My brain finally reboots. "My bag," I rasp, pointing.
He moves with economy, scooping up my duffel and suitcase one-handed like they weigh nothing, then herds me toward the door. The blizzard screams. Snow stings my face until my eyes stream. He lifts me without asking, as if my input stopped mattering the moment I set that fire.
"Hey—" The protest is weak even to my own ears. His chest against my cheek is a furnace, solid and real.
"Fire's not contained," he says. "We go now."
I don't argue. Can't. The cold outside should hurt, but his body keeps me warm. Snow erupts around us with each of his massive strides. The world narrows to white andhim, and somewhere behind us the cabin is probably burning to the ground.
He doesn't follow any path. He cuts between trees, moving over drifts that would swallow me. The pines bow under their burden of snow, and through it all his breathing stays even, purposeful.
"Who are you?" My voice muffles against fur.
His chest rumbles. "Later."
"Are you—" The question sticks in my throat. "Human?"
Something almost like a laugh ghosts through the air between us, but there's no mockery in it. If anything, it sounds apologetic.
"No."
The word should terrify me. Instead, something in my chest loosens.Of course. Of course my retreat came with snow and fire and a rescuer who looks like he walked out of my midnight thoughts and decided to be real.
We break into a clearing. A structure looms ahead, darker than the storm, tucked into the trees like a secret. He shoulders the door open and the world transforms. Heat rushes out to meet us. Firelight glows steady and low. The air smells like smoke and leather and roasted meat andhim.
He’s brought me home.
He sets me down but keeps one hand on my arm until my legs remember how to lock. The pelt slides to the floor. I crane my neck up, and up. The ceiling beams nearly brush his head. Snow melts in his hair, tracks down his neck in bright beads against green skin.
"Thank you." My voice comes out smaller than I want.
He studies my face like he's memorizing it. Or reading it. The intensity steals what little breath I have left.
"You were freezing," he says. Simple. "And about to burn yourself up in a fire.”
Heat floods my face. "It was an accident."
One corner of his mouth shifts. Almost a smile. "I know."
He moves to hang a kettle over the flames. I peel off my gloves, flexing numb fingers. The space is small but deliberate—one large bed curtained in fur, shelves lined with jars and tools, a weapon rack I'm not ready to examine yet. Everything functional. Everything somehow beautiful.
"Sit." It’s not a command. His voice is surprisingly gentle. He gestures to a low stool by the fire.
I sit. Now that the danger has passed, tremors chase through me in waves. He watches, head tilted, like he's listening to something I can't hear.
"You didn't answer," I say, steadier now. "When I asked your name before."
He turns. Hair wet with snow falls across his brow, framing his golden eyes. Up close, the tusks curve clean and pale from his lower lip. Somehow, they don’t seem monstrous, though. And the scar makes him look perpetually on the edge of saying something reckless.
"Thane."
I smile at him. "I'm Lila."
He nods once, sharp. "Lila."
Hearing him say my name in his deep, gravelly voice sends a shiver of delight down my spine.
Steam whispers from the kettle. He pours something into a carved wooden cup. It carries the scent of mint and smoke with a ghost of citrus. He presses it into my hands, his fingers brushing mine. A spark skips up my arm, bright and startling, nothing to do with fire and everything to do with how my heart stumbles at the contact.
