"Look," he whispers, guiding my gaze to where frost patterns on my skin pulse in perfect rhythm with our movements.The designs grow more complex as pleasure builds, spiraling outward from my heart in mathematical perfection. "You're becoming part of the winter."
I lose myself in the sensation, in the impossible reality of being claimed by winter itself. Each thrust sends waves of alternating cold and heat through my body, nerve endings confused and delighted by the contradiction. The frost patterns pulse with our rhythm, glowing brighter as pleasure builds, creating a visual representation of mounting ecstasy.
His hands cradle my face with surprising tenderness, eyes locked on mine as he moves within me. The luminous blue of his gaze seems to flow into me, cold fire burning away everything but this moment, this connection.
"Vidar," I gasp as the pressure intensifies, reaching the edge of release, my fingers digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders where frost crunches beneath my grip.
"I have you," he promises, his true voice resonating through the cabin, making the very air vibrate in sympathy.
The climax takes me like an avalanche—powerful, overwhelming, transforming. My back arches off the fur, frost patterns flaring blue-white across my skin as ecstasy crashes through me in waves that seem endless. I'm vaguely aware of crying out, the sound echoed by the winter winds outside.
He follows moments later, his larger body tensing above mine, antlers fully expanded in the moment of surrender. His release brings a new sensation—a profound coldness flowing into me that somehow burns with pleasure rather than pain. Ice crystals form in the air around us, hanging suspended as if time itself pauses to witness our joining.
The moment stretches, extends, becomes infinite—frost patterns across my skin pulsing with light that matches the rhythmic waves of pleasure, his eyes flaring with blue fire, the storm outside perfectly still in that instant of completion.
Then, gradually, reality reasserts itself. The suspended ice crystals begin to fall, landing on our cooling skin like diamond dust. The frost patterns on my body slowly fade, leaving only a pleasant tingling sensation in their wake. His breathing steadies, antlers receding slightly though not returning to their fully glamoured state.
We lie together in comfortable silence, my head on his chest, watching new frost patterns form and fade where our skin touches. His clawed hand traces lazy circles on my back, each touch leaving momentary swirls that tingle before disappearing.
"I never imagined..." he begins, then falls silent, apparently unable to find words adequate to the experience.
"Me neither," I agree, understanding completely.
In this moment, the outside world seems impossibly distant. The storm has calmed to gentle snowfall, creating a cocoon of white around the cabin that feels like our own private universe. Through the window, I can see stars appearing as clouds thin and part, as if winter itself is revealing new wonders for us.
Then, a sound breaks the silence.
It seems to come from another world entirely, an unwelcome intrusion from reality.
Vidar tenses beneath me, head turning toward the window. "Helicopter," he says, the word edged with displeasure.
I sit up, listening. The sound grows louder—definitely an aircraft, likely part of the search operation. They're getting closer.
"They're looking for me," I say unnecessarily.
Frost spreads across the floor, reflecting his agitation. "Yes."
"Can they see the cabin from the air?"
"Not easily. The trees provide cover, and I can thicken the snowfall around us." His eyes narrow in concentration, and outside, the snow immediately intensifies in a localized area around the cabin.
I should feel relief that help is near. I should be planning how to signal them, how to end this dangerous isolation and return to civilization. Instead, I find myself pulling the fur around me and settling back against Vidar's chest, making no move toward my clothes or the door.
"You're not trying to alert them," he observes, surprise evident in his voice.
"No," I admit. "Not yet."
His arm tightens around me, possessive but questioning. "Why?"
I consider the question seriously. It would be easy to claim temporary insanity, Stockholm syndrome, or simple lust. But none of those explain the certainty I feel.
"Because this—whatever is happening between us—isn't finished yet." I turn to face him. "And I need to understand it before I go back."
"The bond," he says quietly.
"Is it real? What we're feeling?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "But as I said, it's just beginning. It can still fade if not strengthened."
