Chapter 21 Clara
CLARA
The stars come late in winter, slow to pierce the heavy quilt of clouds that hangs over the ridge, but tonight they show themselves in clusters, sharp and white against the black sky.
I stand at the window after everyone else has gone to bed, the lodge quiet, only the soft hiss of the stove and the occasional groan of timber shifting under its own age keeping me company.
The bridge feels lodged in my chest, the way he stood there with the contract, the way his voice carried like steel hammered hot, the way he looked at me when he admitted he was afraid.
I don’t forgive him yet. I told him that, and I meant it. But something in me cracked when he said he’d wait until I told him he could touch me. A man like Dralgor isn’t supposed to wait. He’s supposed to take, to bulldoze, to walk through life as if everything belongs to him already.
That he didn’t, that he stood still with his hands at his sides and that steady voice of his, waiting for me to make the choice—well, that unsettles me more than his empire ever could.
I sip at the cocoa Dee left cooling on the sill, my breath fogging the glass. The snow outside has stopped, the world shining under the stars, and I don’t feel like the lodge is caving in on me. I feel like it’s breathing again.
The next day, I find him in the square where the festival tents are strung with lanterns and the fiddler tunes his bow.
He doesn’t step into the crowd; of course he doesn’t.
He leans against the post at the far side of the cider stand, coat collar turned up, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes scanning the space like he’s a sentry rather than a guest.
“You’re terrible at blending in,” I say when I walk up beside him.
His mouth twitches, the closest he gets to smiling. “You found me easily enough.”
“Not hard when you look like you’re guarding the place.” I tilt my chin toward the dancing circle where children spin under strings of paper lanterns. “You should try joining instead of looming.”
“Looming is safer.”
“For you or for them?”
He looks down at me, eyes dark in the lanternlight. “Both.”
I roll my eyes, though the corner of my mouth betrays me. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you’re here.”
I hate the way my stomach flips when he says that, but I don’t deny it.
Instead, I gesture toward the ice rink the town elders carved out of the pond.
Skaters move in wide arcs, bundled in scarves, laughter echoing across the square.
“Come on then, if you’re going to haunt the festival, you might as well look like you belong. Can you skate?”
His brow lifts. “Do I look like a man who skates?”
“You look like a man who’s afraid of falling on his face in public,” I shoot back, tugging at his sleeve. “Which makes me want to see it happen even more.”
He doesn’t argue further, just follows me to the edge of the ice where Pippa hovers, wings glittering with frost. She flutters down, carrying a pair of skates clearly meant for someone twice her size. “Oh, this is rich,” she giggles. “The big bad orc on the ice. Try not to crush the pond, darling.”
Dralgor grunts but doesn’t rise to her bait, stooping to tie the laces with fingers that are too large for such delicate work. I lace my own and step onto the ice with the ease of someone who grew up on winters that lasted half the year.
He follows more cautiously, boots scraping before the blades find purchase. His weight shifts, stiff at first, then steadier as he adjusts. I circle back and skate past him with a grin. “Not bad for a beginner.”
“I am not a beginner.” His jaw tightens.
“You are when you’re with me,” I tease, gliding backward in front of him. “Relax your knees or you’ll look like you’re about to march into battle.”
His eyes narrow. “You find this amusing.”
“Deeply.”
But when he pushes off and actually gains some speed, moving with a surprising grace for his size, I can’t deny a flicker of admiration. He doesn’t stumble once, though his gaze never leaves mine, as if daring me to call him anything less than capable.
“You learn fast,” I say grudgingly.
“I don’t like being laughed at.”
“I wasn’t laughing.”
“Yes, you were.”
I give a mock sigh. “Fine. Maybe a little. But only because I didn’t expect you to look good at it.”
His mouth tilts in that almost-smile again, and the sight of it sends heat racing through me despite the cold.
We skate until the fiddler switches to a reel, children spilling onto the ice in a blur of scarves and mittens. I pull Dralgor toward the edge, and when he catches my wrist, his hand stays a moment too long.
“You kissed me like you meant it,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
He leans down, his breath warm against my ear. “Because I did.”
Later, when the crowd has thinned and lanterns sway low over the snow, we walk the long way back to the ridge. No one follows. No one needs to know. The town is still buzzing from cider and music, and we slip into the shadows like we belong there.
We stop on the trail where the pines lean close, branches heavy with frost, stars threading the gaps above. The snow squeaks under my boots, and I pull my scarf higher, though it’s not the cold making me shiver.
He stands too close, his coat brushing mine, his eyes unreadable in the dark. “You don’t forgive me yet,” he says.
“No,” I answer honestly. “But I’m not done with you either.”
He exhales slowly, and it feels like the trees lean in to listen. “That’s enough for me.”
When I kiss him, it’s not careful, not measured, not strategic.
It’s hungry, stubborn, the kind of kiss that dares him to doubt me.
His hands find my waist, steady and unyielding, but he doesn’t pull me closer than I choose.
And when I break away, breathless, I see something raw in his eyes that tells me the truth louder than words ever could.
We don’t speak as we continue up the ridge, side by side, the snow crunching under our feet. The world feels fragile and infinite at once, the stars above sharp and clear, the lodge ahead glowing like a hearth finally woken.
For the first time since I buried Gran, since I took hold of this battered place with both hands, I let myself believe the snow will melt. That maybe I don’t have to weather the thaw alone.