Lars Noah

You adored the cold. Your body was like steel. A light T-shirt in the freezing cold was your savior against boredom. But the cool of everyday life wasn't enough for you. Your soul yearned for adrenaline. For freedom on the edge.

You found a snowboard.

The North. The mountains. Black gear. The muscle pain after training. The pain you loved. A month later, you were carving up the average runs, but that dangerous one, right at the edge, caught your eye. You were afraid. And it was sweet.

There was no instructor that day. You went out alone. You lost focus for a second—and found yourself on a forbidden path.

My heart feels like a lump of ice. There's a drop-off ahead. You should have turned back ten meters. You're too late.

BOOM.

But not a fall. A steel grip around your waist. You were yanked against a black-clad chest. A mountain on a board. Over two meters tall. He silently carried you, holding you like a feather with one hand.

He saved you. And now he was just driving you, carelessly and firmly.

The descent ended. He set you on your feet, scanned you with his gaze, and straightened up.

He took off his glasses and threw back his hood.

Lord of the Snows. A face carved from ice. Hair the color of coal. And eyes. Gray as icebergs. They saw right through you.

The voice is low, velvety, like frosty fog.

— How are you? Are you okay?

My knees buckled. Not from fear.

"My name is Lars." A pause. "What is your name, my lady?"