Chapter Sixteen
Dahlia
Heat rushes over my skin as I cough and sputter, greedily pulling in air. The warm water sluices down my face, but it does little to stop the violent shiver wracking my body.
The Migoi’s hands are solid against me, holding me effortlessly above the surface, strong and steady. I am pressed tight against him and can’t help but remember he is very, very naked.
I feel it before I see it—the heat of his skin seeping through the soaked fabric of my clothes, bleeding into me like a slow burn.
My fingers release their death grip on the fur that dusts his shoulders and slide down to his chest. The wet material of my clothes separates us, but even through it, I can feel him.
The firm press of muscle, the steady rise and fall of breath, the pounding of his heart—just a little too fast beneath my touch.
Oh.
The realization crashes over me like a second shock to my system. I don’t know why I expected him to be covered in fur again, he wasn’t when I touched those damned abs, but without the fur, it’s like there is no barrier of reason. Just his body and mine, flush beneath the steaming water.
I know I should look away from those mystical eyes. I should put some distance between us, give myself space to process this—the whole near-drowning, the mythical creature holding me, the fact that I was absolutely staring at his abs earlier.
But I don’t move.
Because the longer I stay pressed against him, the warmer I become. The chill of my soaked clothes, the fear that clawed at my throat when I slipped under the water—it’s all fading. Replaced by something heavier, something thick and languid curling in my stomach, something I should not be feeling.
And there’s that damn word again, should.
Marvelling at his quick reflexes, I mumble, “Sorry.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do not apologize for giving me a reason to hold you in my arms.”
My jaw drops as his voice rumbles through me like distant thunder, gravelly and rich as if he is pulling the words from the very heart of the mountain, carrying the weight of something ancient. And his English is flawless.
I stiffen with the realization—he speaks. I had assumed, maybe stupidly, that he didn’t. Or at least, that he wouldn’t speak my language. But his words are clear if slightly rough, as if he’s unearthing them from somewhere long buried.
Which means… The singing. The abdominal snowman nickname. Oh gods, the ass comment. He heard, and understood, everything.
As my face flames, yet again, he raises an eyebrow and quips, “How did you survive without me?”
“To be fair, I don’t usually try to die more than once a day,” I say.
I aim for light, but the words land too sharp, too close to the truth. I almost died today. Sure, not really twice, but the first time? I was close. Really. Fucking. Close.
His lips part slightly, his warm breath ghosting over my temple as he leans closer. “I would hold you for far less than a life debt, Dahlia.”
His words settle in my chest, curling around something fragile and unspoken. My pulse stutters, the weight of his gaze pressing into me like a vow.
I should brush it off. Laugh, maybe. But I don’t. Because something about the way he says it makes me think he’s not just talking about this moment, but something far more permanent.
A dozen thoughts collide at once—How do you know my name? How long have you been watching me? Why did you save me?
My throat tightens. I swallow, then add, softer, “I wasn’t asking for a life debt. Just—maybe a temporary loan?”
“I rather enjoy you alive,” he replies.
The way his voice rumbles over the word enjoy reverberates deep in my core. I need to escape, put some distance between this muscular myth and my rapidly devolving thoughts. I wiggle my way free but only succeed in dragging my body down against his.
I glance down past the warm spring water gently lapping at my waist as I find my footing and realize three things.
One—all I had to do to save myself was stand up in the shallow water. Instead, I panicked.
Two—for the first time in my life, I am very small. I’m used to being shorter than other people, but I’m barely half his width and hardly reach his chest. The water that was deep enough to pull me under doesn’t even make it past his thighs.
And that’s how I end up staring directly at realization number three—giant mythical creatures have giant mythical cocks.
Oh. My. Gods.
And said cock is now close. Very close. I can’t help but stare. In awe. In curiosity. In need.
I should win a freaking award for the restraint I exercise not to reach out and caress its velvety length, just to see if it feels the same as the rest of his skin.
I lick my lips as I imagine what the texture would feel like gliding across them and over my tongue.
Or over my body, between my legs, and into my aching core.
He begins to harden under my intense stare, the already impressive member rising up through the air towards me as the thick, prominent veins on the shaft begin to pulse, and I realize how rude I am being.
I make a strangled noise in the back of my throat and snap my head up, but he knows. He definitely knows, because a smirk flickers across his sharp features, something far too human for my peace of mind. Cheeks flaming, I look away, searching for something, anything else, to look at.
“Um, thanks again,” I squeak, looking up as if I am suddenly fascinated by the shimmering stalactites above us.
He reaches for the front of my coat, fingers brushing the zipper, and I slap his hand away. “Excuse me! Just because I had a little looky-loo doesn’t mean you can start undressing me.”
He blinks at me. Then—he rolls his eyes. Actually rolls them in a very human expression as he points out the obvious and says, “You’re soaked.”
I glance down at myself. My coat is dripping with water, and my clothes lie heavy against my skin, weighing me down in the warmth of the pool. I shiver, and his frown deepens.
“You’ll catch a chill,” he says, as if I am the unreasonable one here. “Give me your things, and I’ll dry them by the fire.”
Now that he mentions it, I realize he’s right. I’m freezing. The heat of the spring is helping, but my clothes are still clinging to me, leeching the heat from my body.
“Oh. Oh! Right,” I say sheepishly, fumbling with the zipper and passing the sodden mass off to him.
As I struggle to clumsily peel off the layers, he gestures with his chin toward a ledge built into the side of the pool. I trudge toward it, kicking up glowing swirls of color in my wake, and plop down.
I attempt to wrestle off my boots, but the wet laces are a hopeless disaster. After a minute of struggling, the Migoi strides over and hands me my coat.
Confused, I take it—just in time to see him extend a claw and slice through the tangled knots with ease, then retract the claw again to no more than a mere fingernail.
My mouth falls open and I mutter, “Built in multi-tool.”
He smirks again as if proud of my reaction to his abilities and pulls off my boots, then holds his hand out for my coat. I pass it back over and begin peeling off layers, hyper-aware of his gaze following my every movement.
The glowing water flickers between us, casting strange shadows over his sharp features.
His eyes track each article of clothing I remove, his expression unreadable.
That is until I wrestle my bra out from under my tank top.
It’s not much but I leave it on, wanting some layer of protection between us.
His eyes sharpen as my peaked nipples peer out from the thin soaked material of my white undershirt, the darkness of my areolas visible even in this dim light.
With nothing on but this and my wet, translucent panties, I am mortified.
I pile my clothes into his waiting arms, the thick wool socks on top of my pants, and my bra on top like a damn trophy.
Removing my wet clothes was like wrestling a pissed off octopus, leaving me huffing and dashing strands of wayward hair out of my face. I meet his eyes again to find them crinkled at the corners as a small smile plays about his face.
“I’m glad you find this amusing,” I mutter under my breath.
He wisely takes the clothes without comment, easily vaulting out of the pool and moving toward what I can now see is an adjacent cave where firelight flickers against the stone walls.
I sink deeper into the water with a muffled groan, tension slipping from my body. For the first time in hours, I stop fighting—against the cold, against the fear, against the relentless weight of survival.
The heat seeps into my bones, melting through every ache.
My limbs float, weightless in the mineral-rich water, the faint, earthy scent grounding me as warmth swallows me whole.
My heart beat slows, and I just relax, letting my head lie back against the edge of the pool as my hair swirls around my shoulders like seaweed.
Sweat blooms on my face, and gods, does it feel good to be wholly and completely warm.
I hear his footsteps return, and I sit up slightly, waiting for whatever comes next.
His gaze, slow and deliberate, roves over my relaxed body visible in the clear water. It traces over my bare shoulders, my collarbone, the way the thin fabric of my tank top clings obscenely to my body.
I can feel the weight of it pass over the swell of my breasts, pause for a heavy heartbeat at my barely concealed sex, then continue along each relaxed leg to the very tips of my toes.
When his silver eyes snap back to mine, his expression is dark. Feral. Something flickers in the depths of his mercury gaze. The pearl and frost swirls have been replaced by something ancient and hungry.
My nipples tighten painfully, and I curse the interplay of warm water and cool cave air as I sit up a little straighter. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe I know damn well the temperature change isn’t the reason.
He vaults back into the pool and moves closer, an apex predator stalking his prey, and heat pools deep in my belly, far hotter than even the spring. He looms larger above me, and it's too much.
Too much heat, too much feeling, tightening my throat as claustrophobia claws at me. I grab at my neckline as if the wet fabric is to blame for the tightness consuming my breath. I’m suddenly too raw, too vulnerable for all that his eyes promise.
His gaze flickers to the movement, and his face immediately transforms to something softer. His looming form diminishes, and before I can process the change that has me breathing far easier, he holds out his hands.
I hesitate, but the fear is gone, replaced by the solid reassurance of my protector. Slowly, I take them.
His fingers engulf mine, so warm and solid, grounding me even as the water makes my body weightless. He guides me deeper into the pool, where the heat envelops me completely and my body goes weightless.
I let out a breathy, satisfied moan. I am warm. I am safe.
His hands tighten, and I feel his body go rigid in response. As he tenses, the glowing water shifts between us, curling in luminous tendrils. Fascinated, I let go of one of his hands to swirl my fingers through the colors, laughing softly.
He stills.
“Do that again,” he murmurs.
I tear my gaze away from the symphony of light in the water to meet his eyes. The silver reflects the bioluminescence, turning them a rich blue-green. I blink up at him. “Do what?”
“Laugh,” he says simply.
There is something reverent in his voice.
Something softer than hunger that has a smile tugging at my lips.
An answering one lights up his face, transforming him from fierce to fiercely happy as he sweeps me up bridal style and twirls me in a circle.
As I catch sight of the glittering crystals in the cave’s ceiling reflecting the beautiful pool’s light, I can’t help but let out a delighted laugh.
I am in a secret paradise, playing with a legendary creature in a hot spring.
But I don’t laugh because it’s silly, I laugh because it’s beautiful and free and simple and easy.
I laugh because I think this is how life is supposed to feel.
I had been so busy trying to get ahead and please everyone and achieve some elusive version of happiness that it took nearly dying to show me what it really means to live.
The snow and suffocation, betrayal and degrees, the elusive flower, even Ben, all just fall away.
The simple joy of warm water, the natural beauty of the earth, a kind soul wanting to hear my laugh—this is living.
I surprise us both when I reach up and lay a steaming hand along his jaw, finding his skin hotter than the water.
The second my fingers brush against him, his gaze locks onto mine, unblinking, hungry in an entirely different way. His grip on my waist tightens, his breath hitching ever so slightly. A flicker of something dangerous, something barely restrained, flashes through his eyes.
This time, safe in his arms, our laughter echoing in the caves around us, it doesn’t feel too big or too much.
It feels just right. I know I should move my hand.
I should not want this. I should be terrified, running, questioning my sanity.
But instead, I tilt my chin up, caught in the blizzard of his gaze, and think—maybe I was meant to be lost, just so he could find me.
Because right now, I feel like I’m drowning all over again. I need to be saved for the third time today. And the only thing that can save me is his mouth on mine.