That's the lie I told myself all this time, that she could leave and I could forget. But even then, I knew. I was waiting for her shadow to return, for her scent to ride the wind again. And now she's here—breathing, warm, within reach—and the tether between us pulls tighter with every second.
She was mine even when I told myself otherwise. Even when I convinced myself that pulling her from the snow was a mercy, not a claim. But deep down, there's a part of me that knows better. That part whispers that the mountain gave her back for a reason—that the years of solitude were merely a test, a prelude to this moment. That I've waited long enough.
She doesn't remember what she meant to me back then. Maybe she never knew. But I remember the exact shade of her lips when she turned blue from the cold, the way her fingers clutched my wrist like I was the only solid thing left in a world of ice and death. That memory has haunted me through every storm since.
And now, with she's back in my bed, older, stronger, but still mine. I don't need excuses. I need her. Claimed, marked, broken to fit me, and me alone.
She was always mine, and now, she will be again. Even when she was a half-frozen girl in the snow, even when she didn't speak a single word, I felt it. That pull. That tether between something broken in me and something untouched in her. Andnow that she's back, now that I've seen what time has done to her—and what it hasn't—I can't pretend anymore.
She's not a girl now. She's not innocent. And I'm not interested in saving her.
She stirs under the furs, murmuring something incoherent. I stop pacing. Her leg slips free of the blanket, the pale length of her thigh catching the firelight like a brand.
I force the breath out through my nose, sharp and hot, like it might scorch the edges of the restraint I'm barely holding on to. Not yet. Not when her body is still caught in that fragile in-between—half-draped in sleep, warm and pliant. I don't want pliant. I don't want soft.
I want her awake. Sharp-eyed. Furious. Stripped of every illusion she's clung to. I want her to see me—really see me—for what I am. Not the savior she hoped for, not the lie she told herself when things got too dark to face alone. I want her fully conscious. Fully aware. Fully mine.
Because when I take her—and I will—it won't be gentle. There won't be lies dressed up as protection or mercy. No blurred lines or whispered reassurances. I want her lucid. Defiant. Drenched in the knowledge of what she's surrendering to. What she's choosing.
And when she gives herself to me—with her eyes wide open and her pulse thundering—I'll take her in the only way I know how: without hesitation, without apology, and without an ounce of restraint.
I crouch beside the bed, a volatile pressure building low in my spine, radiating outward in sharp, electric pulses. My knuckles skim the edge of the fur, then her cheek—a glancing touch that sends a jolt straight through me. The heat of her, the scent of her skin, is so close it threatens to undo every shred of control I have left.
Her breath catches beneath my fingertips. Lashes flutter. Even asleep, she feels me. Responds to me.
For one raw, selfish moment, I imagine leaning in—stealing that first taste while she's still unguarded, warm and unaware. But I don't. Not yet.
Because I want her watching me when it happens. I want her to know exactly who's claiming her.
I brush a curl from her cheek, my hand lingering as it grazes the soft flush of her skin. Heat surges through me—swift, sharp, dangerous. She's safe now, tucked beneath the furs I wrapped around her, breathing steady. But all I can focus on is how near her mouth is to mine. How easily I could take it.
The ache pulses through every inch of me—chest, gut, cock—a brutal need that has nothing to do with gratitude or restraint.
Her skin is warm, but she still shivers beneath my touch. Not from cold, but from instinct, from recognition, from me.
A dark satisfaction blooms low in my gut, sharp and primal. War shaped me. The mountain changed me. But whatever I've become—whatever this thing is, crawling and simmering inside me—she draws it out like no one else ever could. And the worst part? I don't want to bury it again.
I want to show her... all of it... all of me.
She stirs again, eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she looks confused. Vulnerable. Then wary. Then furious.
Good. Let her fight. Let her snarl and spit and curse my name.
It'll only make it sweeter when she begs me not to stop.
"Why did you do this?"
"So you would survive," I growl.
"But that's not all, is it?"
She moves again, the blanket slipping lower. I make no move to adjust it. Let her squirm. Let her remember that I've alreadyseen everything. Touched everything. Saved and claimed it in one breath.
"You're insane."
"Maybe. But I'm not the one who came chasing ghosts into a storm."
"I wasn't chasing you."
