His command is a dark promise. He fucks me with a steady, relentless pace that steals my breath. The pleasure builds again, a tighter, sharper coil than before. I can feel the tension in his body, the rigid control he’s exerting to hold back. He’s waiting for me.
I surrender to it, letting the second climax tear through me with a force that leaves me trembling and boneless against him. The feel of me pulsing around him is his undoing. His control shatters.
His thrusts become frantic, deep, and possessive. He drives into me one last, final time, his whole body shuddering as he spills himself inside me with a guttural cry that is swallowed by the steam and the night.
The water stills around us, the only sound our ragged breathing and the gentle lap of waves against stone. He holds me against his chest, his heartbeat a steady drum against my ear. His hand strokes my damp hair, his touch so tender it makes my own chest ache.
He shifts, his lips near my temple. He draws a breath that feels heavy, significant. “Clara, I…”
I go perfectly still, waiting. The words hang in the steam-thick air, a promise half-formed.
But he stops. The sentence dies, replaced by the press of his lips to my forehead. It’s a kiss of apology, of retreat. The moment curdles, the unspoken thing settling between us like a weight.
I pull back, forcing a lightness into my voice I don’t feel. “Better get back before Pippa sends out a search party. She’ll assume a yeti got me.”
He watches me, his dark eyes unreadable. “A yeti would be a fool to try.”
We climb out of the water, the winter air a shocking slap after the heat. We dress in silence, the earlier intimacy replaced by a stiff, careful distance. He helps me with the zipper on my dress, his knuckles brushing my spine, and the touch is like a brand. I step away before he can say anything else he might not mean.
“You go ahead,” I tell him, nodding toward the lodge. “I’ll… I need a minute.”
He hesitates, a protest forming on his lips, but then he just gives a curt nod. “Don’t linger. It’s cold.”
He disappears around the corner, his broad shoulders swallowed by the shadows. I stand alone for a moment, the ghost of his touch on my skin, the ghost of his words in the air. I smooth my dress, run a hand through my tangled hair, and try to reassemble the person I was before I followed him out here.
I walk back to the party alone. The music and laughter hit me like a wall. I slip through the back door, blending into the crowd, a smile fixed on my face for anyone who looks. I see him across the room, already holding a glass of whiskey, listening to old Mr. Henderson with a look of polite interest. As if the last hour never happened.
He doesn’t look at me. I grab a glass of punch I don’t want and wonder what the hell we’re doing.
CHAPTER 17
CLARA
Morning light does not care about what happened the night before. It cuts through the curtains, bright and cold, painting the floorboards in pale strips that make my head ache and my stomach twist. I lie still for as long as I can stand it, bundled in quilts that smell faintly of pine smoke and something darker, something that clings to my skin even now. His scent.
I should be giddy. I should be floating on the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing left worth fighting for. Instead, there’s a knot in my chest so tight I can barely breathe.
Because I know him. I know men like him, men who play games with the people around them until they get what they want, then vanish back into whatever kingdom they came from. I don’t want to believe Dralgor is one of them, but my heart knows better than to hand itself over without consequence.
I drag myself out of bed, shivering when my feet touch the floor, and splash water on my face from the porcelain basin. The reflection staring back is a stranger: flushed cheeks, lips still tender, eyes too bright and tired all at once.
By the time I make it downstairs, the lodge hums with the aftertaste of the festival, the kitchen cluttered with mugs waiting to be washed, crumbs littering the tables, boots and scarves left behind in corners. Dee is already there, hair pulled up in a messy knot, scribbling on her clipboard with the intensity of someone running a war campaign.
“You survived,” she says without looking up. “Congratulations. People are calling last night the best kickoff the Winter Festival’s had in years. Even Henrik cracked a smile, and I thought his face would break if he tried.”
“That’s good,” I murmur, reaching for the nearest mug and dunking it in the bucket.
Dee finally looks up, her gaze sharp. “That’s all you have to say? Not even a little brag about how you danced with the biggest, broodiest man in the room? Clara, darling, if you don’t give me details, I will invent them myself, and trust me, my version will be much spicier.”
I open my mouth to snap back, but voices drift in from the hall. Low. Male. One of them is unmistakable: Thomas, nasal and eager, every syllable slick with practiced courtesy.
“Once the paperwork is filed, it won’t matter how many lanterns they hang,” he’s saying, too loud for comfort. “The board expects progress. Level the lodge, build the resort, move on schedule. No festival can change that.”
My blood turns to ice.
The other voice is harder to catch, lower, steady. Dralgor. He doesn’t raise it, not even to contradict. Silence stretches before Thomas speaks again, softer now, but the words still carry.
“You can’t let sentiment distract you. Wynn is temporary. The land is permanent. Remember why we’re here.”
