His brows knit as he lifts his eyes toward her. She’s bent over, quickly adding to a pile of snowballs between them.
She wants to have a snowball fight? How is he supposed to do that?
He looks at his hands and the snow. “I don’t think I can—”
Another ball of white powder disintegrates on his thigh.
“This is hardly fair,” he says.
“I know. I don’t have magic. Imagine the advantage fire magic would give a person in a snowball fight.” She lobs another snowball his way, and he reflexively dodges it. “What did your mother say? Why was that your first instinct?” Arisanna holds up another snowball and smiles at him. “You can do better than that.”
Whistling wind. Could this human princess be any more perfect?
She tosses the icy orb, and he carefully meets it mid-air with a ball of flames, sending it to a watery end.
“That’s my elven fire wielder.”
He can’t even begin to stop the grin that sneaks across his face at her words.
She hurls snowball after snowball at him, and he easily blocks each one while she struggles to make more as fast as he destroys them.
Soon, she’s circling him, flinging loose powder at him as she laughs, making his heart race right along with hers. He tosses flames out in a ring around them both. His palms stopped tingling a few minutes ago with all the magic he’s been using, and his hands are warm but not searing.
Does he dare touch her?
She looks at the barrier of fire in surprise and then groans with laughter. “I think you win.”
When she finds his eyes, her breath catches as her laughter fades.
And her heart rate accelerates.
“Cerian,” she breathes.
“Just...tell me if—”
She nods, understanding even without him having to explain. Carefully, he slides a hand around her waist to her lower back, and she gazes up at him with wide eyes. He swallows, waiting for the tingling to come, but it doesn’t. The ring of fire around them burns bright and warm, but his hands aren’t flaming the way they were.
He pulls her closer. Closer. Closer. Until the barest sliver of air separates them. Should he try touching her face?
“Tell me if—”
She nods again, and he trails a knuckle along the smooth skin of her jaw. When she doesn’t flinch or pull away, he slides his fingers into the hair behind her ear, letting his thumb graze its rounded edge. Human ears must not be sensitive the way elves’ are. He’d catch fire if she did that to him.
And her hair is soft. As soft as he’s imagined it.
She looks expectantly up at him, hints of vulnerability and longing in her eyes. The wall of fire around them flares, but his hands still don’t tingle.
Does he dare kiss her?
“Don’t pull away,” she whispers. “But your hand is getting warmer.”
The urge to put some distance between them fills him, but he forces himself not to move.
“When elves touch foreheads, what does it signify?” she asks softly.
“It’s...a sign of deep affection. Reserved for those closest to you.”
As he stands frozen, she slips her own hand behind his neck, avoiding his ear—thank the fates—and tilts his head to meet hers, pressing their foreheads together as her breath mingles with his.
