We walked in silence at first. He moved ahead of me, long strides parting the deep snow so I could follow in his tracks. His shoulders were tense, his head bowed as if he carried a weight no one else could see. Any sense of that more tender, gentle mood was gone now, as if being outside had left him too exposed for that.
I bit my lip, then dared. “Are you worried? About the town, I mean. Nobody answered you this morning…” That would botherme, if my friends didn’t answer when I called, let alone a sheriff. Especially after a storm like last night, though Mamma had not mentioned any issues with other towns. Just that Kevin and I had gone missing and it had made a splash on the news, much to her dismay. I felt guilty that I hadn’t once considered calling her last night to say I was safe. I blamed the cold and the shock.
His steps slowed, and he glanced over his shoulder at me, pale blue eyes catching the sunlight and glittering like silver crystals. “I think,” he said quietly, “the shadowed dreams weren’t just ours. The town was struck too.”
My chest tightened at his tone, so heavy and bleak. Even if I couldn’t remember the full dream, I knew it had been black and terrifying. There had been a voice calling to me: to do things, to go somewhere, to let him in. Him? I wasn’t even sure where that thought came from. Had the voice been male or female? I was pretty sure it hadn’t sounded like either.
It was, in a way, easier, though, to think that those dreams were like Ísarr: from a realm beyond mine—something magical and strange. I didn’t want to think my brain could come up with something that dark on its own. The thought that it could have gotten hold of an entire town, though? That really was bleak. Terrible.
I scrambled for something lighter, anything to tug him away from that dark thought. “Well,” I said with forced cheer, “if you ever need a distraction, I can bore you with stories from my glamorous life as a waitress. Oh, and my online classes. Business courses—so I can maybe start selling my crochet and knitting someday.”
I babbled, words spilling like a stream that wouldn’t dam. I told him about my mom’s meddling, my loud family dinners, the chaos and love all tangled together. He didn’t answer, but I thought I saw the faintest flicker in his expression, like he was listening. He’d tilt his head toward me when we walked, angling an ear over his shoulder my way. When I petered out, he would pause just a fraction, until I picked it back up. I liked it.
The yard gave way to the deeper woods, and we walked beneath trees and past several snow-covered ice sculptures; the ones that had guided my way yesterday. I puffed out a breath and asked, “So… what do you do for a living?” I was pretty sure I knew, but I wanted to hear his voice, hear him talk back to me, and make myself part of his world just a little more.
“Wood carvings. Furniture,” he said without turning. The words were short and brisk, but his tone was much lighter than it had been so far—a little proud, even. With good reason: every single piece of furniture in his home had to be by his hand, and they were works of art—especially that beautiful, canopied four-poster bed.
I brightened because it felt like an opening, and I was dying to learn everything there was to know about him. “That’s amazing. And the ice sculptures—do you sell those too?” I could easily see those standing in pride of place as centerpieces at weddings or classy parties. They were so beautiful and so realistic, even if they were transient art, they’d sell well.
The mood changed like a lightning strike. He stopped. Shoulders tightening, rising, holding. The silence after my question was too sharp, too final. I held my breath and waitedfor the answer, certain I was not going to like it. When it came, it was exactly as I expected, a sharp, curt “No.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” I began to apologize, worried that I’d really hit a nerve there. Those sculptures had been my savior; without them, I’d never have found his home. Why was he so sensitive about it? Was he not the one who had created them? My words trailed off and hung there, full of uncertainty and misplaced hope. He turned suddenly—too fast—and I startled, my boot slipping on a crust of snow. I stumbled backward and would have gone down if not for how fast he moved. One moment I was doomed to a soggy backside, the next: I was in his arms.
The world narrowed to the circle of his hold. His body was solid against mine, heat radiating through the cold layers between us. I could see the pale ridges of his horns above his azure hair, the sharp cut of his jaw, the raw intensity in his eyes. His voice was rough—almost ragged—when he admitted, “The ice sculptures are why you’re not safe with me.”
I stared up at him, breathless, lips parting but no words coming out. What did he mean? Why did my heart pound with excitement when he held me like this? His thigh was between mine, as if we had frozen in the middle of a waltz and he was about to dip me.
“I can’t control it,” he went on, quieter but no less fierce. The intense look in his eyes made me focus on what he said, not on what my crazy body was eagerly shouting at me. “When the storms come, living things—innocent things—turn to ice around me. That’s my power. My curse. I can’t control it; it just happens, and that’s why you shouldn’t be here. It is not safe.”
I should have pulled away then, because what he was admitting was… a lot. I should have been horrified, and I was—horrified for him: for the loneliness carved into his life, for the way he’d locked himself away because of it. My heart ached for him, for the sorrow I heard beneath his harsh words. Before I could think better of it, before I could talk myself out of it, I rose up on my toes and kissed him.
The world was cold all around us, but his lips were fire. He drew in a shocked, surprised gasp, as if he could not quite believe what I’d done. Our breaths mingled—his fresh, minty, like the cold—and then it felt like that coolness sank into my bones and turned into a smolder, a slow burn, a heat that flashed up from my toes in answer. He groaned, arms tightening around me, pulling me in, thigh sliding deeper between mine.
I felt the tug of his hand in my hair, beneath my hats, and then they tumbled away and the dark strands spilled free. It wasn’t cold, though, as if he buffered me against it, soaked it up, and gave me back warmth with every exhale, rough, wild, full of pleasure. I was tingling, clinging shamelessly to his shoulders, and more aroused from just that kiss than I’d ever been in my entire life. I didn’t want it to end, so I slicked my tongue against his lips, catching him off-guard again.
The whole world tumbled after that—snow, trees, and Ísarr. I found myself pressed against a tree, snow melting into my hair. He was against me—heat, strength, safety. His leg still between my thighs, pressing deeper until I felt all kinds of delicious friction straight through my pants. He had his hand in my hair, his mouth claiming mine, and I had definitely lost complete control of the situation. I did not care.
I was disappointed when he pulled away and stared at me with wide eyes, his chest heaving in rapid breaths against mine. Condensed fog bloomed milky white between us with each rough exhale. He looked stunned, blown away by this revelation—this thing that had exploded like wildfire between us from just an innocently meant brush. Well, not so innocent, perhaps, but this was well beyond my wildest imagination. If he hadn’t stopped, I might have come against his thigh, just from the pressure.
And because I liked seeing how shocked he was—his expression softened by his surprise—I said, “I know you’d never hurt me, Ísarr. There’s nothing but fire between us.” It was a truth I believed with every fiber of my being, even if I couldn’t really explain it. Those sculptures might fill him with guilt, but I knew they’d saved me, just like he’d saved me.
He reared back, hissed, and began to shake his head, to retreat. I wouldn’t let him. If he’d wanted, of course, he could have left, I was barely a hundred ten pounds soaking wet, and he… well, he was definitely not a lightweight. Clinging to his coat was all I needed to halt him in his tracks, though. He froze, staring at me, still shocked but beginning to form denials.
“Please, Ísarr, you feel it too, don’t you? This...simmering thing between us?” My words made him groan, and it would have made me squirm to be that brazen normally, but this was important. Beneath my coat, my North Star necklace felt hot too, as if it were reminding me of something—of home, of fate, of things my mamma always sang about in lullabies when I was a little girl. True love.
I pulled it out and held it up to him. “This snagged on a branch when I was lost yesterday. I would never have seen the deer, orthe holly sculpture, if not for this necklace. And if not for those sculptures, I would never have found you.” I let the words hang there, made sure he could see on my face how serious I was—what I was saying without words: that I was grateful for his out-of-control power, because rather than kill me, it had saved me.
His body pressed against mine, leaning back in rather than away. I took that as a hopeful sign. His eyes were still unreadable, pale shards of ice, but his mouth grew softer. Then it was on mine again, and this kiss wasn’t just surprise and sudden passion. This time, he kissed me like he was staking a claim.
He slid his hands into my hair, knocking off the two hats and burrowing deep into my curls. His head angled to slant his mouth over mine and deepen the kiss. I shuddered in his arms, and he pressed closer, warmth wrapping itself around me in a way that wasn’t natural, not with the cold, icy breeze. And then, as the final nail in my coffin, his leg pressed back between my thighs. I saw stars, moaning in shock, tangled in his grip as pleasure ignited.
“Ísarr,” I whispered as the shudders passed and he gently nipped at my bottom lip. I couldn’t believe that had happened, but it was so easy to trust this stranger with the even stranger life. Never in all my life had I come apart in a man’s arms without a single piece of clothing being shed. Then my eyes located the pink and black tangle of yarn on the snow at my feet. Fine, I’d lost my hat, but that hardly counted, did it?
My dragon companion had the softest expression on his face I’d ever seen. Heavy-lidded, his pale eyes were partially shuttered by his so bizarrely azure-blue lashes. His mouth, warmed by our kissing, had the corners tilted up in what had to be a smile.He still held me tightly, his hands in my hair, his body caging me against the tree. I was quite desperate to know if he was as aroused as he’d made me. The blasted layers of my coat and sweater made that hard to tell, even when I wriggled against him.
His smile grew wider, pleased, like a cat who’d caught the canary. Smug. “Bianca,” he said, a hint of that surly tone he was so fond of in his voice. It was tempered with amusement, and that spark in his eyes was irresistible. I wanted him to do it all over again, forget about Kevin—the idiot stuck somewhere on this hill in the snow. Forget about doing the right thing, and definitely forget all about ever leaving. I didn’t want to.
“Yes,” I said to him, not sure what I was agreeing to, just that it was a whole lot. My mamma always did say I trusted too quickly and leaped with my eyes shut, headfirst and without thinking. Did you need to think when it felt like this? I wriggled again just to see if that would make him say my name in that same, sexy voice.
