IRIS
I fled. I didn't just walk out of the room; I ran. I fled his cold, dismissive words and the crushing weight of his disappointment as if the hounds of hell were at my heels. The heavy oak door didn't just click shut; it slammed, the sound a final, percussive note to the symphony of my own destruction. I didn't have a destination. I just needed to move, to put as much stone and distance between me and the devastating truth of his accusations as possible. My bare feet flew over the cold stone floors of the corridor, the chill a welcome shock against my overheated skin.
*You were just looking for the exit.*
The words echoed in my mind, a cruel, relentless refrain. He had seen right through me. He had peeled back every layer of my self-justification, every noble excuse about seeking control and understanding, and had laid bare the ugly, terrified truth: I was looking for a way out. I was so terrified of the power he held over my heart, of the devastating, soul-deep connection that was forging between us, that I was desperately searching for an escape clause. A legal loophole to undo the most real, most terrifying thing that had ever happened to me.
I found myself in the library, a place of quiet, hallowed silence I usually found comforting. Tonight, it felt like a tomb. The towering shelves of ancient books, with their scent of old leather and forgotten knowledge, offered no solace. I sank to the floor between two towering shelves, pulling my knees to my chest. The black silk of my tunic was a cold comfort, and beneath it, the worn cotton of his shirt was a constant, tormenting reminder of the man I had just irrevocably wounded.
*You want the weapon, not the wielder.*
The accusation was the most painful part. Because a part of me, a dark, ambitious part I was ashamed to admit existed, saw the truth in it. I was reveling in the discovery of my Moon Witch power. I was exhilarated by the strength, the raw, untamed energy that hummed in my veins. But I was terrified of the man who was intrinsically tied to it. The man whose presence amplified it, whose touch made it sing, whose very essence was a catalyst for the power I craved. To accept the power, I had to accept him. Not just as a king or a captor, but as my other half. My anchor. And I wasn't ready. I wasn't sure I would ever be ready.
A sudden, violent shiver wracked my body. It wasn't from cold or from emotional turmoil. It was a physical, bone-deep chill that came from outside. I looked up, my gaze drawn to the tall, arched window of the library. Outside, the world had vanished. A swirling vortex of opaque, white snow obliterated the landscape, a blizzard of magical and unnatural ferocity. The wind howled, a high, mournful keen that sounded like a grieving spirit, and the stone of the stronghold itself groaned under the assault.
I stumbled to my feet, moving to the window. The glass was frosted over, intricate patterns of ice already forming on the inside. I pressed my hand against it, but felt no cold. The chill was coming from the magic itself, a deep, ancient power that felt… deliberate. Not a natural storm, but a magical one. A trap.
My first thought was of Kaelen. Was he okay? The bond, which had been a cold, dead void since I'd fled the room, flickered with a sharp, jolt of his own alarm. He felt it too. He knew what this was.
The library door swung open with a crash, and Ronan stood there, his face grim, his dark hair dusted with a fine layer of snow that hadn't existed a moment ago. "It's a storm-wraith," he said, his voice a low, urgent rasp. "Ancient Fae magic. Someone has trapped the stronghold. We can't get out, and no one can get in."
"Marius," I whispered, the name a cold curse.
"Has to be," Ronan agreed, his gaze sweeping over me, taking in my disheveled state and the tear tracks I hadn't realized were on my cheeks. His expression softened with a flicker of sympathy. "We need to secure the stronghold. Kaelen's orders are to conserve energy and warmth. This magic… it feeds on life force. It will drain us if we let it."
As if on cue, the torches in the corridor outside flickered and died, plunging the world into a deeper, more profound darkness. The temperature in the library plummeted, my breath fogging in front of my face. The magical storm wasn't just outside; it was seeping in.
"You need to get to your chambers," Ronan said, his voice firm. "Kaelen will be there. The bond will be a source of warmth, a focus. Don't fight it, Iris. This isn't the time for pride or anger. This is about survival."
The thought of going back to that room, of facing him after what I'd said, after what he'd accused me of, was a fresh wave of agony. But Ronan was right. Pride was a luxury we couldn't afford. I gave a stiff, jerky nod and followed him out into the dark, frozen corridors.
The stronghold was a maze of shadows and cold. Every window was a solid wall of white, every torch a dead, blackened stub. The only light came from the faint, ethereal glow of magical wards that flared to life around doorways, a desperate, last-ditch effort to keep the storm-wraith's influence at bay. The silence was broken only by the howl of the wind and the groaning of the ancient stone.
When I reached the door to our chambers, my heart was hammering against my ribs with a frantic, terrified rhythm. Ronan gave me a final, encouraging nod and moved to stand guard outside, a solid, loyal silhouette in the oppressive dark.
I pushed open the door.
The room was in darkness, save for the flickering light of a single, small fire in the hearth that was struggling valiantly against the encroaching cold. Kaelen was standing by the window, staring out at the swirling white oblivion, his back to me. He was still, a statue carved from shadow and tension.
I closed the door, the soft click sounding like a gunshot in the dead silence. He didn't turn around. "Ronan found you," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of all emotion. It was the voice of a king addressing a subject, not the voice of the man who had just had his heart torn open.
"Yes," I whispered, my own voice barely audible.
"The bond will keep us from freezing," he said, his tone still that of a commander stating a fact. "The storm-wraith's magic is ancient. It seeks to drain us, to separate us, to make us weak. The physical proximity of the Restorative Bond is a counter-spell. It generates its own heat. Its own life force."
He turned then, and the sight of him in the flickering firelight was a physical blow. His face was a cold, hard mask, his silver eyes like chips of ice in the gloom. All the warmth, the fragile connection we had forged, was gone, frozen solid by my betrayal.
"The bed is the warmest place," he said, his voice a flat, pragmatic statement. "We need to share body heat. Don't make this more difficult than it has to be, Iris."
Every word was a fresh shard of ice in my heart. He wasn't just talking about survival. He was talking about us. About the chasm I had created between us. This was my penance. To lie beside him, to feel his warmth, to be close enough to touch him, but to know that he was a million miles away, lost in a cold wasteland of my own making.
I didn't answer. I just walked to the bed, my movements stiff, robotic. I didn't bother changing. I just lay down on my side, on top of the heavy furs, as far from the center as possible. I curled into a tight ball, my back to the center of the bed, a silent, pathetic wall of my own making.
I heard him move, the soft rustle of his clothes, the dip of the mattress as he got in on the other side. He didn't touch me. He just lay there, a still, silent presence on the far side of the bed. The cold was a physical entity, a creeping, insidious force that seeped into my bones. The small fire in the hearth was losing its battle, the light growing dimmer, the room colder.
The bond, which had been a dead, empty space, began to hum. It was a low, weak thrum at first, a desperate attempt to generate its own warmth. I could feel his presence, a cold, distant shore across a vast, frozen sea. But the magic of the storm was stronger. The cold intensified, a deep, bone-chilling ache that settled in my joints. I started to shiver, my teeth chattering uncontrollably.
"Iris," he said, his voice a low, rough rasp from across the bed. "Come here."
It wasn't a command. It was a plea. A plea born of a shared, primal need to survive. But I couldn't. I couldn't move. My pride, my shame, was a heavier weight than the cold.
"I can't," I whispered, my voice a chattering, pathetic sound.
I heard him sigh, a sound of pure, weary frustration. Then he moved. He shifted across the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. An arm, heavy and warm, wrapped around my waist, pulling me back against him. My back came into contact with his chest, and the heat that radiated from him was a shocking, almost painful relief against my frozen skin. He was like a furnace.
My body, betraying my mind, instinctively relaxed into the warmth. I stopped shivering, my muscles unclenching as his heat seeped into me. His other arm came around me, pulling me tighter, until we were spooned together, a tangled knot of limbs and desperate need. His legs tangled with mine, his chin resting on the top of my head. He was surrounding me, a wall of pure, solid heat and muscle.
"Better?" he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble right next to my ear.
I could only nod, my throat too tight to speak. The bond flared to life, no longer a weak, desperate hum, but a strong, steady current of shared energy. His warmth was not just physical; it was magical. It was flowing through the bond, a molten river that pushed back the insidious cold of the storm-wraith. I could feel his emotions through the connection—not the cold anger or the deep disappointment from before, but a raw, protective instinct, a primal need to keep me safe and warm that was so powerful it was overwhelming.
We lay there in silence for a long time, the only sounds the howl of the wind and the steady, synchronized rhythm of our breathing. The fire in the hearth sputtered and died, plunging the room into complete darkness, but it didn't matter. We were a beacon of warmth in the oppressive cold. The storm raged outside, but in here, in our small circle of light and heat, we were safe.
But the proximity, the skin-on-skin contact, was a different kind of storm. The heat that was saving us was also an ignition. His scent, clean and masculine and so uniquely *him*, filled my senses. The hard, muscular lines of his body were a perfect, intoxicating fit against my own curves. The arm around my waist was a band of steel, but the hand attached to it was resting on my stomach, his fingers splayed wide, a possessive, grounding weight.
My body, which had been frozen with cold, now began to burn with a different kind of heat. A slow, insidious ache started low in my belly, a deep, throbbing need that was a direct response to his proximity, to the primal, protective energy rolling off him in waves. I could feel a corresponding response from him, a hardening against my backside, a low, guttural groan that he tried to stifle.
The memory of our last kiss, the explosive, magic-fueled surrender in the negotiation cage, came back to me with the force of a physical blow. The memory of his hands on my skin, of his mouth claiming mine, was a fresh, agonizing ache of unfulfilled desire.
This was the Bond Sickness's cruel twin. Instead of pain, it was pleasure. Instead of a fever, it was lust. A desperate, biological imperative to close the last few inches of space between us, to erase the barrier of clothing, to find the solace and completion that only our bodies could offer. It was a primal, undeniable need, as potent and as dangerous as the storm outside.
I shifted in his arms, a small, restless movement. It was a mistake. The friction of my body against his was a spark to tinder. His hand on my stomach tightened, his fingers digging into my silk tunic. His breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound.
"Iris," he growled, my name a low, warning rumble that was thick with a desperate, unspoken need. "Don't."
But I couldn't stop. My body was no longer my own. It was a vessel for the storm of desire brewing between us. I rolled over in his arms, turning to face him in the complete darkness. The air was thick with our combined scent, with the electric charge of our mutual arousal. I couldn't see his face, but I could feel his breath, hot and quick, against my lips.
"Kaelen," I whispered, his name a broken, pleading sound. It was an apology, a confession, and an invitation all in one.
That was all it took. The last thread of his control, the last remnant of his cold anger, snapped. His mouth crashed down on mine, and it was nothing like the violent, punishing kiss in the bath, or the explosive, magic-fueled kiss in the cage. This was a kiss of pure, unadulterated need. A desperate, frantic search for solace and warmth in the heart of a magical storm.
His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming me, and I met him with equal desperation. My hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, as if I could crawl inside him and escape the cold, both outside and in. His other arm banded around my back, lifting me, pressing my body flush against his hard, muscular frame. There was no space between us, no barriers. Just the frantic, desperate heat of two people seeking to survive, to feel alive in the face of a magical oblivion.
His hands were everywhere, tangling in my hair, stroking down my back, gripping my hip. His touch was a brand, a claim that erased every other touch, every other memory. My own hands were just as frantic, exploring the hard planes of his chest, the broad expanse of his shoulders, the taut muscles of his back. I was drowning in him, and I never wanted to come up for air.
The shirt, his shirt that I was wearing, was a tormenting barrier. His hands found the hem, and with a desperate, frustrated growl, he tugged it upward. My own hands went to the laces of his trousers, my fingers fumbling, clumsy with a desperate need. The air was thick with the sound of our ragged breathing, of soft whimpers and low groans, of the frantic rustle of clothing being pushed aside, of skin meeting skin. The heat of his bare chest against mine was a shock, a delicious, intoxicating friction that made me arch against him with a soft, desperate cry.
This was it. The point of no return. The storm outside was a forgotten whisper, the political intrigue a distant memory. There was only this. Only the frantic, desperate need to merge, to become one, to find in each other the warmth to survive the cold.
His hand slid down my stomach, his fingers tracing the waistband of my trousers, his touch a question and a promise. I arched into him, a silent, desperate assent. His lips left mine, trailing a hot, searing path down my neck, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin where his claiming bite mark throbbed with a life of its own. I was lost, a ship caught in a hurricane of pure, unadulterated sensation.
And then, a voice. A voice from the doorway, sharp and clear and utterly jarring in the fog of our desire.
"Kaelen! Iris!"
It was Ronan.
The sound was a bucket of ice water. We froze, our bodies locked together in a tableau of desperate, interrupted passion. Kaelen's head snapped up, a low, furious growl rumbling in his chest. I scrambled back from him as if I'd been burned, my face burning with a shame and a frustration that was a physical, aching pain. The cold, which had been held at bay by our combined heat, rushed back in, a chilling, unwelcome intrusion.
I fumbled with my clothes, my hands trembling, my mind a chaotic, horrified mess. I had been so close. We had been so close to crossing that final, irrevocable line. And I had wanted it. God help me, I had wanted it with a desperation that scared me to my very soul.
Kaelen was already out of the bed, his movements a blur of controlled, lethal fury as he pulled on his trousers. He strode to the door, his back a rigid, angry line.
"What?" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rasp that held the promise of violence.
"The storm," Ronan said, his voice tight with urgency, oblivious, or perhaps pointedly ignoring, the charged, intimate atmosphere he had just shattered. "It's changing. The wraith is concentrating its energy on the eastern ward. The shield is failing. We need you, now."
I lay there, in the cold, dark bed, the scent of our frantic passion still clinging to my skin, my body aching with a frustrated, desperate need that was a form of torture in itself. I pulled the furs up around my chin, a pathetic attempt to ward off the chill that was now as much internal as it was external. I had wanted to escape him, to find a way out of this bond. But lying there, alone in the cold, I was forced to confront a truth far more terrifying than any legal loophole. I wasn't just afraid of being trapped by him. I was terrified of what would happen when I was finally, completely free.