Seraphina's POV

"M AYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY , this is November niner zero..."

The frightened voice of the pilot fades away, swallowed by the wind tearing at the Cessna from both sides. With trembling hands, I grip the seatbelt straps over my shoulders and press my back hard against the wool cushion of my seat as if pushing myself deeper will somehow give me more protection when we go down. I force cold air into my lungs between quiet pleas for help.

Please don't crash. Please...

In the seat next to mine, Marisol isn't quiet at all, crying out a stream of words in her native Spanish tongue. Curses or prayers? I cannot tell. Probably both right now.

Our eyes meet briefly, her dark ones shining with tears, screaming with fear. I think about reaching for her hoping to calm her down a little, but the plane suddenly shakes and jerks sideways. Overnight bags, left unzipped since the start of the flight when we all grabbed our phones and tablets, spill their contents. They spin through the air like confetti inside a snow globe.

I squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath as the plane drops. "Brace for impact!" the pilot yells just a second before metal tears outside the window.

Marisol screams. A window breaks. Freezing Icelandic wind blasts my face. Strands of my hair stick to my cold cheeks as we spin through the air.

My stomach twists. My heart pounds faster than I can count.

Finally, the plane crashes, the terrible chorus of thuds, pops, tearing metal, and breaking bones filling the air around me as I toss and bounce in my seat. Something sharp stabs into my arm. Something heavy lands on my leg. I grip the seatbelt straps so hard the friction burns. My teeth press together so tightly my gums ache as my jaw stays locked.

In all the chaos and the hurt, I pour my desperately pounding heart and my frightened mind into one last quiet prayer.

Mom... Dad... Anyone... If anyone is out there, please help me...

The next moment, something slams against the side of my head, the force snapping my eyes open, though I cannot see anything through the red blur. The last thing I hear is a faint voice echoing from somewhere distant before everything goes still and silent.

I WAKE UP TO THE WHISPER of snow touching the ground, to the crackle of a fire, to the sound of breathing my own. The smell of fresh coffee, burned wood, and natural pine drift into my nose. I am alive.

I force my eyes open. My lids feel as heavy as the boulders I see sticking up through the snow outside the window. I turn my head. I am staring up at an unfinished pine ceiling painted orange by the glow from the fireplace.

Where am I?

As I sit up, the green blanket on top of me slips off, showing multiple bandages under torn clothes. I am hurt? I cannot feel it. Maybe it is adrenaline. The pain will come later.

Now, I remember. I was on a Cessna over Iceland, on my way to do research for my company, but the weather was worse than expected and the plane crashed.

I put a hand on my head, remembering having been hit, and find only a few layers of gauze. I look at both my hands. No blood. No cuts. No scars.

I press my palms against my cheeks, letting out a sigh of relief.

I survived.

Thank goodness.

But what about Marisol and the pilot?

I sit up carefully, aware of the bandages, of hidden injuries. But I have to know. Picking up the blanket from the rug and wrapping it around my shoulders like a cape, I leave the room, stumbling down a hallway with three doors, moving faster than my feet can carry me.

The first will not open. A broom and a shovel fall out of the second one. I push them back quickly, and open the third. A small bedroom. Empty. The blue sheets do not even have wrinkles and the walls smell slightly of dampness. A layer of dust covers the stool in the corner.

I move on to the kitchen, my heart racing with worry. The room is empty. Counters. Appliances. What you would expect to see. But no one is there.

Where are they?

"They did not make it."

I spin around so fast at the sound of the voice that my elbow hits the knife block, the lone knife in it wobbling. The blanket around my shoulders slides to my feet.

Grabbing the edge of the counter, I stare at the cause of my shock. His messy strands of hair fall down the sides of his face like a thick curtain, some covering his eyes, and then flow past his shoulders, where drops of it are scattered across the pale skin of his bare chest and arms. With just that veil of hair and a pair of dirty, gray sweatpants on, he could have passed for a wild creature. Or someone sitting on a sidewalk in Reykjavík with a cardboard sign and a cup for coins.

Both untrustworthy. Both possibly dangerous.

I never even heard him come in.

I glance at the knife in the block, my fingers creeping closer to it as he steps closer, a mug of coffee in each hand.

The smell of the beans flows into my nose, and right behind it something more striking his scent, like an aged bottle of red wine straight from the cellar. Pure, earthy and strong.

Attractive.

As he stands in front of me, I finally see the man. The sharp cheekbones. The strong jaw. The broad shoulders. That stunning torso with its solid muscles shaped to perfection, two of them disappearing below the waistline of his pants.

Forcing my eyes back up, I meet dark black eyes, pieces of a starless night. The breath I did not know I was holding leaves my lips as a gasp.

"I am sorry." He holds out one of the mugs of coffee to me, the red one with the handle.

Seraphina's POV

I take it, savoring the comforting warmth as I wonder what he is apologizing for.

"About your friends," he adds, lifting his own mug to his thin lips.

Friends? Right. I was asking about Marisol and the pilot. Well, they are not exactly my friends. Marisol is new, so I have not had the chance to know her, and the pilot is a stranger.

"Wait. Did you say they are gone?"

"I am afraid so." He walks toward the window and looks out. "You are the only one who was still breathing when I found the plane, or what is left of it."

I set the mug down on the counter, clasping a hand over my gaping mouth as I let out a silent wail. No. My knees buckle and I fall on the floor.

"Come on." He sets his mug down on the windowsill and walks over to me, offering me his hand. "You should be back on the couch."

"No." I straighten myself up, leaning on the counter. "I should tell someone about what happened. Do you have a phone?"

"Does this place look like it has signal to you?"

"Internet?" No answer. My fist clenches. "Shit."

"You really should go back on the couch. You are still injured."

"I am fine." I am not really, but I am not about to tell him that. Whatever injuries I have I am still not noticing. But the ache, the uncertainty of finding I am the lone survivor of a plane crash in the Icelandic wilderness has left me badly shaken. I do not even know the people who have died and I am fighting the urge to cry.

I leave the kitchen, walking down the corridor as my mind sputters, scrambling to put together my next course of action. What should I do?

"Go back on the couch and rest," the man behind me says, his voice firmer than before. "Or, damn it, I will carry you back there myself. I did it before. I can do it again."

I turn to face him, angry at his bossy tone, placing my hands on my hips. "Are you threatening me?" I am usually the one who gives the orders. And this filthy creature thinks he can tell me what to do?

He takes a step forward, towering over me. "And if I am?" The hard gleam in his eyes sends me a step back, a lump gliding down my throat. Still, I take a deep breath before lifting a finger. "You know what? I will forgive you because I know you are just concerned and all. Also, I will pretend that did not happen."

He opens his mouth to speak, but I hold my finger higher. "I have rested enough. What I need is to find a way to let someone know what has happened."

He sighs.

"The next time you rescue someone, Damon, make sure she is a damsel in distress, not a pain in the ass." I turn around. No one is there. And I could swear I had not seen his lips move. I look at him, eyes narrowing. "Did you just call me a pain in the ass?"

"Fuck. She heard me."

"Yes." I nod. "I heard you. I..." I step back, my hands over my mouth. I do not want to believe what I am thinking. Holy shit. I can hear the man's thoughts. My head injury did not give me superpowers, did it?

Damon crosses his arms over his chest. "I doubt that."

My arms fall to my sides. "Shit. You can hear my thoughts, too?" He does not answer, but that silence just confirms my suspicion.

"This is insane." I pace the living room as I chew a fingernail. Damon follows me, but keeps a careful distance. "Will you please stop pacing the room?"

I stop walking only because I am tired of pacing. I fold my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes at him. "How long have you been able to hear my thoughts?"

He leans on the side of the shelf. "That is how I found you. I heard you calling."

I raise my hands in automatic protest. "But I did not..." Wait a sec. I did call for help. Well, I begged for help. I did not think anyone would answer, but now that I think back on it. Was it his voice I heard just before I fell unconscious?

Damon's eyebrows furrow. "What?" It was his voice. I remember, which means I did hear him back then. Or maybe I was just getting disoriented.

"Think something." His eyebrows go up. "Excuse me?"

"Think something so I can say for sure if I can really read your mind, or I am just going crazy. Tell me your favorite color."

"No."

"Alright, no is not really a color. Let me try something else." What do you prefer? Dog or cat?

"Dog."

I grin, pointing a finger at him. "Gotcha." The corners of his lips curve down into a scowl.

I wipe the grin off my face as I sit on the edge of the couch.

"Oh, shit. I cannot believe this is happening." I glance at Damon. "Have you always been able to read minds?" He does not answer. "Well, not me. If I had, I would have had a few promotions by now, maybe won the lottery, bought my own house, got married..."

I stop, realizing I am babbling. "Sorry. I tend to babble when I am nervous." I take a deep breath. "You are Damon, right?"

"And you are Seraphina Grey."

I snort. "Of course, you would know since you have been reading my mind this whole time, which I must say I find a bit rude."

"Actually, it is from your ID." He grabs my ID, which is hanging from its strap off a peg on the wall, on his way to the couch. Of course. I had the badge shoved in my pocket when the plane went down. I give him a sheepish grin. He tosses it to me. "You work for a research laboratory?"

"Yes." I nod.

"What kind of research?"

"Mostly biology." I stare at the plastic card in my fingers, frowning at the photo where unruly strands of my honey brown hair stick out from the sides, one of my eyes appear slightly smaller than the other, and my lipstick looks unevenly applied. "Why do I always end up looking horrible in these ID pictures?"

Seraphina's POV

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, pausing as I see a bit of blood on it.

I frown. I must look worse now, what, with my hair needing a rake and my clothes stained with blood and in tatters. And to think I was judging Damon on appearances earlier. Talk about the teapot calling the kettle black.

He sits on the couch beside me. "So, you are saying you could never read anyone's mind before?"

I glance at him. "Now, someone is interested?"

"Just curious."

I sit back. "No. Like I said, it must be because of my injury." I tap my head.

"Speaking of your injury, I should check on that." He moves closer.

"What?" I sit up, waving my hands. "No, I am fine. You do not..."

His eyebrows crease.

"You are thinking I am being a pain in the ass again, are not you?"

He snorts. "For someone who has never done this before, you are learning fast."

I chuckle. "Finally, a compliment."

"That was not..."

"Fine." I move closer to him, closing the gap between us. "Do what you have to do."

I sit still, gazing into the fire across from me as he unwraps the bandages. The strip of gauze starts to fall into a pile on my lap.

I take the end between my fingers. "Thank you, by the way, for saving me."

"You needed help. I could not ignore that."

I tap my fingers on my knee. "Are you a doctor, by the way?"

"No. But I know first aid."

I frown. "Not to insult your first aid skills or anything, but did not you think I needed a doctor when you found me? Did not it occur to you to bring me to the nearest hospital?"

"The nearest hospital is nearly a hundred miles away," he says, still unraveling the gauze. "I was going to bring you to the hospital as soon as the weather improved if..."

The end of the gauze drops at the same time Damon's jaw does.

My heart stills. "Damon?"

"Have you ever had a head injury before?"

"No."

"A serious injury?"

"Not really. Just some scrapes. Why?"

He does not answer. I get up and head toward the window, examining my reflection in the glass pane as I put my hand on the side of my head, my fingers rubbing against my scalp, which is no longer throbbing in pain.

No bump. No cut.

Strange. I was sure something had hit my head hard.

I take the bandage off my arm, gasping as I find the skin smooth where a gash should have been.

What the hell?

I turn to Damon, eyes wide. "What have you done to me?"

-----------

Damon's POV

"I DID NOT DO ANYTHING to you, Seraphina," I say this in front of the locked door to the spare bedroom. I have been saying it for a while now and it is getting old.

As before, all I get are sobs, her thoughts too muddled for me to read.

My fists clench. I have no idea what to do with a crying female. I do know enough to realize that while tearing the door down might solve the problem, it probably will not. I do not need that kind of drama.

Finally, I give up. "If you do not believe me, there is nothing I can do." I shrug and walk away. Let her deal. She obviously does not want my help.

I get out of the cabin, ignoring the wind that has started to swirl around me and the snow that is up around my knees as I run to the woods. There, I scoop a ball of snow and hurl it against a tree, the white sphere splattering into countless tiny puddles.

Well, fuck.

I do not know why the hell Seraphina will not believe me. Okay, so she does not know me. That should soothe my battered ego some, only it does not. My word is sacred, and to not be accepted as such leaves a raw and bitter taste in my mouth. Hell, even if I had wanted to do something to her, I could not. Primals are bred. Not made.

Leaning against a tree trunk, I glare up at the gray sky, resenting the clouds, resenting the weather that brought her here. I never asked for company.

She is not a Primal. At least, she does not smell like one. In fact, she does not smell like anything I have ever known. She is a unique potpourri. There are some familiar notes, though, that acidic, slightly salty odor that is distinctly human, the scent of flowers, mint, smoke, dog fur.

And in that brief moment before we spoke, the scent of desire.

The mere memory of it lights a fire in my veins, especially those in my crotch.

Desire.

The females of my kind are not gifted with it. Only the alpha male is. If he wants a mate, he takes her and she submits. No questions asked. She does it out of duty, not because she wants to. She just takes, not gives.

And yet, that scent off Seraphina has made me think of all the things she can give me and of all the pleasure I can give her. Nothing has ever been more arousing.

I sink into the snow, willing the icy pile to douse the prickling heat in my body. I gather some of it in both my hands as well, washing my face in it and running my hands through my hair.

I want to take her, but I cannot. I do not even know what she is. She can read my mind and I can read hers as if we were part of the same pack, of the same breed, and yet, she clearly feels no urge to submit to me as she would if she was of my pack. Quite the opposite. She defies me. In addition, she heals faster than I ever have and yet, she has no knowledge of that kind of healing until now.

She does not know what she is. And neither do I.

Worse, she thinks I am responsible for what she is, when all I ever did was save her life.

A pain in the ass, all right.

I turn around, burying my fist into a tree.

It is not enough to vent out my frustration, though, or the helplessness that I am feeling for the first time in my life. Only one thing will.

Taking my pants off and then tossing them over a branch, I crouch on all fours and suck in a deep breath. Then I start running, the wind whipping my hair back as my feet rise and fall off the snow without a sound.

I can only hope that when I return, Seraphina will have come to her senses.