Rickon made quick work of getting the fire going. Within minutes, flames crackled behind the small glass window, and heat began to radiate through the tent. The difference was immediate and glorious. My fingers started to tingle as feeling returned to them—painful at first, then almost pleasant. I could finally stop clenching my jaw against the shivers that had become so constant I'd almost forgotten they weren't normal.
Even though the cold faded from inside the tent, the wind was absolutely insane. Each gust sounded like something alive and angry, trying to tear us from our shelter and fling us back into the frozen wilderness. To the wolves.
I busied myself digging through the supplies, pulling out a couple of MREs. Normally, I'd be more particular about what I ate—occupational hazard of having a White House chef—but right now I didn't care if it tasted like cardboard as long as it waswarm. I tore open the packages and got the heating elements going, then set about making tea with the small camping kettle.
The domestic normalcy of it all felt surreal. Making dinner in a tent with an alien warrior after being attacked by wolves while a blizzard raged outside. Just another Tuesday.
Rickon watched me work, and I became hyperaware of every movement. The tent had warmed up enough so that I could finally unzip my parka, and I caught his gaze tracking the motion, lingering on the exposed skin of my throat.
Yep. I was definitely in trouble.
A particularly violent gust slammed into the tent, and I jumped, nearly dropping the kettle.
"Easy," Rickon said, his deep voice somehow cutting through the shrieking tent. "The tent will hold."
"I know," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. Another blast hit, making the tent walls bow inward, and I flinched again despite myself.
Rickon tilted his head, studying me with those intense dark chocolate eyes. "You are afraid of the storm."
"I'm not…." I started, then stopped. What was the point in lying? "Okay, maybe a little. It's just so loud. So violent. And those wolves didn't help in the least."
"When I was a youngling," he said, settling back against the tent wall, possibly in an attempt to keep it from undulating like a stripper on a pole, "I got caught in a sandstorm on the Kethara Plains. I had wandered too far from my clan's encampment, chasing a herd of wild kresh. I thought I was a great hunter." His mouth quirked in what might have been amusement. "I was foolish."
I found myself moving closer, drawn in by his voice, by the rare glimpse into his past. "What happened?"
"The storm came from nowhere, as they do in the dry season. The sand felt like blades against my skin, and I couldnot see my own hands before my face. I found shelter in a rock formation, barely a cave, just an overhang. I stayed there for two days while the storm raged."
"Two days? You must have been terrified."
"I was." He met my eyes, and I saw the memory of that fear in them. "But the fear passed. I learned that storms, no matter how fierce, always end. And I learned that sometimes the only thing to do is wait them out in whatever shelter you can find."
The wind howled again, but this time I didn't jump. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"Is it working?"
I laughed despite myself. "Maybe a little."
We ate in companionable silence, the MREs tasting better than they had any right to. The tea helped too, warming me from the inside out. But as the minutes ticked by, I became increasingly aware of the tension building in the small space between us. Every time Rickon moved, every time his gaze lingered on me, I felt it like a physical touch, like electricity crackling across my skin.
Maybe it was just the adrenaline coursing through my system. The storm, the wolves, the worry of what Declan was doing while wearing my skin. It had to be messing with my head, making everything feel more intense and immediate. That's what happened after near-death experiences, right? Your body flooded with chemicals, your senses heightened, everything became sharper and more vivid than it should be.
That had to be why I couldn't stop looking at him. Why every movement he made seemed loaded with meaning. Why the air between us felt thick enough to cut with a knife.
It was just biology. Just my brain trying to process trauma by latching onto the nearest source of safety and comfort. Nothing more.
Except... I'd been in dangerous situations before. I'd had close calls, especially after becoming president. And I'd never felt like this. Like my skin was too tight, like I might crawl out of it if he didn't touch me soon.
He was so damn beautiful, even with the cuddwisg making him look human. The strong line of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his forehead, those eyes that seemed to see right through me. And knowing what was underneath—the real him, all that strength and otherness—only made it worse.
Or better. I wasn't sure anymore.
I tried to focus on cleaning up our meal, but my hands were shaking, and it had nothing to do with the cold. When I reached for his empty MRE package at the same moment he did, our fingers brushed, and I felt the contact all the way down to my toes.
"Ellie," he said, his voice rough.
I glanced up at him, and the intensity in his gaze stole my breath. We were so close in the small tent, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the faint scent of him, something wild and clean, like pine and snow and something else, something uniquely him.
I couldn't take it anymore. The question that had been burning in my mind burst into flames and rushed from my lips like a backdraft.
