Page 109 of Iron Beneath the Snow

She didn’t pull away.

His fingers were steady as he adjusted the binding, tightening it just enough to support without restricting movement. The contact lingered longer this time, unavoidable in the confined space.

Something in her tightened—not the mark, not the familiar pull beneath her ribs, but a smaller awareness that belonged entirely to her.

That distinction unsettled her more than she wanted it to.

The thread itself remained faint at this distance, present but stretched thin enough to feel almost separate from the moment.

“You’re reacting,” Riven said, his voice low enough that the others wouldn’t follow the exchange, though his tone carried no accusation.

Eira looked at him.

“To what?”

He held her gaze for a moment, then released the wrap.

“Me,” he said simply.

She let the silence stretch just long enough to reassert control over it.

“That’s not your concern,” she said.

“No,” he agreed, without resistance.

And yet he didn’t move away at once.

There was no attempt to claim or test the moment.

That, more than anything, made it difficult to ignore.

Outside, the storm thickened, the wind rising into a sustained howl that pressed against the stone and filled the pauses between their breaths. Inside, warmth gathered slowly, drawn from fire and proximity alike, until the cold in the walls began to recede.

For a brief moment, uninvited and unwelcome, Eira imagined Soren in the same confined space.

There would be no softening there. No distance to thin the thread.

The thought came with the clarity of instinct rather than choice, and she pushed it aside before it could take shape.

Power draws. It does not choose.

The storm lingered longer than expected.

By the time dusk settled into the edges of the sky, the storm had not eased. The narrow opening of the shelter had become a dim, shifting grey. Descent would wait until morning.

Eira leaned back against the stone, the residual tension in her body loosening by degrees as the urgency of movement gave way to stillness. The firelight flickered low across the uneven ceiling, catching on breath and shadow in equal measure.

Riven settled opposite her, his posture relaxed without losing awareness, as if rest and readiness were not separate states for him.

Rysa hummed under her breath—something old and familiar, more rhythm than melody—while the younger wolves spoke quietly near the entrance, their voices nearly lost beneath the wind.

For the first time in days, the pressure in Eira’s chest eased.

Not entirely. But enough to notice the difference.

Distance helped. So did stone.

So did the absence of a gaze that measured and held.