Page 131 of Iron Beneath the Snow

“Why?”

She met his gaze.

“Because I wanted to see.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“See what.”

“How far you would go.”

The question remained between them, dense as the cold air and far more charged.

His thumb shifted against her pulse.

The thread tightened with the movement, but the response that followed belonged to more than the mark. She felt it in the awareness of his bare body only inches from hers, in the heat radiating from his skin despite the cold, in the fact that his hand remained around her wrist long after there was any reason to keep it there.

“You already know,” he said.

“Do I?”

He stepped closer.

This time, she did not wait for the thread to answer.

She stayed.

Her back met the rock behind her, cold seeping sharply through her clothing before his body closed the space between them and replaced it with heat.

His hand moved from her wrist to her waist, drawing her against him with quiet certainty.

He did not reach for her mouth.

Not yet.

His head lowered, breath brushing her skin a moment before his lips found her throat.

The first touch carried heat rather than softness.

Her breath broke.

He lingered there, not rushing, not retreating, as though he had finally allowed himself to feel the contact without immediately searching for a reason to end it.

Then his mouth moved lower.

Along the line of her neck.

Her collarbone.

Each touch slower than she expected, heavier, deliberate in a way that made restraint feel less absent than redirected.

The thread answered, tightening beneath her skin, but Eira no longer mistook its response for instruction.

Her fingers slid into his hair.

Held.

Pulled him closer.