Chapter Fifteen
Eryon - Earlier
She is waking up. The change in her breath, the subtle shift of her weight in my arms. She does not know where she is or that she is the safest she has ever been. But she will.
Before she can fully wake, I carry her into the cavern, cradled in the warm embrace of the mountain. The storm could rage on forever, and we could hide away here, just the two of us. The thought sends a secret thrill through me, and I pull her closer, savoring the feel of her against me.
I take us deeper as she shivers in my arms, closer to the warmth of the water. At the edge of the spring, I kneel and for the first time since I pulled her from the snow, I release her.
My arms ache without her.
She shifts, murmuring in her sleep. Her body protests the absence of my warmth, instinct pulling her toward where I kneel beside her. My hands clench, resisting the urge to reach for her. I force myself to step back and wait.
At length, she stirs, eyes fluttering as she blinks them open.
Her arms shake with the effort of pushing her exhausted body upright.
She blinks, her gaze unfocused as she takes in her surroundings.
Her breath catches as the cavern comes into view—the towering walls, the crystals, the steam curling lazily from the pool, the strange glow of the water reflecting against the stone.
Then, she sees me.
I feel the exact moment her eyes find me in the shadows, her gaze locking onto my form where I stand at the far edge of the pool.
She freezes.
I do not move but study every flicker that crosses her face, searching for a reaction. Her pulse kicks up, her breaths come faster. But it is not fear that stiffens her limbs—it is something else. Something hungrier.
She looks at me like she does not know what to make of me. Like she does not know whether to run.
Or come closer.
Her gaze drags over me, tracing the breadth of my shoulders, the lines of my chest, the heat of my skin where my fur thins. Her breath catches as she sees what was hidden before—what I am beneath the beast. Her scent changes—desire threading through the fading chill of fear.
Then—she moves. A step forward, as if it is unconscious yet inevitable.
I can’t help but meet her as she crosses the space between us. Drawn forward not by logic, but by something deeper. A driving force older than even this mountain.
She stops just within arm’s reach, so the heat of her breath fans against my skin. She does not flinch. She does not look away.
I do not break her trance. I let her look though I ache for her to not just touch me, but to see me. See who I am despite the differences between us. I need her to open herself to the possibilities of two souls meeting despite their physical forms. Of the forces that can transcend the flesh.
She moves slowly, hesitantly, eyes flicking to the steam curling from the water, the glow of the cave reflecting against my skin. Curiosity lights her eyes beyond the exhaustion rather than the fear I was worried about.
I should have known better. My fierce Winter Star is too brave to be afraid, even if, by all reasoning, she should be.
I cover my nervousness as I wait for her to pass judgment by dipping my hand in the water and smoothing back my hair. For the first time in centuries, I feel vulnerable. Even a little exposed.
As her eyes follow the reflections dancing over my body, down the muscles honed over so many years even I have lost count, her hand lifts—hesitant, drawn by something she doesn’t yet understand.
Her fingers hover, unsure and I count the beats of my heart, until finally, finally, her touch brands my skin.
Light as the brush of a moth’s wing, yet searing as a lightning strike leaving electricity crackle in its wake. Her fingertips graze the ridges of my abdomen, heat meeting heat.
I tense, every muscle locking beneath her touch as she traces a slow, reverent path over my flesh.
Centuries of resolve hold me in place by the merest thread.
But only barely. I grit my teeth so hard I’m surprised they don’t crack under the strain.
Blessed mother moon, how I want to sweep her into my arms and lay claim to her right here, right now.
But I vowed to wait until she made her choice, so I will abide.
“The abdominal snowman,” she mutters, her voice barely a breath, a flicker of amusement cutting through her shock.
A strange sound rumbles in my chest—half growl, half laugh. I can’t recall the last time I laughed. The noise sounds strange to my ears, but the feeling, the joy that bubbles up to my heart is a welcome stranger.
She startles, blushing a furious red to match her glorious hair, and jerks her hand back as if burned, embarrassment tightening her features. She drops her gaze, her lips parting as if she might apologize.
I do not let her. Will not. With slow, deliberate intent, I reach out and catch her chin. She stiffens, but I do not force her. Just hold her there. Just enough to make her look. To keep her seeing beyond my skin, so different than hers. To keep her seeing—me.
Her eyes look up to meet mine, those iridescent pools of violet-blue, still heavy with exhaustion but alight with something else. The twin flame to my own.
I study each tiny dot on her face, like the smallest snowflakes left a tiny kiss across her nose and cheeks. I will count them all, commit them to memory like the stars of the night sky. I will trace constellations in them created from our story and add them to the walls of this cave.
My hungry eyes devour every inch of her face, down her tiny upturned nose to the soft, flushed lips above my fingers. She is so small, so different from me. I cannot hold back the desperate need to explore her, to feel the textures of her. It drives me to drag my thumb along her lower lip.
She gasps. Her pupils blow wide, but I know she is not afraid as the scent of her desire reaches for me until my restraint hangs by an ever fraying thread.
I let her see the vow reflected in my eyes. The hunger thrumming through my veins. The thing inside me that declares, mine.
“Where are we?” she whispers. But the words hang between us, a thousand more questions shimmering in the air.
I do not answer at first, because I do not know how. At least not in a way she would understand. Not in a way that would not change everything.
Home, I want to tell her. You are home. Instead, I drop my hand from her chin, but do not step back. I cannot leave her side now that I have tasted the sweet air that surrounds her like an aura.
She sways, caught between instinct and reason, between the safe boundaries of the known and the pull of something darker. Forbidden.
My vow binds me. Holds me back and stops my hands from taking. But I am still a beast. Still a thing made of hunger and instinct, and she stands before me half-wild herself. It would be easy, so easy, to take.
The thought is as intoxicating as it is dangerous.
I could pull her against me, answer her question with my mouth instead of mere words, feel her soft skin beneath my hands. I could sink my teeth into the delicate curve of her throat, claim her in the way my instincts demand.
And she would let me. But she nearly died, and that is heavy on the body and the soul. And I made a vow. I will not take what she does not freely give.
She is trembling, but it is not the cold. She shifts, wrapping her arms around herself. A shiver courses down her spine, and I know it is not only from exhaustion. She is looking at me like I am no longer just a myth, but like I am something else entirely.
Hers.
“What is this place?” she asks, still looking for answers.
I do not speak, but instead, as she shivers again, I reach for her hand. A silent invitation. A choice.
She hesitates. Then, slowly, she takes it.
I stare down at her tiny hand in mine, the contrast stark—her fingers delicate where mine are thick and scarred, roughened from centuries of survival.
Her skin is still chilled, her fingers trembling.
I do not think—only act. My thumb sweeps over her knuckles, slow and careful, chasing away the last of the cold that tried to steal her from me.
If it had a form I would slaughter it in retribution.
Her breath shudders, sharp and unsteady. A small sound escapes her lips—not quite a gasp, not quite a sigh. As if she, too, feels something shifting beneath her skin, something too vast to name.
She does not pull away. Instead, her fingers curl slightly, gripping mine in return. The smallest movement. A whisper of a choice. But I feel it sink into my palm, through my skin, and settle deep into the marrow of my bones.
Not just warmth returning to her skin in response to my heat—but something more. Something becoming. A beginning.
I lead her along the edge of the pool, steam curling in the air between us. When the path narrows I cannot bear to drop her hand; I just move so that we are still touching, still connected. Behind me I hear her murmur under her breath, barely audible—
“That ass though.”
I go rigid.
I do not know the phrase, but I know the words and, more importantly, the way she says them. I can feel the scorching heat of her eyes as they explore my body, sense the vibration of her throat bobbing as I hear her swallow hard. I can smell the way desire overpowers her sweet Spring scent.
A rumbling growl slips from my chest before I can stop it, and I freeze, locking every muscle in response to the overwhelming desire to spin around and take her in my arms, vow be damned.
She crashes into my back, lets out a startled yelp, stumbles and falls.
I whirl around to see the pool swallow her whole. For a fraction of a second, she vanishes beneath the surface. The water surges in around her, the glow rippling outward, distorting the outline of her flailing limbs.
Her panic echoes through me. The sharp intake of breath before she went under. The way her limbs fight against the pull of the water. The frantic, uneven quickening of her heart audible to my sharp ears.
She thrashes—wild and disoriented. The weight of her soaked clothing drags her down. She does not recognize that she is in water shallow enough to stand. This can’t be panic from the fall.
This is something deeper. A fear that does not belong to the water but to the avalanche, the suffocating cold. The way the snow swallowed her whole. She is there, not here.
I move before thought. Before logic. Before restraint. I jump down into the pool, and my hands close around her waist. I lift her effortlessly, quickly pulling her face above the surface and holding her close.
She gasps, coughing, fingers clutching at my shoulders as I steady her against me. Her body is soft in my arms, warm breath ghosting over my skin. Her fingers tighten into my fur, and she is no longer drowning.
But I am.