Irida finally can't contain herself. She bursts from our hiding spot with a shriek of laughter, throwing herself at her father's legs. "You found us! That was the fastest ever!"
"Was it?" He scoops her up easily, spinning her around until she squeals with delight. "I had help. Someone forgot about her perfume."
His gaze finds mine over Irida's head, golden eyes bright with amusement and something warmer. The look sends heat racing through my veins despite the winter air.
"Rematch," I declare, surprised by the breathless quality of my own voice. "I’ll go wash off the perfume."
"Dangerous words, little thief," he murmurs, but his smile takes any sting out of the nickname. "Do you really think you can hide from me?"
The way he says it—low and rough with just enough edge to make it sound like a promise—sends warmth spiraling through my chest. This game has become something else entirely, charged with undercurrents that have nothing to do with innocent play.
But Irida is watching us both with bright, curious eyes, and I remember where we are. Who we're supposed to be.
"I think I’m more difficult to uncover than you might think," I say instead, making my voice light and challenging.
"We'll see," he replies, but his gaze lingers on my mouth in a way that makes my breath catch.
"My turn to count!" Irida announces, apparently oblivious to the tension crackling between her father and me. "You two have to hide together!"
"Together?" I echo weakly.
"It's only fair," Mihalis says, but there's mischief in his expression now. "Since we ganged up on you last time."
The idea of hiding in close quarters with him, of pressing against his warmth while we wait to be found, sends anticipation racing through my veins. This is dangerous territory—the kind of proximity that leads to touching without thinking, to moments that can't be taken back.
But Irida is already covering her eyes, starting her count, and Mihalis is extending his hand toward me with a challenge in his golden gaze.
"Coming, little thief?"
I take his hand, letting him pull me deeper into the maze while his daughter's voice fades behind us. His fingers are warm even through our gloves, his grip firm and sure as he leads me through passages I haven't explored yet.
"Where are we going?" I ask, slightly breathless from trying to keep up with his longer strides.
"Trust me," he says, and something in his voice makes that sound less like a suggestion and more like a promise.
10
MIHALIS
Ilead Heidi deeper into the maze, away from the main pathways where Irida might easily find us. My hand encloses hers through our gloves, and even that simple contact sends warmth racing up my arm. The bond purrs with satisfaction at our proximity, the constant ache in my chest finally easing.
But it's not just the bond anymore. That realization has been growing stronger each day, impossible to ignore as I watch her laugh with my daughter or catch her reading in the library with afternoon sunlight turning her hair to burnished gold. She fits into our lives with an ease that should terrify me—and does, in the quiet moments when I allow myself to think too clearly.
"This way," I murmur, pulling her toward a narrow passage between towering hedges. The path is barely wide enough for two people, forcing us close together as we navigate the tight space.
Her scent—the jasmine I'd teased her about—mingles with the crisp winter air and something uniquely her underneath. I've memorized that scent over the past ten days, caught myself seeking it out when she's not in the room. Another dangerous development I'm not ready to examine.
"How do you know this maze so well?" she asks, slightly breathless from our pace. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, making her gray-blue eyes seem even more vivid.
"I built it." The admission slips out before I can consider whether I want to share it. "When Irida was born, I needed... space. Somewhere to think. The maze grew from there."
She glances at me with surprise, and I realize how much I've revealed with those few words. The months after Irida's birth had been the darkest of my life—grief over losing my mate warring with fierce protective love for my daughter. I'd carved this maze from hedge and stone like a prayer, creating winding paths where I could walk out my pain without disturbing the household.
"It must have taken years," she says quietly.
"Three." I guide us around another corner, toward the center of the maze where I know the perfect hiding spot waits. "The ice sculptures were Irida's idea when she got old enough to explore with me."
"She has good ideas."
