It's live. 🐻 And secrets don't stay buried in the Rockies.

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Hey babes!

Thawed by the Bear is out today — and I cannot wait for you to read this one.

Here’s the situation: Victoria Fleet arrives at a mountain lodge she’s just inherited and has never heard of, carrying her portfolio and a four-day timeline. Her plan is simple. Assess, document, sell, leave.

The first crack appears immediately: someone has been maintaining this place. It’s warm. Lived-in. Nothing like the cold efficiency her father built his public life around.

The second crack is a man in the doorway.

Rourke Vander tells her she can’t sell. That her father made promises. That something lives in this territory worth protecting — and she’s about to destroy it through ignorance. He’s blunt and territorial and frustrating, and he’s inside her head before she can stop it.

Then she finds the journals.

Fifteen years of her father’s private thoughts, written in a cabin he never mentioned, about a life he kept entirely separate from the one he’d built with her. About a man named Rourke. About learning to sit with silence instead of filling it. About what happens when you stop controlling long enough to see.

Victoria came here to close her father’s chapter. What she gets instead is the beginning of her own.

Thawed by the Bear is available now on Amazon.

If you haven’t started the series yet, the prequel Bonded to the Bear is FREE on BookFunnel,

Happy reading,

Peyton 🐻

xo

VICTORIA

The road ended where my father’s secrets began.

Gravel crunched under the SUV’s tires as I rolled to a stop in front of a structure that shouldn’t exist. Not in any file I’d inherited. Not in any conversation we’d ever had. Not in the meticulously organized estate documents that had consumed the last six months of my life.

And yet, here it was.

Timber and stone rose from the forest floor like something that had grown rather than been built. Two stories, wraparound porch, shutters weathered by decades of mountain storms. The whole thing sat in a clearing surrounded by spruce so dense the afternoon light barely penetrated.

Beautiful. Completely impractical. Impossible to monetize in its current state.

My phone buzzed. Jensen, my assistant, with his fifth text since I’d left cellular range an hour ago.

Investors confirmed for the 18th. Presentation deck needs final approval. When are you back?

Four days. I had four days to assess this property, photograph the bones, and sketch a preliminary renovation plan. Then back to Vancouver, back to the pitch that would determine whether Fleet Hospitality survived another quarter under my uncertain leadership.

I grabbed my leather portfolio and stepped out into air so cold it burned. October in the Rockies, elevation high enough that snow already dusted the peaks. The forest smelled like wet earth and pine resin and something wilder I couldn’t name.

My heels, expensive, architectural, utterly wrong for this terrain, sank into soft ground as I approached the porch. The key turned smoothly. No rust, no resistance. Someone had been maintaining this place.

Inside, golden light filtered through the windows. Vaulted ceiling supported by massive beams, stone fireplace large enough to heat the whole first floor, furniture that looked handmade rather than designer.

Comfortable. Warm. Lived-in.

Nothing like the minimalist penthouse my father had kept in Vancouver. Nothing like the sleek office where he’d built an empire on the principle that luxury meant elimination, removing noise, removing clutter, removing anything that demanded emotional processing.

The bookshelf caught my attention. Leather-bound journals, dozens of them, spines labeled with years. I pulled one at random.

My father’s handwriting filled the pages. Not business notes, personal entries. Observations about the forest, about seasonal changes, about learning to sit with silence instead of filling it.

June 14th, Saw the grizzly again today. She knows I respect her territory. We’ve reached an understanding.

My chest tightened. When had my father developed an interest in wildlife? When had he become someone who sought understanding instead of control?

“You’re trespassing.”

The voice came from behind me, deep, rough, absolutely certain.

I spun, heart hammering, journal still in my hands.

A man filled the doorway. Tall enough to duck under the frame, broad-shouldered in a way that suggested physical labor rather than gym memberships. Dark hair shot through with silver, though he couldn’t be much older than forty-five. Eyes the color of storm clouds fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

He wore rugged outdoor clothes, canvas jacket, worn jeans, boots caked with mud. Everything about him screamed local, territorial, dangerous.

“I’m not trespassing,” I managed, lifting my chin. “I own this property.”

He took a step inside, and the room felt smaller. “Your father owned this property. You inherited a responsibility you don’t understand.”

“I inherited a building and the land it sits on. The deed transferred legally. If you have a claim, take it up with my lawyers.”

His jaw tightened. “Your lawyers don’t have jurisdiction here.”

“Property law is property law.”

“Not in Glacier Clan territory.”

Clan. The word hung between us like something significant I was supposed to recognize.

“I don’t know what that means,” I said carefully. “But I’m here to assess the property for potential sale. I’ll be gone in four days. If there’s a dispute about boundaries...”

“Four days.” He said it like I’d announced a death sentence. “You can’t sell this land.”

“I can sell whatever I inherit.”

“Your father made promises. Signed agreements. Protected something you’re about to destroy through ignorance.”

Anger sparked beneath my careful control. “My father kept this place secret for years. Whatever promises he made died with him.”

Something flickered in those storm-gray eyes. Not quite sympathy, but close.

“They didn’t,” he said quietly. “And until you understand that, you’re a liability.”

“Then explain it to me.” I set the journal down, crossed my arms. “Because right now you’re a stranger making threats. Give me a reason to listen instead of calling the RCMP.”

He studied me for a long moment. Something about his gaze felt invasive, like he was reading more than my expression.

Finally: “My name is Rourke Vander. I’m the Warden for Glacier Clan. Your father and I had an arrangement that kept this territory stable for fifteen years.” His voice dropped. “You showing up here, planning to sell, it destabilizes everything.”

“I don’t care about your arrangement.”

“You should.” He moved closer, and I caught his scent, pine and snow and something else that made my pulse quicken despite my irritation. “Because if you sell this land to the wrong buyer, people die. And that blood will be on your hands.”

The threat landed cold and precise.

“Get out,” I said.

“Four days.” He turned toward the door, then paused. “Learn what your father protected. Then decide if you can live with destroying it.”

He left as silently as he’d arrived.

I stood in my father’s secret sanctuary, hands shaking, mind racing.

Clan territories. Wardens. Arrangements that protected unnamed people from unspecified danger.

Either this man was dangerously delusional, or my father had been involved in something far more complicated than I’d ever imagined.

I pulled out my phone. No signal, of course.

Four days to uncover secrets my father had died keeping.

Four days before Rourke Vander decided I was a threat worth eliminating.

The forest pressed close against the windows, full of watching shadows.

And for the first time since I’d arrived, I wondered if I was truly alone.

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