Kylan kicks door twice. Hinges protest, then give. Snow whirls in behind us until he slams wood closed with shoulder. He slides bar into place, tests. Satisfied, he lowers me onto bundled straw pallets near stone hearth.
“I’ll check corners.” Voice clipped, efficient. He vanishes into gloom, torch flaring as he lights sconce after sconce. Warm amber springs along walls, revealing racks once stuffed with salted meats, now empty save for mouse-gnawed rope. Dust motes spin in turbulent air. Somewhere overhead, roof beams groan, but they hold.
The moment his footsteps retreat, agony claws deeper. I force cloak open to inspect damage. Crystal veins above hip pulse bright ice-blue, creeping toward navel. Each pulse feels like a hammer tap on glass inside flesh.
A whimper escapes before I can swallow it.
Kylan returns, drops small armload of split pine by hearth. His eyes go wolf-bright when they meet mine. “Where?”
“Left side.” Voice whispers without permission.
He kneels, gloved fingers parting cloak layers. The new frost bloom glitters under lantern light—delicate as starflaked lace, lethal as slow knives. He peels off gloves, presses calloused palms against my thigh above bloom, another against ribs below it. Heat seeps from him, fierce as midsummer hearth.
I suck air through teeth. “Warmth helps, but?—”
“Shhhh.” He closes eyes, channels shift-heat; I feel temperature climb under skin, not burning, but enough to trick muscles into relaxing. My hand lands on his wrist—for anchor, not protest. His pulse thuds steady.
Slowly, pain recedes to manageable ache. I rest back on pallets. We both breathe hard, as if climbing again.
“Thank you,” I manage.
He studies lattice, brow creasing. “Crystal spreads faster after translation trances. We can’t afford many more.”
“The texts were necessary.” I attempt smile and fail.
He huffs. “You speak of necessity while shaking.” He shrugs off wolf-hide coat, drapes it over me. Heat still trapped inside fibers engulfs me in scent—pine sap, ember stripe musk, snow ozone. My heart stutters.
He feeds hearth. Flames leap, spitting pitch pops. Snowmelt from his shoulders hisses on stone. The space brightens enough to reveal more of the hut: single bunk in corner, table scarred by dice cuts, iron stove pipe curving through ceiling. On peg hangs a bronze lantern etched with merchant crest shaped like entwined coins. I picture weary traders thawing boots here, swapping stories about ice serpents licking sled tracks.
Wind batters shutters. A draft snakes under door, touches crystal patch, reigniting prickles. I shiver.
Kylan notices, frowns. “Cloak soaked through. Off.” He reaches, begins loosening silver brooch at my throat. Fingers brush bare skin just below lattice; a spark flares along bond we seldom acknowledge. My inhale is sharp. He pauses, searching my face for objection. I give none. The cloak slides free, landing with a sodden thud.
Underneath I wear travel tunic, simple wool, damp at hem. He helps peel it over head slowly, eyes flicking to lattice lines crossing collarbone. Mood in hut shifts—air thicker, breaths shorter. He drops tunic near fire to dry, then strips his own wet shirt. Candlelight kisses the cut ridges of his torso, mapping claw scars and newest crystal scratches. I cannot stop staring.
His gaze locks on mine, pupils widening. “Need heat at joints. Massage shifts blood.”
“I can direct my own channels,” I whisper, suddenly breathless.
He snorts. “Your limbs tremble.” Without waiting, he lifts my foot, unlacing boot, sliding sock free. His rough thumb strokes arch—firm, controlled, sending shockwave from toes to scalp. The rope of restraint between us frays. He works calf next, kneading until muscle loosens, then switches legs. Every touch melts cold into tingling wakefulness.
Pain follows pleasure, each stroke easing lattice ache while stoking something older than prophecy. My breathing falls into rhythm with his. I sense his wolf pacing behind amber eyes, ears flat, tail lashing. A primal hush descends, deeper than storm howl.
He lifts my left arm, rubs wrist with both thumbs, moving upward in slow circles. When fingers graze inner elbow, fire skitters across nerves. I exhale a sound bordering a moan. His nostrils flare, catching scent of rising hunger.
“Carmilla.” Name emerges guttural—command, question, prayer rolled into two syllables.
“Yes?” My voice shakes more than body.
“Tell me to stop.” Nails press lightly on lattice edge, daring lines to cut him. They don’t.
“I cannot,” I answer truthfully.
Thunderous silence swallows hut. The storm outside roars, as if cheering decisions. He bows head, lips brushing frost bloom on my cheek—a reverent salute. Crystals tingle but do not bite. In that soft graze, tension breaks like spring ice.
I surge upward, mouth seeking his, fingers tangling in damp hair. Taste of smoke and winter explodes on tongue. He groans, deep, chest vibration meeting my ribs. We fall against wall; rough-hewn boards rattle.
Hands roam with sudden greed. He yanks laces on my under-shirt; fabric tears, exposing breasts to mingled firelightand chill drafts. Nipples pebble instantly. His gaze scorches then mouth descends—warmth that steals voice, leaving only gasps. Teeth graze but never bruise. My spine arches, driving crystal patch into his hard abdomen; he growls approval.
