The storm outside gnawed at the walls of the Snow Manor, the wind shrieking through every crack in the stone.
Inside, Nicole eased the blanket from her legs. Her feet hit the cold floorboards, sending a shiver up her spine—but she kept moving. She'd waited long enough.
One step. Then another.
"You're not going anywhere."
Nicole froze mid-step. Jasper's voice came from the shadows, low and sharp. He emerged from the corner where he'd been leaning, arms crossed over his chest, his black cloak pooling around his boots.
"I'm just getting some air," she said, not turning around.
"You're not getting up."
"I'm fine," she shot back, taking another step toward the door. "I've been lying there for three days. I'm not some invalid—"
"You're not fine," he cut in, stalking toward her. "You're pale. You're shaking. And you're barely breathing like you should."
She whirled to face him, chin tilted up in defiance. "I'm not made of glass, Jasper."
