DANTE
Snow drifted past the tavern windows in soft sheets, the world outside wrapped in white and quiet. Inside, the Silver Fang breathed like a contented animal: low fire at the hearth, lamplight turned warm, pine and citrus tucked along the shelves because Twyla had bullied Maeve into “festive.” Dante stood behind the bar with two mugs and a smile he couldn’t quite disguise when Maeve came down the stairs.
Short black hair mussed. Black sweater hugging a body built for sin and survival. Gold in her eyes like banked flame. She looked at him like trouble and home all in one, and his lion settled with a soundless rumble he felt in the bones.
“You made it,” she said.
“Told you I would,” he said, setting a mug near her hand. “Cinnamon and a sinful amount of honey. Don’t tell Twyla I guessed.”
She took a sip, watched him over the rim, then set the mug down and leaned her hips back into the bar. “We should talk.”
“About patrol schedules?” he teased.
“About legacy,” she said. “And fear. And you.”
He sobered. “I’m listening.”
She slid the ring from the tavern keys along its hook, a familiar ritual, metal on metal whispering through the hush. “I don’t need a mate to be whole. I don’t need anyone to make me strong.”
“I know,” he said, and meant it. “You’re already that. You always were.”
Her gaze softened a fraction. “But I want you. And wanting scares me.”
Dante stepped in, slow and deliberate until the heat of her was under his hands. “I’m not here to tame you,” he said. “I’m here to stand with you.”
She held his stare. The lioness in her looked back through those eyes—cautious, proud, hungry. “Say it again.”
“I’m not here to tame you,” he repeated, voice low. “I’m here to stand with you. In front of you when there’s a blade. At your back when there’s a storm. At your side when there’s a table to bang and a vote to win.”
Her throat moved. “What about when there’s a bed?”
He smiled without humor. “Then I’m under orders.”
The laugh that broke from her was small and beautiful. She caught his shirt and pulled him down, their foreheads touching, the air sparking where skin met skin. Outside, snow feathered the panes; inside, he could hear the tiny crackle of sap in the logs, the soft settle of the building he’d come to love because it was hers.
“I choose you,” Maeve said.
His lion went very still. “Say it again.”
“I choose you, Dante.” She didn’t whisper it. She gave it like a vow. “Not because the bond says so. Because I do.”
Heat rolled through him, fierce, clean, undeniable. He framed her face with his hands. “I love you.”
She didn’t flinch. “I love you.”
The words were a key in his ribs. Everything opened.
He kissed her like a man who’d waited a decade to breathe. She answered like a woman who’d finally stopped running from her own heartbeat. No pretense. No performance. His mouth learned hers again and again, slow and deep, until the faint taste of honey gave way to something spiced, stubborn, sweet.
Her fingers slid under his sweater, palms hot on his back. He cupped her hips and lifted her onto the bar, the old wood taking her weight with a friendly creak. She hooked a knee around his hip and pulled him in, and the kiss tipped from reverent to hungry.
“Lock the door,” she said, breath skimming his jaw.
He reached without looking and thumbed the bolt. The sign read CLOSED. The town could keep its gossip; the storm would swallow any sound anyway.
“Lights,” she added.
He dimmed them to honeyed pools. The fire did the rest, throwing gold across her skin when he tugged the sweater over her head. She shook out her hair, chin up, a queen in lamplight. He took a second just to look at the elegant lines, the scars she didn’t hide, the strength coiled under satin. His hands found heat at her waist and slid up.
