After a long moment, his chest loosens. He lets out a controlled exhalation, then nods once, as if it’s all been decided.
He steps into the alcove first, turning so his back is to the rear wall. It’s a tight fit. His shoulders almost brush both sides at once. He extends a hand toward me, palm up, glow painting his claws in gold.
“Come,” he rumbles.
I take his hand, his skin burning hot against my freezing palm, and shuffle in. I lean against the uneven side wall, staying as close to the entrance as I dare, knees wobbling.
For a moment, we say nothing. Well, I don’t. Stabby, on the other hand, is looking at me with his complete attention, and from the look on his face, he is absolutely saying things through his psychic group chat that I am far too human to pick up.
Soon, it becomes very clear that I am deliberately avoiding his gaze. It also becomes clear that he is aware of that.
I give in and look up.
Bad idea.
As soon as our eyes meet, he pats his chest. Like he’s inviting a stray animal to come sit in his lap.
Oh.
Oh, we are not doing that again.
“No,” I say firmly, though my teeth choose that moment to start chattering. “I’m good. Over here. Personal space, you know?”
His heavy brows draw together. He pats his chest again. The movement is simple: here. Warmth. Safe.
“Close is…” He starts in Drakavian then finds the word he wants in English. “Goood.”
“Close is weird,” I correct him, hugging my arms around myself and rubbing briskly, chasing friction. “I’m fine. Just… cooling off.”
His gaze tracks the tremor in my shoulders. The way my hands keep shaking.
Then he huffs out an annoyed, exasperated sound.
Apparently, debate time is over.
He reaches out, big hands catching my waist, and simply drags me toward him across the stone.
“Hey!” I yelp, slapping at his wrists. “Let go, you giant?—”
He ignores every protest, spins me neatly, and settles me back between his legs. The stone under me is cold; he is not. My spine hits his chest with a fleshy thump, and heat slams into me so fast it actually borders on painful.
He wraps his arms around me in one smooth, no-nonsense motion, pinning my arms to my sides so I can’t flail my way back out.
“Stop,” I hiss, squirming uselessly. “I said I’m fine.”
“You… cold,” he growls near my ear, his voice rough with irritation. “Die… or warm. You pick.”
I go still.
The translation is blunt, but the meaning is clear enough.
Die or warm.
Well. When you put it like that.
I don’t relax exactly. But I stop fighting him. I sit there, stiff, radiating offended dignity.
“This is under protest,” I mutter.
