The clamp holds, slowing the leak to a stubborn drip. He wipes his hands on a rag, leans back on his heels, and studies me like I’m another problem he intends to fix whether I like it or not.
“You’re soaked,” he says, his gaze flicking over my damp sleeves and the water pooling at my knees. “You’ll freeze.”
“I’ll live.”
“You won’t if you keep pretending you’re made of iron.”
I push to my feet, ignoring the way the floor slicks under me. “Better iron than whatever you’re made of. Steel wrapped around secrets.”
His eyes darken, and for a moment the air between us feels thicker than the steam rising from the wet wood. “Careful, Clara.”
“Or what?” I demand, heat rising in my chest. “You’ll buy me out? Bulldoze me? Kiss me and then pretend it never happened?”
The words are out before I can stop them, sharp as knives, and they land in the silence like sparks hitting oil. His jaw clenches, his hands curl, and for one terrifying, thrilling heartbeat I think he’s going to grab me again, crush me against him, finish what we started.
Instead, he steps closer, so close I can sense the heat rolling off him, the scent of cedar and smoke that clings to his skin. His voice drops, rough and possessive. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for.”
“Then make me understand,” I whisper, though my hands are trembling. “Because I’m tired of you showing up like some storm I didn’t invite, tearing everything apart, and then acting like none of it matters. Why are you here, Dralgor? Why won’t you just leave me alone?”
His breath hitches, the sound rawer than I expect, and for a fraction of a second I see something in his eyes—something like fear, something like memory. He leans in, his lips so close I can feel the ghost of his breath, and everything inside me strains toward him, desperate, furious, aching.
But he pulls back.
The space he leaves feels colder than the snow outside, and my heart slams against my ribs like it wants to break free.
“Because I can’t,” he says finally, voice hoarse, like the admission cost him blood.
That should be enough. It should be more than enough. But it isn’t.
“Then stop pretending it’s nothing,” I say, my voice cracking despite my best effort. “Stop standing in my kitchen, fixing my pipes, looking at me like I’m the only thing keeping you here, and then acting like I’m disposable the second the sun comes up. If you want me gone, file your papers. If you want to stay, then stay. But stop haunting me.”
The drip of the pipe fills the silence that follows, steady and cruel.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just stands there, every line of him carved from restraint, and I realize with a clarity that almost hurts that whatever keeps him here is stronger than pride, stronger than empire, stronger than anything I’ve ever been up against.
That terrifies me more than the water flooding my floor.
We work side by side in silence after that, wringing out towels, mopping up the last of the water, setting buckets under the drip. My hands sting, my clothes cling damp and cold, but every time I catch his shadow moving against the wall, my pulse spikes all over again.
When he finally gathers his tools, I half expect him to leave without another word. Instead, he lingers at the door, one hand braced against the frame, his head bowed like he’s fighting himself.
“I won’t leave you alone,” he says at last, the words quiet but iron-strong. “Not until this ends.”
I don’t ask what he means. Because I already know.
CHAPTER 14
DRALGOR
The cold lingers after a storm, not loud or violent the way it is when the wind howls and the snow blinds you, but quiet and merciless, the sort of cold that seeps in slow and steady until it feels like it’s part of you.
The ridge is still buried, every pine tree bowed low under its white load, branches cracking when they can’t hold anymore. My boots sink with every step as I cut a path through the drifts, snow whispering against my coat, the sound as constant as breath.
The air is sharp in my lungs, so clean it almost burns, and the sky has that strange clarity winter leaves behind: pale gray above, with streaks of silver where the moonlight breaks through. Behind me, the lodge is a black silhouette against the snow, windows dark, roof hunched under its burden, and though I force my eyes away, the image follows me.
I tell myself it was just a kiss. That it was fire meeting fire, heat sparked in a storm and nothing more. I tell myself this while trudging into town, the snow creaking under my weight, my shoulders set against the wind like they always are. I tell myself I don’t care.
But Clara’s absence stings, and no matter how often I repeat the lie, it doesn’t lose its edge.
