“Of course it will,” she murmurs, but she’s still almost-smiling as she banks the fire and settles into her bedroll.
I take first watch, ostensibly scanning the darkness for threats. But my attention keeps drifting to her sleeping form, the way moonlight catches in her hair, the soft sound of her breathing. My leopard is restless, wanting things we can’t have, shouldn’t want.
She’s not what I expected. She’s more. So much more that it terrifies me.
Mountain Cats mate for life. We choose once, with absolute certainty, and that choice defines us forever. I’ve never found anyone who could stand beside me as an equal, who could match my strength with their own, who could make my magic sing and my leopard purr and my careful control crack just by existing.
Until now.
But she shows no signs of similar recognition. No indication that I’m anything more than an assignment to her, a difficult Mountain Cat tracker she has to endure to complete her mission. She matches my pace, meets my challenges, even teases me about smiling, but none of that means what my leopard wants it to mean.
Still, as the night deepens and she shifts in her sleep, murmuring something I can’t quite catch, I find myself wondering.
What would it be like if she were mine? If I could close the distance between us, discover if her lips are as soft as they look, if her scent is even more intoxicating up close? What would it be like to have someone who could match me stride for stride, challenge for challenge, strength for strength?
The thought is dangerous. Impossible. Mountain Cats don’t indulge in fantasy.
But as I watch over her through the cold night, my almost-smile lingering despite myself, I can’t quite make myself stop wondering.
Tomorrow will be harder, I told her.
I just hadn’t realized I was talking about resisting her, not the terrain.
5
LYRA
Day five of our journey, and I’m losing the battle against my awareness of Magnus Ironwood.
The morning sun barely penetrates the thick canopy of pines as we descend into Mountain Cat territory proper. The temperature has plummeted overnight, leaving everything crystallized in frost that crunches beneath our boots. Magnus moves ahead of me, all controlled power and predatory grace, and I can’t stop watching the way his muscles shift beneath his leather and fur clothing.
It’s becoming a problem.
Every time he pauses to examine tracks, I find myself studying the strong line of his jaw, the way his platinum-white hair catches what little sunlight filters through. When he crouches to test the frozen stream we’re following, I notice how his large, capable, and deadly hands can be surprisingly gentle, like when he adjusted my pack strap yesterday without being asked when he noticed it rubbing my shoulder.
My magic hums whenever he’s close, which is constantly on these narrow mountain paths. It’s like my power recognizes his,reaching out despite my attempts to keep it contained. Storm calling to ice, begging to dance.
“Here,” Magnus says suddenly, his voice sharp with tension.
I move to stand beside him, and my stomach drops. An abandoned trade wagon lies on its side in the frozen stream bed, one wheel shattered, goods scattered across the bloody snow. But it’s the marks that make my healer instincts scream—deep gouges through wood and metal, claw marks unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
“What could do this?” I breathe, though part of me already knows. The vision showed me glimpses of twisted things that shouldn’t exist.
Magnus examines the marks with growing concern, his silver eyes darkening. “These don’t match any clan I know. Too large for wolves, wrong pattern for bears, nothing like Mountain Cat claws.”
I move closer to the wagon, drawn by a compulsion I can’t name. The deepest gouges call to me, and before I can stop myself, my hand reaches out to touch the splintered wood.
The vision slams into me with the force of an avalanche.
Terror. Raw, primal terror that tastes like copper and ash. Inhuman howls echo through the darkness, not quite animal, not quite human, but something twisted in between. Bodies that move wrong, joints bending in impossible directions, faces half-formed and screaming.
The stench of sickness and rage, of chemistry gone wrong, of nature violated. And underneath it all, sterile cold. Metal tables. Needles. The sensation of being strapped down, unable to shift, while something burns through veins like acid?—
I’m falling backward, the vision’s intensity stealing my balance, but strong arms catch me before I hit the ground. Magnus pulls me against his chest, his hands ice-cold and solid on my shoulders, anchoring me to the present.
“What did you see?” His voice is sharp with demand, but underneath I hear something else—concern for my well-being. Real concern, not just professional interest.
I’m shaking, my body pressed against his, and for a moment I let myself lean into his strength. He smells like winter pine and something uniquely him, wild and dangerous and inexplicably safe all at once. My magic reaches for his without my permission, storm-touched power twining with ice until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
