“I will strangle you with this ribbon,” I whisper back.
Pippa, of course, chooses that moment to swoop down and clap her hands. “Look, everyone! Mistletoe!” And wouldn’t you know it—the enchanted sprig zips straight above me and hangs there, glowing faintly in the winter light.
The crowd titters. A few voices call out encouragement. My face burns hot enough to melt snow.
Dralgor’s eyes flick upward, then back to me. For one wild second, I swear there’s the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. But then it’s gone, replaced with that same unreadable mask, and he simply picks up another box as if the entire town isn’t holding its breath.
I clench my fists and mutter, “Avoidance might be his love language, but mine is homicide.”
Dee pats my shoulder like I’m a child about to perform in a school play. “You’ll thank me later.”
“I’ll bury you later.”
She grins. “Close enough.”
By sundown the square is glowing with lanterns, the air thick with the smell of cider and pine. The townsfolk chatter around me, Dee runs interference with the vendors, Pippa terrorizes people with her flying mistletoe, and I keep moving, forcing myself not to look his way. Every time I almost glance over, I remind myself of the cold edge in his voice after the kiss, the way he brushed it off like it was nothing.
But the truth is, it wasn’t nothing. And no amount of avoidance, from either of us, is going to change that.
CHAPTER 12
DRALGOR
The cold has a way of biting deeper once the storm clears. It isn’t the sharp, cutting kind of cold that makes a man curse the wind. It’s the lingering, seeping sort that slides under your skin and waits there, patient as a wolf.
Silverpine is buried under white, rooftops sagging under the weight, streets narrowed to tight lanes the plows carved out, and people shuffle along with scarves wound high, cheeks raw from the air. Life resumes in a town like this with a kind of stubborn pride, but the storm’s mark doesn’t fade. It lingers, the way certain words and certain touches linger.
I tell myself it was just a kiss. A mistake. Nothing more than heat in the moment, fire meeting fire, survival of a different kind. I tell myself this while I watch the lodge recede behind me, while I walk into town with the same even stride I use when I enter a boardroom, while I convince Thomas on the phone that the delay is strategic, not sentimental. I tell myself I don’t care.
But Clara’s absence stings.
It stings when I walk into the square and see her laughter carried above the noise of hammering poles and jingling lanterns, laughter that isn’t meant for me. It stings when I catch sight of her head tilted back, eyes shining as she listens to Henrikgrumble about the way the plows dented his fence, or when she doubles over at something Dee whispers in her ear. She’s surrounded, alive in her element, the center of the storm she creates with nothing but sheer willpower.
And I am on the outside.
Thomas finds me before I can turn away. He’s wrapped in a coat far too thin for this weather, his tie crooked under the scarf he probably pulled from a discount rack, and he looks at me with the nervous energy of a man who’s waiting for instructions that could ruin lives.
“You’re difficult to pin down,” he says, falling into step beside me. “The board’s restless. They want updates. They wantdates. They want closure.”
“The board always wants something,” I reply, my voice flat as stone.
“Yes, well, this time they’re serious. Investors are asking why you’re wasting time on a lodge in the mountains when you could be breaking ground in the city. They think you’ve gone soft.”
I stop walking, let the words hang. Thomas shifts under my stare, pulling his scarf tighter.
“You have the paperwork?” I ask.
“Of course. Drafted and ready. You only need to sign. Eviction papers. Once filed, she’ll have thirty days to vacate. No loopholes, no delays. Clean. Efficient.” He pats his satchel like it’s a treasure chest.
Clara’s laugh rings across the square again, bright and warm and cutting. She’s leaning against a table while Pippa hovers overhead, mistletoe bobbing mischievously above them both. I catch the way Clara bats it away, pretending annoyance, but she’s smiling the whole time.
“File them,” Thomas says quietly, like he can feel my hesitation. “End this now, before it complicates itself further.”
I look back at him. “Complicates itself?”
He swallows, lips pressing tight before he answers. “You’re distracted. Everyone can see it. The way you look at her. The way you don’t move against her the way you should. She’s not a business partner, Dralgor. She’s a liability. And liabilities don’t get to decide the future of your empire.”
My hand flexes, the leather of my glove creaking. I should agree. I should let Thomas do what he does best and cut the cord clean. It’s what I’ve done before, what I’ll do again. But something in me resists, like muscle memory rebelling against a motion it knows will hurt.
