I warned her not to come up my mountain. I warned her not to sing at my door. But she barged into my cabin with snow on her lashes and a stubborn little hum in her throat that rattled every control I had left. The town calls me The Mean One. A monster. A recluse. A living holiday nightmare. Maybe they are right. I hate the carols. I hate the lights. I hate the cheer. But her voice… Her voice does things to me. Dangerous things. Things that make my blood heat and my hands reach for red ribbon and soft curves. She wants her stolen ornaments back. I want one night to hear the sounds she makes just for me. A trade. A dare. A festive compromise. She thinks she can keep quiet. She thinks she can resist singing for me. She cannot. And by the time the storm ends, she will know exactly why the mountain feared me… And why she should have.