Instead, I shift so my legs stretch out beside his, not touching but close enough that the heat between us changes. Not enough to burn. Just enough to notice.
“You’re not what I expected,” I say finally.
“Neither are you.”
“I expected a machine. Someone cold and sharp and calculated. But you… there’s something under the frost.”
“You’re not the only one trying to protect something,” he says, voice lower now.
I turn my head to look at him fully.
He’s not softened. He’s not broken. But something in him is cracking. Just a little. And for once, I don’t want to push him away from it.
CHAPTER 8
DRALGOR
The storm gathers its strength as night settles, the kind of storm that doesn’t simply pass through but decides to claim the ridge and hold it. I’ve felt this before in other winters, in places far less forgiving than Silverpine, where men learned to measure their lives in hours of warmth and minutes of wind.
But tonight, the difference is that I am not in a rig or a tower or a hotel suite built to withstand elements that don’t care who owns the deed. Tonight, I am in a lodge with wood that complains in the beams and windows that shudder in their frames, and a woman who is far too stubborn to admit she’s worried.
The fire I built earlier has burned steady, flames eating through the wood with a rhythm I trust more than most men. Clara sits across from me with her knees tucked under the blanket she wrapped around herself, hair slipping loose from its tie, eyes watching the snow gather thick against the windowpanes. She has not spoken for some time, but her silence is not weak. It is the kind of silence that makes a room heavier because you know it is filled with words she is holding back.
I put another log on the fire, settle against the stone, and let the crackle fill the space until she finally exhales through her nose and says, “That storm’s not letting up until morning. Maybe longer. Looks like you’re stuck.”
“I’ve been in worse places,” I say.
“You’ve probably been in nicer ones, too.”
I let that slide. She’s not wrong. I’ve spent winters in glass towers that swallowed half a city skyline, penthouses with radiant floors and walls that never rattled no matter how much the wind screamed. I’ve chosen those places because they were proof of what I built.
But sitting here, with the draft sneaking in around the windows and the fire daring me to keep it alive, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. Something closer to memory than victory.
“You can take the couch,” she says after a beat, tipping her chin toward the faded piece of furniture tucked in the corner of the room. “I’ll be fine on the rug.”
“The couch is too far from the fire,” I tell her. “You’ll freeze.”
“I’ve slept there before.”
“And you’ll wake half-frozen.”
She frowns, pulls the blanket tighter around herself, and says, “Then I’ll take the rug. It’s my house, my rules.”
“Then we share the hearth,” I answer.
Her eyes snap to mine. “That’s not necessary.”
“It is,” I say evenly. “Because pride won’t keep you warm.”
For a long moment she doesn’t respond, just stares at me with the kind of glare that has teeth in it. Then she shakes her head and mutters, “You are insufferable.”
I don’t argue. I’ve been called worse.
We settle opposite each other on the floor, fire between us like a boundary neither of us is ready to cross. I fold my coat under my head, keep my body angled toward the flames, andwatch her fuss with the quilt she’s claimed as her armor. She lies down eventually, turning her back to me, and I almost think she intends to let sleep win. But then she shifts, faces me again, and speaks into the low orange light.
“That stew,” she says. “It was good. Not what I expected from you.”
“It was my mother’s recipe.”
