Chapter 13
CLARA
The sound is what wakes me. Not the whistle of wind through the gaps in the window frame or the distant thud of plows fighting their way down Main Street, but the hollow pop followed by a gurgling hiss.
At first, I think it’s another dream, maybe one of those nonsense ones where the house groans like it’s alive. But then water starts seeping across the kitchen floor, cold as the grave, spreading in a thin sheet that shines in the faint light from the lantern I forgot to put out.
I scramble out of bed, cursing under my breath as my feet hit the icy wood, and grab the heaviest towel I can find from the hall closet.
By the time I reach the kitchen, the leak has turned into a steady spray, the pipe beneath the sink split open like it’s been waiting years for this exact moment to betray me.
I shove the towel down, trying to slow the flood, but the water keeps coming, biting my hands until my fingers ache.
“Perfect,” I mutter, yanking the towel back up and wringing it out into the bucket by the stove. “Absolutely perfect timing. Because clearly I don’t have anything else on my plate this week.”
I grab the phone and call Mitch, the only plumber in town who hasn’t retired or moved south, but all I get is a groan followed by static. Then his voice, muffled and half-swallowed by bad reception: “Truck’s dead, Clara. Can’t get out there till morning. Maybe longer. Stay warm.”
Stay warm. As if warmth isn’t pouring across my floor right now, freezing into slick patches where the draft sneaks in.
I stare at the spreading water, hair falling into my face, my hands raw from wringing. And I hate what comes next. I hate it more than the leak, more than the storm, more than the way the whole damn lodge feels like it’s conspiring against me.
But I do it anyway.
I call Dralgor Veyr.
He shows up less than twenty minutes later, snow clinging to his shoulders, his size filling the doorway like the storm itself stepped inside.
He doesn’t ask permission. He never does.
He just ducks under the frame, sets down a tool bag that looks like it belongs in a war zone rather than a kitchen, and surveys the mess with eyes that miss nothing.
“You should have called me sooner,” he says, his voice low and steady.
“I should have called anyone but you,” I snap, shoving another towel against the spray. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He crouches beside me, pries the towel from my grip, and jams a clamp over the pipe with hands so sure it makes me want to scream. “Mitch’s truck broke down. You didn’t have a choice.”
“There are always choices,” I bite back.
His mouth curves, but it’s not a smile. “Not always.”
The clamp holds, slowing the leak to a stubborn drip. He wipes his hands on a rag, leans back on his heels, and studies me like I’m another problem he intends to fix whether I like it or not.
“You’re soaked,” he says, his gaze flicking over my damp sleeves and the water pooling at my knees. “You’ll freeze.”
“I’ll live.”
“You won’t if you keep pretending you’re made of iron.”
I push to my feet, ignoring the way the floor slicks under me. “Better iron than whatever you’re made of. Steel wrapped around secrets.”
His eyes darken, and for a moment the air between us feels thicker than the steam rising from the wet wood. “Careful, Clara.”
“Or what?” I demand, heat rising in my chest. “You’ll buy me out? Bulldoze me? Kiss me and then pretend it never happened?”
The words are out before I can stop them, sharp as knives, and they land in the silence like sparks hitting oil. His jaw clenches, his hands curl, and for one terrifying, thrilling heartbeat I think he’s going to grab me again, crush me against him, finish what we started.
Instead, he steps closer, so close I can sense the heat rolling off him, the scent of cedar and smoke that clings to his skin. His voice drops, rough and possessive. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for.”
“Then make me understand,” I whisper, though my hands are trembling. “Because I’m tired of you showing up like some storm I didn’t invite, tearing everything apart, and then acting like none of it matters. Why are you here, Dralgor? Why won’t you just leave me alone?”
His breath hitches, the sound rawer than I expect, and for a fraction of a second I see something in his eyes—something like fear, something like memory. He leans in, his lips so close I can feel the ghost of his breath, and everything inside me strains toward him, desperate, furious, aching.
But he pulls back.
The space he leaves feels colder than the snow outside, and my heart slams against my ribs like it wants to break free.
“Because I can’t,” he says finally, voice hoarse, like the admission cost him blood.
That should be enough. It should be more than enough. But it isn’t.
“Then stop pretending it’s nothing,” I say, my voice cracking despite my best effort.
“Stop standing in my kitchen, fixing my pipes, looking at me like I’m the only thing keeping you here, and then acting like I’m disposable the second the sun comes up.
If you want me gone, file your papers. If you want to stay, then stay. But stop haunting me.”
The drip of the pipe fills the silence that follows, steady and cruel.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just stands there, every line of him carved from restraint, and I realize with a clarity that almost hurts that whatever keeps him here is stronger than pride, stronger than empire, stronger than anything I’ve ever been up against.
That terrifies me more than the water flooding my floor.
We work side by side in silence after that, wringing out towels, mopping up the last of the water, setting buckets under the drip. My hands sting, my clothes cling damp and cold, but every time I catch his shadow moving against the wall, my pulse spikes all over again.
When he finally gathers his tools, I half expect him to leave without another word. Instead, he lingers at the door, one hand braced against the frame, his head bowed like he’s fighting himself.
“I won’t leave you alone,” he says at last, the words quiet but iron-strong. “Not until this ends.”
I don’t ask what he means. Because I already know.