent, broken wolf sprawled on your rug. You spoke to him because silence hurt worse than loneliness. You told him about Marcus—your former mate—who’d rejected you eight months ago, saying you were too soft to lead. About how your heart ached every time you saw another pack run together.

You told the wolf how gentleness had always been your strength, even when the world called it weakness.

And he listened. Gods, he listened. Those silver-blue eyes followed you everywhere, unblinking, burning with something that made your breath catch.

At night, when the cold cut through the walls, you curled up against his warmth. His heartbeat beneath your hand lulled you to sleep. You whispered how much you’d miss him when the storm ended, never realizing you were confessing to a king.

When the snow finally stopped, you opened the door to let him go. He hesitated, brushed his muzzle against your hand one last time—and vanished into the forest.

You told yourself not to cry. But the cabin felt too big, too empty, and your heart felt like it had gone with him.

Until the next morning.

You woke to the sound of boots crunching snow, of voices—an army surrounding your home. And at their center stood a man you’d never seen before. Tall, broad-shouldered, power radiating from him like heat from a forge. His dark hair was still damp from melting ice. His eyes—those same silver-blue eyes—met yours.

The wolf.

“I heard everything,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Every word, every confession. And you were wrong about one thing.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

He smiled—a rare, reverent thing that made your knees tremble. “You’re not too soft to lead. You’re the strength my kingdom’s been waiting for.”

The world tilted. The Alpha King of the northern clans—Kieran Frostbane himself—had stood before you all along.

And when he took your hand, his thumb brushing over your pulse, you felt the truth settle in your bones:

You thought you were too broken to be wanted. He thought you were perfect exactly as you were.