Page 38 of Iron Beneath the Snow

“My instincts,” he said, “don’t act without my consent.”

That answer might have satisfied someone else.

It did not satisfy her.

The heat beneath her collarbone deepened, spreading in slow, deliberate arcs that felt anything but accidental.

“Then you should pay closer attention to them,” she said quietly. “Because whatever this is… it isn’t responding to mine alone.”

For a moment, the night seemed to narrow around them.

The fire behind her cracked softly, casting light across his jaw and the hollow beneath his cheekbone.

His hand lifted slightly.

She saw it before she felt it—the tension in his fingers, the instinct contained in the movement.

He stopped just short of her throat.

Close enough that the space between his hand and her skin seemed to hum.

Then, with visible control, he lowered it again.

“It will settle,” he said.

She held his gaze a moment longer, aware that the mark still burned with a steady, insistent rhythm that felt nothing like instability.

“Perhaps,” she said.

She stepped back first, not out of retreat, but with quiet intention, allowing distance to return on her terms.

“But if it doesn’t,” she added, “you may find that some bonds don’t remain obedient simply because they were carved to.”

She turned toward the corridor, the cold closing around her shoulders again.

She did not look back.

And yet she felt it—the thread between them, drawn tighter now, no longer tentative or fragile.

Alive.

Whatever he believed he had brought under control—

was already beginning to answer to more than one will.

Chapter 10: The Table

Soren

Meals in Ironfang were never announced in the way Frostvein marked every ritual moment. Wolves simply gathered, drawn by habit and timing, until the hall filled itself with a quiet, purposeful rhythm.

By the time Soren entered the central hall, the long ironwood tables were already half-occupied. Bowls of roasted meat, dark bread, and thick stew lined the center, steam rising steadily into the dim air. Conversation moved in low, practical tones, nothing wasted and nothing meant to carry.

Eira entered only a few seconds after him.

He did not turn toward her, because he did not need to. The shift in the room reached him first, subtle but unmistakable, as attention sharpened into something watchful. It was not hostility, and it was not welcome. It was assessment.

She paused just long enough to take in the space before choosing a seat at the main table. Not beside him, and not at a distance either, but directly across from where he would sit.