Chapter 4
Ember fell asleep between one breath and the next. Rykan watched as her body slumped down in the chair and her breathing evened out into the deep rhythm of true rest.
I can’t leave her there.
He gently lifted her into his arms and she immediately curled into him, fitting against his chest as if she belonged there.
His arms tightened around her reflexively.
Even half-frozen and barely breathing she’d felt right in his arms. Now that she was warm and soft, pliant with sleep, the feeling threatened to overwhelm him.
His beast purred in satisfaction, but he shook his head.
She’s too close.
He carried her to the sleeping platform, gently laying her down, her skin pale and tempting against the dark furs.
He carefully pulled the shirt she was wearing down over her thighs but it made no difference.
The image of her naked body was permanently etched in his brain.
Small perfect breasts topped with rosy little nipples that made his mouth water.
Silky blonde hair only partially concealing the delicate pink folds between her legs.
He’d tried to treat her like an injured animal, focusing only on warming her and keeping her alive, but he couldn’t deny the way her scent had left him hard and aching.
Her scent…
His beast stirred again, restless and demanding.
Ours.
His beast wouldn’t be silent. It hadn’t been silent since the moment he’d caught her scent.
Impossible.
He pulled the heavy furs over her, his knuckles brushing against her cheek as he did so.
Softer than anything he’d ever touched. He pulled away before his beast could tempt him further, but watching her sleep in his bed—his bed, surrounded by his scent, wrapped in his furs—only made his beast’s demands more relentless.
He clenched his fists and walked away. The cabin suddenly felt too small, too warm, too filled with her.
He needed to think. Needed to breathe air that didn’t carry her fragrance.
He unlatched the shutters and opened the window, the blast of cold air like a slap to the face.
The world beyond the cabin was a study in black and white—a landscape of white snow broken by dark tree trunks and the dark grey of the rocky peaks.
The sun was setting and the sky was a heavy leaden blanket, promising more snow to come.
If more snow fell, the pass could be blocked for a long, long time. Days. Maybe weeks. He was trapped with her and her impossibly tempting scent. Trapped in this cabin with a human female who looked at him without fear.
Foolish, he thought. She should be afraid.
He was Vultor. His kind had clashed with human colonists for decades, with too much blood spilled on both sides.
Those disputes had died down but even now, most humans crossed the street to avoid a Vultor walking the same path.
They flinched at the sight of golden eyes and tensed at the sound of a growl.
Ember had done neither. And when he’d asked if she was afraid, she’d met his eyes and said no like it was the simplest truth in the world.
He drew in a deep breath of the frigid air, trying to clear her scent from his lungs. It didn’t work. Her fragrance lingered at the back of his throat, sweet and persistent, a promise he had no business wanting. He hadn’t been lying when he said he’d come to these mountains to be alone.
Six years, he thought. Six years I’ve lived here alone. Six years of peace. Six years of silence.
Six years of running from his pack.
The memory was a harsh reminder that appearances were deceptive.
The most innocent exterior could hide a manipulative heart.
He’d learned that lesson in blood and betrayal, in the moment when the female he’d thought was his had chosen his weaker half-brother instead.
Lysara had looked innocent too. Soft-voiced and gentle-eyed, with a smile that had made his beast purr happily.
But that smile had hidden ambition sharper than any claw.
His jaw tightened. He shouldn’t be thinking about Lysara.
He shouldn’t be comparing this human stranger to the female who’d helped destroy his place in the pack.
They were nothing alike—different species, different places, different circumstances entirely.
But for the first time since he’d left his pack, he was interested, more than interested, in a female.
This is dangerous.
He should have left her in the pod. He should have walked away and let the mountain claim her. One more death on a world that had seen plenty—what difference would it make?
But he hadn’t walked away. He’d torn open that pod with his bare claws, pulled her into his arms, and carried her through the snow to his cabin.
He’d stripped the wet nightgown from her body and wrapped her in furs, built up the fire and watched over her.
And when she’d opened her eyes and smiled at him, his beast had roared with something that felt terrifyingly like recognition.
Because she’s ours, his beast insisted.
No. Never again.
After returning her to the bed, he watched her sleep for hours. He told himself he was monitoring her recovery and making sure she didn’t slip back into shock. But the truth was simpler and more pathetic—he liked looking at her.
She was beautiful in the way of fragile things, all delicate bones and smooth skin and hair that caught the firelight like spun gold.
She was so small. So much smaller than Vultor females, who were built for strength and endurance and the harsh demands of mountain life.
This human looked like a strong wind might break her.
But she’d survived the destruction of her ship. Survived a pod crash. Survived hours of cold that should have killed her. And when she’d woken in a stranger’s cabin, alone with an alien male twice her size, she hadn’t screamed or cried or begged for mercy.
“I should be terrified,” she’d said. “But I’m not.”
Maybe she was stronger than she looked. Or maybe she was simply naive enough not to understand the danger she was in.
Either way, it wasn’t his problem. He’d pulled her from the pod, warmed her up, fed her.
Once the pass cleared, he’d point her towards the human settlement at the base of the mountains and wash his hands of the whole situation.
No entanglements. No complications. No repeat of the mistakes that had once cost him everything.
His beast disagreed, but his beast could go hang itself.
She woke when grey light appeared behind the shutters—morning, though the clouds continued to hang low overhead.
He had dozed in his chair, never quite losing awareness of her presence across the room.
When her breathing changed, he was instantly alert, watching through half-lidded eyes as she stirred beneath the furs.
She stretched, a languid movement that arched her back and pulled the thin linen shirt taut across curves he definitely should not be noticing. Her eyes opened, unfocused for a moment before finding him by the fire.
“You’re still here,” she said, voice rough with sleep.
“My cabin.”
“True.” She pushed herself upright, wincing. “How long was I asleep?”
“Eight hours. Maybe nine.”
“That long?” She blinked, then seemed to take inventory of her body. “I feel… actually, I feel terrible. Worse than last night. Everything aches.”
“Your body’s recovering from exposure. It’ll hurt for a few days.”
“Wonderful.”
She threw back the furs and swung her legs over the edge of the sleeping platform, clearly intending to stand as she had the day before. He knew before her feet touched the floor that it was a mistake.
“Wait—”
Too late. She pushed herself upright and her legs immediately buckled, strength deserting her in a rush of failed coordination. He crossed the room before thought caught up with instinct, catching her around the waist as she pitched forward and pulling her against his chest.
Her breath caught, and her eyes went wide. And when he looked down, her nipples had stiffened beneath the shirt. His body reacted with mortifying predictability, blood rushing south in response to the feel of her pressed against him, warm and soft and impossibly fragile.
Remain in control, he ordered himself.
“I told you to wait,” he growled, not releasing her. If he let go, she’d collapse again, and the last thing either of them needed was her injuring herself further.
“I thought I could manage.” Her voice was steadier than he’d expected, though color had risen in her cheeks. “Apparently I was wrong.”
“Apparently.”
They stood there for a moment that stretched too long, her weight supported by his arm around her waist, her hands gripping his biceps for balance. She was looking up at him with those curious eyes, and he could see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat.
Let her go, some rational part of his brain insisted. Put her back in the bed and walk away.
Instead, he asked, “Can you walk if I help you?”
“I think so.”
He adjusted his grip, shifting to support her along one side while keeping enough distance to preserve some fraction of propriety. Not that propriety mattered much—she was already wearing nothing but a thin linen shirt, and he’d already seen far more of her than he should have.
Slowly, carefully, he guided her across the cabin to the chair she’d used the night before. She sank onto it with obvious relief, though she kept one hand on the table’s edge for support.
“Thank you.” She looked up at him, and there was that damned gratitude again, that open sincerity that made his beast want to preen. “I seem to be saying that a lot.”
“You need to eat again.” He turned away before she could see how her words affected him, busying himself with the supplies on his shelves.
He sliced some dried meat and hard cheese, then added a handful of dried berries he’d gathered before the snows came.
Not a feast, but enough to rebuild her strength.