Locked.
I rattled it, panic overriding my shock. “Open,” I commanded the wood. “Let me out!”
The house didn’t just ignore me; I felt a smug vibration hum through the brass into my palm. The lock held fast.
“It won’t open,” I said.
Fenrik pushed himself off the wall, stumbling toward me. “Open the damned door!” he roared at the ceiling, exposing the silver cracks racing down his neck.
The manor’s response was a structural groan that sounded disturbingly like a refusal. Thunder detonated overhead, a physical blow that shook the foundations of the cliffside estate. I was thrown forward, my boots losing traction on the polished wood. I flailed, reaching for anything to steady myself, but the air was empty.
I slammed hard into a wall of solid heat. Fenrik. I heard the sharp intake of his breath, felt the rigid muscle beneath his open shirt against my palms. But before I could pull away, a deafening crack echoed from above, part of the stone molding near the ceiling gave way, shaken loose by the storm’s fury.
“Down!”
His arm wrapped around my waist, and he spun us fast. He slammed me back against the bookshelves, his body crashing over mine, creating a living shield between me and the falling debris. Dust and heavy plaster rained down, bouncing off his broad shoulders, but I felt none of it.
I only felt him. My back was pressed flat against the spines of a hundred leather-bound books, and Fenrik was pressed flush against my front. He was heavy, his hips pinning mine to the shelves. His chest heaved against my palms, which were still trapped between us, resting on his bare skin—and I could feel the erratic thunder of his heart.
Thankfully, he hadn’t crushed me. His claws were dug into the bookshelves on either side of my head, seeing to it that his weight didn’t suffocate me, boxing me in. The dust settled. The thunder rolled away, leaving a ringing quiet in its wake.
Fenrik kept his head bowed, his forehead resting against the books inches from my ear. His breath came in ragged pants that stirred the hair at my temple. He was so hot he burned through my clothes, a furnace of whatever magic was cursing him.
I looked up, my heart galloping a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
One of his hands shifted. The claws retracted slowly, human fingers returning, though the silver veins still throbbed. His thumb grazed the shell of my ear—a touch so delicate it made my knees give out. I could stop this, but I didn’t.
“Are you hurt?” he rasped, lifting his head.
Those silver eyes met mine, mere inches away. The feral light hadn’t faded.
“No,” I whispered. My own voice sounded wrecked.
He didn’t pull away. He stayed there, staring at my mouth. The heat radiating from him was scalding, soaking through the thin linen of my shirt and searing my skin. He felt less like a man and more like a predator shaped into one, every muscle rigid, coiled with a tension that threatened to snap his bones.
A low, vibrating sound rumbled in his chest. It pressed into my own sternum, rattling my ribs. I shouldn’t have liked it. I should have been terrified of the beast surfacing beneath his skin, of the silver veins pulsing at his throat. But my body betrayed me, softening against his hardness, an ache blooming low in my belly.
The silver in his irises had been swallowed by black, his pupils blown so wide they eclipsed everything else. He looked at me as if he wanted to tear me apart and devour the pieces.
“If you touch me again,” he murmured, sending shivers racing down my spine, “I won’t be able to stop.”
Was it a threat, or was it an invitation? Logic screamed at me to duck under his arm, to run for the door the house refused to open. But the heat of him, the scent of cedar and raw, masculinemusk, held me paralyzed. Bloody thing, I wanted it to be an invitation. My hand, which had been trapped between our chests, trembled as I flattened my palm. I pressed it deliberately over the thunder of his heart.
Then what I felt wasn’t the usual sensation of my gift, that thread of silence I used to subdue maddened beasts. This was a collision, a violent wreck of golden warmth crashing headlong into his glacial frost. The impact tore through my head, frying every thought, every instinct to run, leaving only pure, blinding sensation. I looked down, blinking against the sudden brightness. My magic was... gold, like he said it was. I’d never seen it other than silvery and cold. But against him, it was molten light, spilling from my fingertips to chase away the shadows beneath his skin. It met the silver frost of his curse as a counterpart. The two lights flared, tangling together around our forearms.
My knees gave out, I couldn’t bloody help it. The sheer density of the power rushing between us was too heavy to stand under. A small, embarrassing sound hitched in my throat, half gasp, half moan, as I sagged against him. That sound seemed to shatter whatever structural integrity Fenrik had left.
Beneath my palm, I felt the beast inside him roar, a deep vibration in his chest protesting the intrusion. But then, it recoiled. The dragon was shoved back. The silver veins on his neck pulsed once, hard, then dimmed, the frantic erraticism of his heartbeat smoothing into a rhythm that matched my own. Fenrik moved into the space I’d ceded, his hand lifting to cradle my face. His palm was rough, and hot, his touch agonizinglygentle. His thumb traced the curve of my lower lip, dragging slightly, and a shudder racked my entire body. I was burning up, consumed by the gold-and-silver fire wreathing us.
Fenrik leaned in, his forehead resting against mine, his eyes squeezed shut before dragging them open to pin me down. His mouth hovered a hair’s breadth from mine, close enough to steal the air from my lungs.
“I’ve wanted,” he whispered, “since you arrived—since before—“
The lightning outside had ceased its assault, leaving us in sudden gloom. But the room didn’t go dark. Instead, the sconces on the walls lit to an amber smoulder.
Fenrik groaned and his mouth crashed down on mine. It was a collision of starving things. There was no tentative testing of waters, no gentle exploration, only a frantic, devouring hunger that stole the breath from my lungs. He tasted of wild mint and copper, of storm-winds and desperation. His hands, no longer careful, tangling in my hair, gripping my skull to hold me steady.
I should have pushed him away, I should have remembered the danger, the curse, the claws that had been visible only moments ago. But my own traitorous body arched into him, pressing closer to the furnace of his chest. My hands found purchase on his shoulders, digging into the muscle, anchoring myself as the world spun away.
