A Yeti to Yield To

By Jo Lavollee

Supernatural influencer meets dirty ice queen.

Unapologetically eccentric and charming, Alistair Hexworth knows how to make monsters feel right at home in his gigantic gothic castle nestled in the Stormlandish mountains. The master of Highcragh is a powerful man with lots of responsibilities and friends everywhere, since he’s made it possible for so many supernatural beings to finally meet their soul mates.

But when he sets off one day for a hike in the mountains and gets swallowed up in a snow storm, he’s the one who finds himself in dire need of help.

Now, Alistair doesn’t mind being rescued *at all*. Even less so when his saviour is an elusive mountain creature with a gorgeous voice, a sensuality that rivals his own in creativity, a sharp sense of humour, rare magic, and a heart as impregnable as a fortress.

Fiercely independent, Yetty has been burned by love before and hunted by humans. Now, they will do anything to protect their privacy. Even if it means rejecting destiny’s perfect gift—delicious Alistair Hexworth.

This novel-length steamy paranormal romance is part of the Monster R&R series, but like all of its other books, it stands alone proudly. It contains agency and compromise, many pairs of silk pyjamas in happy colours, adventures in the snowy mountains, hermaphrodite, fluid, star-crossed love, enough heat to melt a glacier, a secret baby, mostly British English spelling, and of course, some good old-fashioned gothic castle fun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Lavollee
• Release date: Nov 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005104832

Jo Lavollee

Hi! I’m Jo. I write character-driven steamy romance. My stories tend to come in serials because I love complications. I find nothing’s spicier than characters taking a life of their own.So prepare for adventurous scenarios, very sophisticated friendships, dangerous games, power plays, leading ladies, sexy tricksters, and handsome princes in distress. I like dark alpha males as well as vulnerable cuties. And my female characters tend to come with a rebel streak or a temper. Sue me.You can read stories out of order if you’re just here for a one-night stand. Or you can climb in for the entire ride, thrills, emotions and all. That’s up to you.Firsts in series will generally be free. When a story arc is done, bundles will ensue, and they will read like novels, with a Happily Ever After, or at least a Happy For Now. Stay tuned!

Book preview

1

Ahh, Highcragh. Nowhere else in the world did Alistair Hexworth feel so good. Just looking at the castle’s tall, dark shadow set so dramatically against the mountain landscape, and feeling the freezing cold air of Stormland gnaw at his cheeks, he felt a powerful sense of elation about that place.

It was home. It had been for some time now. Alistair owned that wonderful place, and he was making it flourish.

Granted, it might not be every king's or princess’s fairytale castle. It had far too many nooks and crannies for that, secret passages and haunted hallways, not even counting its world-renowned, giant dungeons—dungeons that could change a man, that could change any monster, and routinely did so.

And speaking of monsters, most of the guests Alistair entertained weren’t the kind international hotels liked to boast about. His clientele had fangs, scaly tails, razor-sharp talons, bone-curdling voices. Some of the guests had magic that would have sent anyone running for the hills in terror. Some followed very uncommon, very un-PC diets. Others required particular care or showed appetites that could be quite technical to fulfil.

Alistair welcomed them and catered to them all. And he was proud of that.

He believed monsters deserved love and happiness just like anybody else on this planet. And he actively sought to help them find it. Meaning, he put his meddling genius to good use and wouldn’t give up until every last one of his guests was well rested, well fed, well fucked and thoroughly happy.

Of course, he couldn’t do all that by himself alone. He was a good cook, a talented entertainer and a truly great lay, a good sport all around in every area of life. But he was only one person, so he employed staff to help him keep his guests happy—or help his guests make themselves happy.

Cooks, maids, bellboys (although never in the lobby), managers, dungeon masters, anger management gurus, swimming instructors, fitness coaches, ballroom dance masters, and of course, a mating counsellor.

Although right now that spot was wide open, because Alistair's friend Phoebe McLeod had just left him hanging. She’d been with him almost since he’d taken up Highcragh after his uncle had passed away, leaving him the estate. Phoebe had matched and helped more monsters than Alistair cared to remember.

But she was gone now.

In hindsight, it should have happened a long time ago: finally, Phoebe had used her own talent on herself and found the true love she deserved. She’d just flown to California, swept away by a great guy, a hunky, truly enormous troll she really enjoyed keeping on his toes.

Now Alistair was going to have to replace her as a mating counsellor. In the meantime, as he ran interviews, he was going to have to play her role with the guests. He wasn’t sure he could do that as well as she had, because his style was so different. A lot more hands-on meddling, and a lot less psychology, he feared.

But the worst thing about this was that he was going to have to make this transition without the good advice and kindhearted companionship of his friend.

That hurt. He’d turned a good-natured smile on the happy couple when they’d left. He’d let them know they were welcome back anytime—and they were.

But now, he felt like he was walking with lead shoes, as if his heart had been tethered to the bottom of his enchanted lake, to be slowly eaten by the fish and the mermaids.

In front of him, the giant castle doors, heavier than hell’s gates themselves, slowly creaked open to reveal the tiny silhouette of his clerk and lobby manager, Lucy.

Mr. Hexworth?

Lucy had glossy dark hair, cute heart-shaped lips, huge blue-grey eyes that she made up with way too much smoky eye shadow, a blood-red livery that fit her like a glove, and a crush on Alistair that he tried to discourage at all times, since she was also his little cousin. This, not snobbery, was why he made her call him by his surname.

Yes, Lucy?

Your midnight appointment, Ms van Spaff, just called to warn us that she’d been delayed at Heathrow. She’s not going to be making it tonight.

Oh. Too bad, the poor thing. Does she need a place to stay in London? Will you find her one?

Already have, Lucy smiled, her pale cheeks blushing. She was very cute, even for a dhampir. But don’t expect her until tomorrow.

Well done. And thanks for the update. This left Alistair without any appointment for the evening. He’d meant to check on the dungeon, but could suddenly feel the weight of discouragement on his shoulders.

Are you alright? Sir? Lucy asked kindly.

Alistair sighed. Of course I am. Listen. I think I’m going to go for a walk.

Now? Surprise and worry warred in her voice.

Now, he confirmed.

Uhm. Dressed like that? she dared to insist.

What was wrong with his clothes, he wondered? Okay, he may still be wearing his hot pink pyjama bottoms, but they were silk and he routinely donned them for work. They were thick and soft and warm. The shoes were good to go—sturdy patent leather boots. His orange faux-fur coat was a lot warmer than it looked, and so was his billowy lace shirt. He looked at his hands: okay, the mittens may not be quite warm enough, but he would keep his hands in his pockets and that would do the trick.

Just a little walk, he said reassuringly, before giving Lucy his bossy glare, the one no girl in their right mind could ever mistake for flirting. Get back to work.

Nodding and apologizing, Lucy scurried away, shutting the heavy castle doors behind her.

Alistair was alone in the cold night again. It wasn’t dark, not really. It had snowed again that morning and the moon was shining off the frozen white crust, making everything gleam and glitter.

It was perfect.

Alistair turned on his heels, and took off into the mountains.

2

Alistair might have bitten off a little more than he could chew.

All around him, the snow rose from the ground in evil columns that didn’t look like snow anymore and weren’t even white, and sounded a lot like furious bees. They stung him any chance they got and howled insults in his ears while he trudged along. With every step he took, he seemed to get deeper into the snow, earlier it had just been thigh high and now, he was in it up to his waist. He was frozen and bone tired. He doubted he was still on the path. He wasn’t even sure he was still on the mountain, to tell the truth.

It had started as a nice walk, but as he’d reached the first of the three low summits he liked to visit on a regular basis, the weather had taken a turn for the worse.

Meh, this wasn’t his first mountain walk in less-than-ideal conditions. As a Stormlander, he’d had his share of adventures in his early years and he’d always managed to keep all his fingers and toes. Maybe it was time to lose one. Maybe it would be symbolic. Phoebe was worth at least a toe.

But it was time to find some kind of cover now. He was okay with giving up a toe, but not his life. He looked around for something resembling shelter. Any old rock would do, he was a seasoned igloo builder. Without a rock, he could just dig himself a snuggly little place under the snow, but a rock would be quicker.

Everything was white.

Sighing, he stepped forward, and . . . fell into the snow.

Not to his waist or even his chest or his neck. No. He fell so deep in the snow that he couldn’t see light anymore, couldn’t breathe.

He tried swimming upwards. It seemed like the sane thing to do. If the mountain was dissolving, he would just surf it and to hell with it.

And it did work, at least for some time. He swam his way to the surface and even spat out some snow at the stormy brown clouds.

The moon had been gone for a while and the only light came from a place in front of him, across the white chaos. At least he’d thought he was seeing something, until he couldn’t anymore.

He swam towards it for a while in the snow, as crazy as it seemed, because he knew from experience that crazy things could be done as long as you didn’t reflect on their craziness too much.

Then, he had to admit that even light silk pyjama bottoms did weigh a ton when soaked and frozen stiff. He was cold and tired and most worryingly of all, depressed.

So when the swimming got too much, he decided to just give up for a minute of rest. Just a minute, to close his eyes.

3

If Alistair wasn’t dead, then he was one lucky bastard.

But then, he might be dead. He’d never done it before. Maybe this weird feeling could be death. Not being able to move was definitely a symptom, wasn’t it? And he wasn’t cold at all, but he wasn’t really warm either. Wet? Dry? A little of both, he decided. Maybe drying, then.

If he wasn’t dead, then he must be . . . in stasis.

Yes. That was exactly what it felt like.

He opened his eyes and was met with the most beautiful sunset he’d ever seen.

Or maybe it wasn’t sunset. Or even dawn. No. There was no sun to this light. It was dancing around, and glittering through some kind of opalescent, beautiful stone.

No. This was a fire he was watching through an ice curtain. He must be in some kind of shelter or cave. He was standing up, propped up against something. And he couldn’t move his head. In fact, he couldn’t move anything. All he could do was gaze at the beautiful, moving lights, try and listen for that noise . . . he could make out crackling fire and groaning ice and howling wind in the distance, and closer to him, he thought someone was humming.

But before he could ask who was there with him, he drifted off again.

The next time he woke up, nothing much had changed. His mind, though, was a bit sharper about it, and he remembered what had happened to him, and that he wasn’t dead, and that he wasn’t alone either. There really was someone humming nearby. The soft singing brought to mind an ancient lullaby and it stirred some old memory of softness and content.

And this time he was conscious enough to notice that his not being able to move wasn’t because of any injury he’d sustained. He felt good. He was just stuck in a giant block of ice. The weirdest thing about it was that it didn’t feel cold. And it couldn’t be real ice either because if it was, he’d be dead, and he really thought now that he wasn’t.

Hey there! he called. Are you stuck in that weird ice, too?

The humming stopped abruptly and silence fell around him. Alistair was suddenly worried that he’d scared the stranger into mutism.

But then, the most wonderful, warm, melodic, deep voice seemed to raise from deep within the ice itself.

Oh, you’re awake. Good. I was starting to worry.

Male or female, Alistair couldn’t tell. It could be either a wonderful tenor or a sexy, throaty woman alto. In any case, he loved the sound of it.

I’m fine, he said, but I seem to be completely stuck. I can’t move at all. He gave an uneasy laugh. I can’t even see you.

What would you give to see me? the stranger weirdly asked.

What a strange question to ask in a time of crisis.

A lot, Alistair said. Where are you?

How much exactly? I’m right next to you.

Can you move?

I can move just fine, the voice said.

That startled Alistair. Maybe his reading on the situation was a little off.

So he asked instead, What happened?

And that got him answers.

You were swimming the ice like the ancients did, the wonderful voice said. You were doing fine, but then, something awful crossed your mind, and you let yourself go. You gave up in the most pitiful way.

The voice seemed disappointed in him. Not angry, not even acerbic in any way. Just kind and sad.

You were drowning, so I dove in to catch you, the voice explained.

Thank you, Alistair said. You saved me.

You’re welcome. We’re in my cave now. It’s not often that I have visitors, willing or otherwise.

With pounding heart, Alistair really thought about his next question, but there were really no two ways about it.

Uhm, your visitors? What do you usually do about them?

The voice gave the throatiest, sexiest laugh.

You mean do I eat them?

I guess I am asking that, yes, Alistair had to admit.

Sometimes. Not often. Only the annoying ones.

That was a relief. Wasn’t it? Alistair waited, as there was probably a lot more answer to follow up on that.

"Most of them I just talk