Chapter Eighteen
Eryon
Icarry her from the water, her body sated with pleasure and limp with exhaustion. She is warm, but I do not trust it. The cold already tried to steal her from me once and may even now be tunneling its icy claws deep into her.
Humans are fragile things, and I will not lose her to something as preventable as a chill. As her skin pebbles, my nervousness has me increasing my body temperature until her skin turns pink.
I tell myself that is why I do not set her down.
Not because she smells like me now—winter and woods mixed with the first Spring sunrise that is her essence.
Not because of the divine way her body feels pressed against my skin.
And definitely not because the taste of her is still bursting on my tongue like a ripe berry, yet I am already hungry again.
She has ruined me.
She curls against me, boneless, trusting in a way that knots something deep in my chest. My hands flex against her soft thighs, gripping her with more care than I have shown another creature in a very long time.
She is so small. So fragile. Yet she has survived. She has fought.
And I cannot stop thinking about how easily I could have lost her.
How, if I had not followed her in the storm, she would be nothing but frozen remains beneath the ice.
If I had not pulled her from the avalanche—if I had not kept her warm, held her close, willed my life into hers—she would not be here, pressed against me, filled with my seed.
Mine.
I do not say it. I do not want to let it take root, but it does not matter. The word has already embedded itself into my bones. I can try to fight it, but she is mine. If only she will choose me as hers. That is the way of balance, that is the way of the Migoi.
I step into the sleeping cave, taking her deeper into my world.
A fire burns low in the corner, its glow flickering over the stone.
Her clothes and boots are arranged neatly around it, faint wisps of steams rising into the air as they dry.
I set her down, keeping my hands on her waist when she sways, her legs weak.
She blinks up at me, dazed. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, lips parted, the flush from her pleasure still staining her cheeks.
I want to kiss her.
I want to ruin her.
Instead, I slide the flimsy scrap of torn fabric down her legs and crouch before her.
The sight of her bare body so close nearly undoes me.
A groan escapes as her scent fills my lungs, her arousal mingled with my own essence.
My gaze lingers on the soft wisp of curls framing her glistening pink center, and I marvel at her smoothness. Good thing she has me to keep her warm.
With resolve borne of my centuries of existence, I force myself to stand.
I grip the hem of her shirt, peeling it up and over her head, removing the last barrier between my gaze and the rest of her body.
She exhales a slow breath as I drag my fingers over her shoulders, tracing down her arms before pulling away.
She is breathtaking. My eyes greedily drink in the sight of her smooth skin, her lush curves.
Every dip and swell made for my hands, made for pleasure.
She is perfection. More of the tiny orange dots cascade over her flesh, just like the littles ones across her nose and cheeks. I cannot wait to count them.
I am lovingly cataloguing the differences between us when she flinches. Just barely. A flicker of movement, a hesitation, her hands lifting as if to cover herself. As if she is something to hide instead of worship.
Rage rises so fast it strangles me. Before she can fold in on herself, before she can shrink from me, I growl and swat her hands away.
“Mine.”
The word is guttural, ripped from my chest without my permission. My heart speaking before my head can temper my declaration.
Her breath catches, her eyes widening, but I do not take it back.
Does she not see what I see?
Her softness is not a weakness. It is a gift; one I would kill to protect.
She is the perfect counterpoint to the masculine, completing the duality of nature.
She is the curve of the river cutting through rock.
She is the warm circle of the sun breaking the line of the mountain range. Breathtakingly beautiful.
She does not answer, her throat working as she swallows. I see the uncertainty in her eyes, the ghost of a wound left by another. I can only assume it was some lowly male who did not cherish what he had been given.
The thought of another seeing her vulnerable like this, touching her has the beast inside of me shredding at my skin to be unleashed. Did he dare to speak harsh words to her? Did he criticize someone so beautiful and lovely? Did he touch her in anger?
He is dead. He does not know it yet, but he is dead.
The fire snaps, spitting embers, a mirror of my rage. She jumps, and I inhale sharply, forcing the beast back down. I cannot touch her now—not the way I want. Not the way I should.
She is exhausted, swaying on her feet. Her body has been wrung out, her mind slipping into the haze of sleep even as she struggles to remain standing.
I lift her again, marveling over the feel of our skin ghosting over each other and carry her across the cave to my bed.
It is nothing more than a pile of furs atop a wooden frame strung with rope that I pieced together over the years.
Its simplicity suits me fine, but I worry this life will not be enough for her.
Or maybe my true fear is that I will not be enough for her.
She makes a soft noise as I lower her onto the furs facing the fire. A sound of contentment. A sound of trust.
My throat tightens. I don’t know if I can trust myself right now to let her choose me when my beast rages at me to claim her, claim her now. I should leave her. I should step away, retreat to the other side of the cave, let her rest without my flesh pressing against hers.
But when she moves to pull a fur over her body, I react, wanting to prove that I can provide her with everything she needs. I will keep her warm. I scold myself for being jealous of a fur, but it doesn’t stop my body from moving.
An ache blooms in my chest as I curl around her, my body the only shield she’ll ever need. My fur lengthens, softening as it spreads over her skin, covering her the way it was always meant to.
She sighs, and the sound is so right, so perfect, that I almost close my eyes. Consider letting myself rest.
But I do not. I cannot.
Instead, I will keep watch as I did for the weeks I tracked her through the mountains followed by the long cold days we were separated.
Though they were few, they were some of the greyest of my existence.
I will protect her as I protect these mountains.
I will fulfill my vow, sealed with my blood and sworn to the earth.
I listen to the steady beat of her heart, feel the slow rise and fall of her breath. I memorize the weight of her against me, the way she fits so easily, so naturally, in my arms. Every curve is a perfect counterpoint to my body, as if she were carved from my very flesh.
I think about how much I do not want her to leave, but I know she will.
That she must. But just for tonight, I can pretend that there is a world in which she is mine.
A life where she can be with me here in this cave, cut off from the world and all of its problems. Just two mates with one heart beating between them.
I let my eyes slip shut, just for a moment, imagining what forever would look like for a Migoi and a human.
Screams of terror have me leaping from the bed to land in a defensive crouch between my Winter Star and whatever danger has come for her.
My body instinctively reverts to my inner predator, my muscles bunching and flexing as my thick fur extends to its full length, useful for both weather and protection from injury.
My claws extend, and I bare my teeth in a feral snarl ready to kill. I sniff the air, scanning the surroundings for the would-be attacker. But I don’t see or smell anything outside of the cave and her scent, the promise of Spring.
A small giggle has me whipping my head around to catch a trace of fear spring into her eyes at my imposing facade. I retract my fur and sheath my claws, thankful for her sheepish smile that quickly replaces it as she blinks up at me from the furs.
“I’m sorry, I was dreaming of the avalanche. I didn’t mean to alarm you,” she says in a small voice.
I gather her up in my arms, this small, soft, precious thing.
“Tell me what you were dreaming,” I murmur into her riotous curls that glow like the sunset in the light of the fire. She needs to speak the thoughts out of her mind where I can shred them into oblivion.
Holding her close, I trace the tips of my retracted claws up and down her spine, as she haltingly tells me of her dream.
“I'm in the dark, trapped and running out of oxygen. Powerless to save myself, knowing I’m going to die. I feel my body going numb, my strength giving out, and I have to decide whether to surrender to the cold and the dark, or fight.”
I let the silence breathe, honoring her words, her shared vulnerability. My heart breaks at the thought of the nightmare that drug her back beneath the crushing snow and ice, where she was suffocating, where she was dying.
“But you did fight, that’s how I found you. I heard you singing something about, ‘Back that ass up.’ Badly, I might add,” I say to soften my retort.
She gives a soft laugh, but then sobers as she says, “If you hadn’t saved me, I would’ve died.”
I pull back and take her shoulders in a gentle grip, forcing her to meet my eyes. Fear of a world without her in it sharpens my tone. With a slight shake, I declare, “No. You would never give up. You are a fighter.”