His silver eyes flicker in the moonlight, searching mine as if to impress upon me the gravity of this moment. “This is the heart of the mountain.”
He leads me toward the center of the alcove, where steam rises in soft, ghostly tendrils from a deep, mineral-rich pool. The water bubbles up from beneath the earth, its gentle currents lapping against carefully stacked stones.
Even in the dim glow of the stars, I can see it—the way the rocks have been fitted together by careful, deliberate hands. Not by chance but intention. A sanctuary, shaped by time and devotion.
I realize now the heat in this secret garden isn’t just rising from the water; it’s held captive by the towering cliff walls, caught within the embrace of stone and sky. A world preserved in warmth, untouched by the ice beyond.
The botanist in me aches to return in daylight, to study the plants that must flourish in this hidden cradle of life. Theethnobotanist in me wonders how the people of the region might have used them. Were they ever known? Gathered? Revered? Or has this place remained a secret—untouched, unseen, waiting?
I desperately want to ask if perhaps the Migoi have used them. But those questions belong to another time. Right now, the world is awash in silver and shadow, bathed in moonlight so soft it feels otherworldly and magical.
I turn back toward Eryon, my breath hitching as I find the night sky reflected in his eyes. A galaxy of light and longing.
Something takes root in my chest. A shift that has me realizing a quiet, inexorable truth. And as I watch him—watch the same feeling take shape in his gaze—I know I am no longer lost.
I try to push it down—to starve it of air, to keep it from taking root like the lush foliage around me. But love, like life, is relentless. It grows where it will, thriving in the harshest climates, in the smallest cracks of a rocky mountain. It is a force of nature beyond our control.
Yet no matter how beautiful this place is, how peaceful, how welcoming—I know I can’t stay, no matter how much I want to. I cannot fall in love with a Yeti. And even if I could, if I let myself, I would still die here.
If I don’t find my way back to town, if I don’t finish this expedition to find this damn plant, then love, like me, will wither before it has the chance to bloom. The genetic flaw that took my mother’s life in her fifties will take mine too—unless I stop it.
TheSilene vitaliscarries the precise enzyme my body lacks, the key to breaking down the proteins slowly poisoning me. I need time, maybe even years, to extract it, to perfect the delivery mechanism.
And I won’t find my cure hiding away in a cave with a Yeti. Tomorrow, I’ll ask him to take me back to Migdhari—beforethese feelings can blossom. Although I think it might already be too late.
I school my face, bury the thought deep, and let him guide me into the steaming water, my body surrendering to the inviting heat—even as my heart refuses to do the same.
The stones are smooth beneath my feet as I cautiously make my way to the built-in stone bench. He sits on it and then settles me between his legs and pulls me against his chest. Together we recline in the gentle current, watching the stars cross the sky above us.
He points out a shooting star, and I say, “You’re right. I’ve never seen a better show than this.”
His soft laugh rumbles beneath my ear. Reaching over, he plucks something from a nearby plant and lathers it between his hands.
“Oh, a soapberry!” I exclaim.
I watch, captivated. I’ve spent my life studying how humans use plants—for medicine, food, ceremony. But this—this is something else. An entirely different sentient species, with knowledge all its own. And I’m witnessing it firsthand.
He smiles at me as he works the lather into my hair. I groan as he massages my scalp with his strong fingers, grateful to finally be washing away the remnants of his marking. It had been intoxicating in the moment, but I was ready to be rid of the sticky, dried patches. He seemed to suffer no such qualms, happily sporting spiky clumps of fur where I had marked him.
I reach for the soapberry and step onto the bench behind him, returning the favor. As I lather the suds and work them through his thick hair and fur covered shoulders, I marvel at how his body shifts—not just with threat, but with the world around him. The heat of the spring coaxes him into something softer, his form relaxing, his edges blurring.
As I knead the tension from his neck and shoulders, I admire just how much his form can change. His skin is slickbeneath my fingers where most of the fur has receded. A dusting of white remains, framing his chest, trailing down his abdomen, before thickening into a short crop at his groin.
In the dim glow of the cavern, with his body softened by warmth, I can almost imagine—almost pretend—that he could be human. That we could leave this cave, step into the world beyond these mountains, together.
But even if his size alone didn’t set him apart, one look at his luminous eyes, at the sharp cut of his teeth, and the truth would be undeniable. He is not human. He never could be.
And yet, I still want him.
He melts into my touch as I massage the soap down his back until he lets out a groan and snags me with one massive hand, bringing me to stand in front of him again. Taking the soapberry back from me, he lathers it between his hands, staring into my eyes as he runs them up and down my body.
My skin flushes under his attention, the slippery glide of his fingertips lighting up my nerves as they slide up and over my breasts, then back down along the curve of my belly. With each pass he brings his hands lower until I’m spreading my legs in anticipation, desperate for him to touch my aching center.
I arch into his hands, breath catching every time he almost gives me what I need—only for him to retreat, teasing, pulling at my pebbled nipples again instead. A huff of frustration escapes me as I shift forward, trying to guide him lower, to where I really want him.
When I reach for his hands, determined to take what I need, he only chuckles and pulls me into him. His breath is warm against my ear, his voice a deep, wicked promise.
“My greedy Winter Star,” he murmurs. “Let me show you again. Let me show you how much you are worth saving.”
