I watch her shake. Watch color leech from her skin. Watch her stare at nothing. And I realize… I can’t. Can’t sit here and watch her freeze to death. Even if it means I’d be free from a person who’s decided they’re my executioner.
The realization unsettles me more than the cold.
“We need to build a fire.” My voice is loud against hours of silence.
She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look up. Just keeps staring at the floor, still rocking slightly, lost in whatever horror is playing behind her eyes.
I try again. “The temperature’s dropped below zero. Even for shifters, this isn’t sustainable.”
Nothing.
Ice continues to build at the entrance. The shelter is bare; no previous fire, no supplies beyond what we’re wearing. Just stone and cold and the two of us.
“I can build one,” I say. Keep my voice even. Factual. “With dragonfire. It’ll be controlled. You can cuff me again immediately after.”
Still nothing.
I wait. Count her breaths. Watch frost form in her hair.
She blinks. Slow. Confused. Like she forgot I was here. Her eyes find mine. Silver-green and unfocused. It takes her several seconds to process that I spoke. That I’m waiting for an answer.
“What?” The word comes out slurred. Hypothermia affecting speech.
“Fire,” I say again. “We need heat. I can provide it.”
Understanding filters through slowly. Then rejection, immediate, a knee-jerk response.
“No!” She shakes her head. “I don’t need your help.”
“You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your lips are purple. You’re shaking hard enough that I can hear your teeth. You’re not fine.”
“I said no.” Her voice is harder now. Clipped. But I hear the edge of desperation underneath. She’d rather freeze than accept anything from me.
I should respect that. Should let her maintain whatever dignity this refusal represents. But I’ve seen hypothermia kill. Know exactly how it progresses. And she’s already past the point where judgment is reliable.
“All right,” I say quietly. I return to silence. To waiting. Watch the ice continue its slow invasion.
Ten minutes pass. Then twenty.
Her shaking intensifies. She pulls her knees tighter, trying to generate warmth that isn’t there. Her breathing has gone shallow. Rapid. Another bad sign.
Thirty minutes.
The blue tinge deepens. Spreads from her lips down her throat. And even still, she’s… beautiful. Jet black hair is pulled back from a smooth forehead, wide-set eyes with the faintest hint of a slant to them. They’re pale, a mint-green that’s hard to look away from. High cheekbones, full lips that were rose pink before the blue took over. If I were a man who paid attention to such things, I’d have a hard time not staring at her.
But that’s not who I am.
I watch her try to stay strong. Try to maintain the separation between us that says accepting help from me would be a betrayal of everything she came here to do. But biology doesn’t care about principles.
“Fine.” The word is so quiet I almost miss it.
I look up. She hasn’t moved. Hasn’t looked at me. Just stares at the floor with an expression that says that admitting this costs her something. But she said it.
“Fine?” I repeat. Making sure.
