Chapter 34
Elsa
The garments arrived at sunset.
Elsa sat curled in the furs near the fire, still feeling the echo of Sylas’s tension through the bond—the war chamber meeting that had consumed most of his afternoon, the weight of decisions she’d sensed more than understood. He’d told her to rest. To conserve her strength for what was coming.
Tomorrow night, the Blood Moon would rise.
Tomorrow night, she would run.
The door opened without warning, and Sylas filled the frame like he’d been carved from shadow and intent.
He’d removed his formal armor, stripped down to the dark underlayers that clung to the hard planes of his body.
In his arms, he carried fabric—white and red and impossibly soft against the rough darkness of his claws.
“Stand up.”
Not a request. An instruction delivered in that low voice that made her pulse skip despite every rational thought.
Elsa rose from the furs, hyper-aware of the thin sleeping shift she wore, of the way his gaze tracked over her like he was cataloguing every inch. Through the bond, she felt hunger and something else—something reverent and terrifyingly focused.
“These are for tomorrow.” He crossed to the low table near the hearth and laid out his burden with careful precision.
White layers emerged first—winter-weight fabric meant for running in snow, lined with something soft and pale that looked like it might actually keep her warm.
Fitted leggings. A tunic that would move with her body rather than against it. Boots designed for traction on ice.
Practical. Protective. The kind of clothing meant for survival, not seduction.
Then he shook out the final piece, and Elsa’s breath caught.
The cape was the color of fresh blood.
Deep crimson wool lined with white fur, heavy enough to ward off the cold but cut short enough not to tangle in her legs when she ran. A hood attached at the shoulders—the kind that would frame her face and catch the wind like a banner.
Like a target.
“White for innocence.” Sylas’s voice dropped into something darker. “Red for the Blood Moon. For the hunt.” His claws traced the edge of the hood, almost tender. “For what happens when I catch you.”
The implication settled into her bones, warm and unsettling. She’d grown up on fairy tales—the old Earth ones her grandmother had told her before bed. Little Red Riding Hood walking into the wolf’s domain, all bright color against dark forest.
In those stories, the wolf was the villain.
She wasn’t sure what that made her—walking willingly into his woods, wearing the color of prey.
“It’s beautiful.” The words came out steadier than she felt. “And terrifying.”
“Good.” He laid the cape across the back of a chair, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles with the kind of attention he usually reserved for maps and battle plans. “That’s exactly what it should be.”
His gaze found hers, and something in his expression made her stomach tighten.
“Have you eaten?”
“Not since—” She tried to remember. The morning felt like a lifetime ago. “Earlier.”
Something flickered across his face—displeasure, maybe, or concern dressed up as disapproval. He moved to the side table where covered dishes waited, steam curling from beneath silver lids. Elsa hadn’t noticed them when he entered, too focused on the male himself to register anything else.
“Sit.” He gestured to the arrangement of cushions near the fire. “I’ll bring it to you.”
“I can—”
“Sit.”
Elsa sat.
She watched him move through his own space—this massive predator who’d torn through enemies to reach her, who’d killed a High Priest with his bare hands, now carefully arranging dishes on a tray like he was serving royalty. The disconnect should have been jarring. Instead, it felt…normal.
He settled onto the cushions beside her, close enough that his heat radiated through the thin fabric of her shift.
The tray held more food than she could possibly eat—roasted meat sliced thin, some kind of grain preparation studded with dried fruit, vegetables glazed with something sweet and sharp.
A cup of the warm spiced drink she’d grown to appreciate.
But instead of handing her a plate, Sylas selected a piece of meat with his claws and held it to her lips.
“I can feed myself.” The protest came automatically, even as warmth bloomed low in her belly.
“You can.” He didn’t withdraw. “But tonight, you won’t.”
Through the bond, she felt his intention—not control for its own sake, but grounding. Anchoring her in the present moment, in her body, in the reality of his care. Tomorrow would require every ounce of strength she possessed. Tonight, he was going to make sure she had it.
She opened her mouth and let him feed her.
The meat melted on her tongue—rich and savory and seasoned with something that tasted like home despite never having existed on Earth. Sylas watched her chew, swallow, and immediately selected the next piece. Patient. Methodical. Like tending to her needs was the most important task in his kingdom.
Elsa stopped fighting it somewhere around the third bite.
Let herself sink into the strange intimacy of being cared for, of having someone else decide what she needed and provide it without asking permission.
Her grandmother would have called it old-fashioned.
Her colleagues at the Navigator Academy would have called it regressive.
She called it exactly what she hadn’t known she was starving for.
“The meeting went well.” Not a question—she could feel the answer through their connection. “You decided something.”
“I decided many things.” He held the cup to her lips, steadying it with claws that could tear through steel. “Rowan and Milo will be released from pit debt. Assigned roles. Monitored, but free.”
Relief washed through her so sharp it stung. Her crew. The people she’d failed to protect when the ship went down, the ones she’d been fighting to save since she woke up in this frozen hell. “Really?”
“Mia stays with Yarx. She’s useful there, and he’s...protective.” Something almost like amusement flickered in his amber gaze. “Ari remains with Ryxin. He’d gut anyone who tried to separate them at this point.”
“And me?”
The amusement vanished, replaced by something hotter. Fiercer. “You become Luna. Tomorrow night, when I catch you under the Blood Moon, you become mine in every way that matters to my people.” His free hand found her jaw, tilting her face up. “And then I reshape this entire realm to keep you safe.”
The intensity of it stole her breath. Not a declaration of love—Sylas didn’t speak in those terms. But something deeper. Something that felt like vows written in blood and stone.
“That’s ambitious.”
“I’m the Alpha King.” His thumb traced her lower lip. “Ambition is expected.”
She laughed, soft and unexpected. It felt strange in her throat—when had she last laughed? Before the crash, maybe. Before this world of predators and politics and a male who looked at her like she was the answer to questions he hadn’t known he was asking.
Sylas’s expression shifted at the sound. Something hungry and wondering, like he wanted to bottle it.
“More.” He selected another piece of meat and held it to her mouth. “Eat.”
She ate. He fed her until she couldn’t manage another bite, until her stomach was full and warm and her limbs felt heavy with satisfaction. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. Through high thin windows, the last light of sunset faded into winter dark.
Tomorrow night, a different light would fill that sky.
“Bath.” Sylas rose in one fluid motion, pulling her up with him before she could protest. “Come.”
The bathing chamber was warm with steam and Lux Tear light.
Sylas had bathed her before—after Vask, after the rescue, after her world had narrowed to violence and terror and his arms pulling her free. That had been clinical in its gentleness. Necessary. The care of someone putting broken pieces back together.
This was different.
He stripped her slowly, peeling away the thin shift like he was unwrapping something precious. His claws traced patterns on her skin—her shoulders, her spine, the curve of her waist—memorizing topography with touch. She shivered, and he made a low sound of approval.
“In.” He guided her down into water that embraced her like liquid warmth. Oils slicked the surface, releasing scents she was beginning to associate with ritual—Frosted Tears, something floral and sacred.
Elsa expected him to stay on the edge. To wash her from a distance, maintaining some barrier between their bodies.
Instead, Sylas stripped off his own layers and stepped into the pool behind her.
Heat. Fur. The hard press of his chest against her back as he pulled her into the cage of his body.
His legs bracketed hers beneath the water, his arms circled her waist, and for a long moment he simply held her—chin resting on top of her head, breathing slow and deep like he was drawing her scent into his lungs.
“I’m going to touch every part of you.” The words rumbled through his chest into her spine. “I’m going to know you well enough to find you in the dark, in the snow, in a crowd of a thousand scents. Do you understand?”
Her mouth went dry. “Yes.”
His paws started moving.
He washed her hair first—working oil through the strands with surprising dexterity for someone with claws.
His fingers massaged her scalp until tension she hadn’t known she was carrying melted away.
Then lower, across her shoulders, down her arms, lifting each hand to clean between her fingers like every inch of her mattered.
Her back came next. He traced her spine with reverent attention, found knots in muscles she’d been clenching since the crash and worked them loose with patient pressure. Her ribs. Her stomach. The soft undersides of her breasts, touched with a gentleness that made her ache.
Not seduction. Not exactly. Something deeper. He was mapping her, learning her, imprinting her onto his senses in a way that felt permanent.