The forest blurs past in shades of silver and shadow as I run. Every stride brings me closer to her, and with each step the ache in my chest eases fractionally. This is madness—I know it, embrace it, revel in it. Let the council worry about duty and tradition. Right now, there is only the pull of the bond and the promise of her presence.
I find her in her garden, or what passes for one in the depths of winter. She’s wrapped in a heavy coat, her breath misting in the cold air as she scatters seeds for the birds that flock to the feeders hanging from her porch eaves. The sight of her stops me dead in my tracks—not just her beauty, though that staggers me, but the careful tenderness with which she tends to the wild things that depend on her.
She knows I’m there before I step from the treeline. Her head turns toward my hiding place with unerring accuracy, and those storm-gray eyes find mine across the distance.
“I was wondering when you’d come back,” she says, her voice carrying easily through the still air. “The stalking was getting old.”
The casual accusation should sting. Instead, it sends heat spiraling through me in ways that have nothing to do with shame and everything to do with the fact that she’s been thinking about me, expecting me, waiting for my return.
I shift as I approach, taking my humanoid form but keeping my antlers—a reminder of what I am, of the danger she courts by not running. She doesn’t flinch as I emerge from the shadows, doesn’t step back even when I’m close enough that she has to tilt her head to meet my gaze.
“You should be afraid,” I tell her, my voice rougher than I intend. “You should have fled by now.”
“Should I?” She tilts her head, studying me with the same intensity I’ve been directing at her. “You left me a rose. Stalkers rarely leave flowers.”
“Predators do,” I counter. “To lure their prey into complacency.”
Her laugh is bright as silver bells, completely unafraid. “Is that what you are? A predator?”
Yes. The word sits on my tongue, heavy with truth and warning. But looking into her eyes—curious, warm, utterly without fear—I find I can’t speak it aloud.
“You should go inside,” I say instead. “It’s cold.”
“I like the cold.” She takes a step closer, close enough that I can see the individual snowflakes caught in her dark hair, can smell the warm scent of her skin beneath the winter air. “Besides, you’re the one who came to me. If you wanted me inside, you probably should have stayed away.”
The logic is flawless and infuriating. She’s right—I’m the one who sought her out, who gave in to the bond’s relentless pull and abandoned every principle I’ve held sacred. I have no right to demand she retreat from a confrontation I initiated.
But having her this close is torture. Every breath brings her scent deeper into my lungs, every subtle shift of her body draws my attention like a lodestone. The bond hums between us, urging me to reach for her, to pull her against me and never let go.
“You don’t understand what you’re dealing with,” I warn, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. “What I am… what I want from you…”
“Then explain it to me.” Another step closer, and now there’s barely an arm’s length between us. “I’m not a child, and I’m not stupid. Whatever this is—” she gestures between us, and I can see the pulse jumping in her throat, can hear the slight breathlessness in her voice “—it’s not one-sided.”
The admission nearly undoes me. She feels it too—the pull, the connection, the inexorable rightness of being near each other. It would be so easy to close the distance between us, to cup her face in my hands and claim her mouth with mine.
Too easy. And far too dangerous.
“It’s not that simple,” I say, forcing myself to take a step back. “There are things you don’t know. Rules.Consequences.”
“There always are.” She follows my retreat, matching me step for step, and there’s something almost predatory in the way she moves now. “But that doesn’t make them matter.”
“It should.” The words come out strained, desperate. “You’re human. Mortal. You could die from this.”
“I could die crossing the street.” She shrugs, the casual gesture at odds with the intensity in her eyes. “I could die in my sleep tonight. Life doesn’t come with guarantees.”
“This is different.”
“Is it?” She’s close enough now that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, can see the gold flecks in her gray eyes. “Or are you just scared?”
The accusation hits like a slap. Scared? I am the King of the Northwood, Master of Winter Storms and Ancient Magics. I have faced down dragons and demon lords, have stood at the heart of magical tempests that could level mountains.
But looking into her eyes, feeling the bond pulse hot and urgent between us, I realize she’s right.
I amterrified.
“What if I am?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “What if everything I touch turns to ice and shadow? What if claiming you destroys the very thing I’m trying to protect?”
For a moment, her expression softens, and I glimpse the tender heart she keeps hidden beneath her bold exterior. Then she reaches up, her fingers barely grazing the line of my jaw, and the simple touch sends fire racing through my veins.
