Her teeth weren’t chattering anymore.
That was bad. Really fucking bad. Her body had given up trying to warm itself, which meant she was sliding toward the kind of cold that killed people. The knowledge sat in her brain, something that she’d read in a first-aid course somewhere, distant and clinical, while her thoughts moved through thick syrup.
The cabin walls blocked the wind’s shriek, but cold radiated from the floorboards through her boots. Zeke had carried her here. Through the storm. After he’d...
Blood spraying across white snow. The wet crack of bone breaking. Scarface’s scream cutting off mid-breath as–
He’d torn those ferals apart like they were made of paper. No struggle. No effort. Just brutal, efficient violence that left steam rising from torn flesh and red eyes finally dark.
The man who’d always been quiet around the garrison, who’d checked her splint with gentle hands and brought her drinks at the wedding, had killed without hesitation. Without mercy.
And she’d never felt safer in her life.
“Sit.” He guided her to a stool, his hands steady on her shoulders. The contact burned through her wet clothes, the only warmth in a world gone arctic. His yellow eyes swept over her face. “Your lips are gray.”
She tried to nod, but her neck muscles ground like rusted machinery. Her fingers wouldn’t bend properly when she reached for the jacket’s zipper.
His hands covered hers, stopping her fumbling attempts. “Here, let me.”
He worked the zipper down smoothly and peeled the wet shirt from her shoulders, tossing it aside where it hit the floor with a soggy slap. Her work shirt underneath was soaked through, the fabric clinging to her skin like ice.
“This too.” His voice allowed no argument, but his hands paused at her collar. Waiting.
Heat flushed through her chest. She was dying of cold, and her body was responding to the promise in his yellow eyes like this was some kind of romantic jaunt. She needed to get a grip, like yesterday.
She managed a jerky nod.
His fingers popped the buttons quickly, each small movement sending jolts of awareness up her spine. He kept his gaze fixed on the task, but she caught the flicker when his knuckles brushed her collarbone. The shirt fell away, leaving her in her bra and work pants. Cold air hit her exposed skin, raising goosebumps across her arms and chest.
He went still.
Not the stillness of someone concentrating on a medical task, but the stillness of a predator. His gaze tracked over her bare shoulders, down to where her bra pressed against skin gone pale with cold, then snapped back to her face. Heat flickered behind his yellow eyes, not the clean burn of medical concern, but something darker. Hungrier.
“The pants are wet too.” The words came out like gravel. “They’ll make you colder.”
Her pulse jumped, sending blood rushing to places that had been numb with cold moments before. This wasn’t the polite, respectful Zeke who’d hovered near her table at the wedding. This was something else. He was something else. Someone else. Someone who looked at her like she belonged to him.
She nodded and fumbled with her belt, but her fingers were too stiff to work the buckle properly. His hands covered hers again, pushing them aside. The buckle opened under his touch, followed by the button and zipper. His fingers brushed against her stomach as he worked, and her breath hitched.
The pants peeled away from her legs, taking her boots with them. His movements became more careful when he reached her injured leg. Dark stains had soaked through the fabric strips of the makeshift splint still tied in place.
“You did this yourself.” Not a question. His thumb traced over the knotted binding, following the line where she’d torn fabric to secure the splint. “In the forest.”
“Yeah. I had to.” Her voice sounded strange, thick and slow. “Splint was broken.”
His yellow eyes fixed on her face with an intensity that made her stomach flip.
“You’re bleeding.” He crouched beside her leg, fingers probing the edge of the splint. She watched him examine the dark stain spreading through the fabric binding, absently curious.
Well, would you look at that.
It was blood. Her blood. She should have been concerned, but the injury felt distant, disconnected.
He unwrapped the binding carefully to uncover the splint underneath. The wood was stained dark where it had cut into her calf, a gash maybe three inches long that should have hurt like hell. Instead, she felt nothing but distant pressure as he examined the wound.
“Needs cleaning.” He stood, scanning the cabin’s sparse furniture. “And you need to warm up before your core temperature drops any further.”
A pile of furs sat against the far wall, covered by a woven blanket that had seen better days. He stripped the covering away to reveal thick pelts underneath… some kind of alien creature with dense, dark fur. He turned back to her.
