“Someone has to.”
She snorts, shakes her head, and turns back to the glass. The pale light catches the freckles across her nose, the curve of her jaw, the way her breath fogs the window until she wipes it away with her sleeve. I shouldn’t be looking. I know better. But I can’t seem to stop.
“You don’t have to loom like that,” she says without glancing back. “It’s intimidating.”
“Good,” I answer, because honesty is simpler than pretense.
That earns me a laugh, low and unexpected, and she spins to face me, cheeks flushed from the cold. “You really don’t know how to play along, do you?”
“Play along with what?”
“Life, Dralgor. Banter. Jokes. The sort of things that make people feel less like they’re standing in front of a mountain with arms.”
“I am not built for games,” I tell her, voice rougher than I intend. “I am built to endure.”
She steps closer, eyes narrowing with that defiance she wears like a crown. “You act like that’s all there is to you, like the only thing you know is force. But I’ve seen you split wood and cookstew and keep a fire burning half the night just so I wouldn’t freeze. That doesn’t sound like endurance. That sounds like care.”
The word lands heavy in my chest. Care. It’s not one I allow often, not one I trust. But she says it without hesitation, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. My jaw tightens, my hands curl into fists, and I have to turn away before I answer.
“Don’t mistake survival for softness.”
She doesn’t back down. Of course she doesn’t. She steps closer, so close I feel the heat of her body against mine, her chin tilting up so she can meet my eyes without fear. “Maybe I already have.”
My restraint frays. I can feel it in the way my breath grows heavier, in the way my body angles toward hers despite every warning in my head. She sees it, and she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her lips twitch, teasing, daring. “You don’t scare me.”
I growl, low and guttural, the sound vibrating from deep in my chest. “You should.”
Her eyes flare, not with fear but with fire, and in that moment I stop thinking altogether. I grip her waist, pull her against me, and crush my mouth to hers.
The kiss is not gentle. It is not sweet. It is everything I’ve denied since I first looked at her across a room and felt the spark of defiance that wouldn’t let me go. It is hot and hungry, a clash of teeth and breath, her hands fisting in the front of my shirt as if she wants to fight me and surrender at the same time. I taste the heat of her anger, the salt of her stubbornness, and something sweeter beneath that terrifies me more than any storm ever could.
She doesn’t pull away. She pushes back, her lips parting, her tongue meeting mine with a fierceness that makes my pulse hammer in places I swore I’d never let her reach. The worldnarrows to this moment, this fire that has nothing to do with wood or ash, this battle we wage without words.
When I finally tear myself away, it’s because I have to breathe, because if I don’t, I’ll lose every last piece of discipline I’ve spent my life building. She’s flushed, lips swollen, eyes blazing like she’s ready to set me alight. My chest heaves, my hands still gripping her as if letting go might undo me.
“Dralgor,” she whispers, and the sound of my name in her voice almost undoes me again.
But I release her. I step back. I drag air into my lungs and force my face back into stone. “This was a mistake.”
Her mouth opens, outrage flashing across her face. “A mistake?”
“We won’t speak of it again,” I say, voice hard, because it’s the only way I know how to protect myself. “It changes nothing.”
She laughs once, sharp and incredulous, then shoves past me toward the bed. “You really are impossible.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I let myself admit what I feel, if I let the truth slip through even for a second, then everything I’ve built will crumble. I stand at the window, staring out at the snow that no longer howls but still weighs heavy against the glass, and I pretend the fire in my chest isn’t real.
The storm slows. The hours pass. When I see her later, in the kitchen with the lantern casting shadows across her face, I make my expression cold, my voice even, my manner detached. I pretend nothing happened. I let her glare cut into me, let her silence scream, and I do not bend. Because wanting her is dangerous. Because kissing her was already too much. Because if I let myself care, then I will not know where to stop.
And I don't lose control.
Not even for her.
CHAPTER 11
CLARA
The storm might have let up, but inside my chest it’s still raging. I keep myself moving because if I stop, if I even let myself breathe long enough to remember what happened by that window, I’ll shatter. So instead of shattering, I throw every ounce of energy I have into festival preparations, scribbling notes on half-frozen clipboards, haggling with merchants, hauling crates of decorations like I’ve got something to prove. And maybe I do. Maybe I’m proving to myself that I can survive the memory of his mouth on mine, the sound of that growl rolling out of him like it had been waiting years for a chance to escape.
