Impossible Heat

Silas:

The lodge is finally quiet. Too quiet.

Isadora is finally calm, her head still buried into my chest, as a hush clings to the air like fog after a storm, the kind that makes every breath feel weighted. I stay still, my palm resting against the worn arm of the couch, eyes fixed on the girl curled beside me.

Isadora.

The name alone is enough to pull me under. Her scent—something wild and sweet—threads through the room, delicate as smoke and twice as dangerous. Only minutes ago she was trembling, tears slipping silently down her cheeks, a fragile thing trying to stay upright. I’d pulled her close without much thought, one arm slipping around her shoulders, the way a parched man might reach for water.

Now, her breathing has steadied. Soft. Even. Each exhale fans across my chest where she’s resting her head, and the simple rhythm needles at me in a way I don’t understand. Death doesn’t hold life like this. I shouldn’t hold her like this.

But I do.

Her skin is warm against the chill that follows me everywhere. I am winter; she is the spark inside it, refusing to die. When my fingers drift to her cheek, she leans into the touch without waking, a small motion that shatters something I’d thought long buried.

A sound catches my attention from the other end of the couch. Low, measured. The predator I know before I see.

Rhett.

He fills the couch, broad shoulders swallowing the faint light. His amber eyes flick to me, then to her, and for a heartbeat the room tightens.

I don’t move. Neither does he.

Then he shifts, the wood frame of the furniture groaning beneath his weight. “Is she all right?” The words are a growl, soft but edged with something feral.

“She’s breathing,” I murmur, voice barely above the whisper of fire in the hearth. “That’s all that matters.”

He drops to one knee beside us, his presence a sudden furnace against my cold. His hand slides to the small of her back, broad fingers splayed like he’s claiming the right to steady her. The motion is intimate—protective—and something hot and unpleasant curls low in my chest.

Jealousy.

The old, ugly kind I swore I’d never taste.

Isadora stirs, lashes fluttering. “Rhett…” The whisper carries a trust that scrapes across my bones.

He bends closer, brushing the back of his hand over her damp cheek. “I’m here,” he murmurs. “Always.”

The word dig in. Always.

My jaw tightens. I tell myself to stand, to step away, but my body stays rooted, a silent sentinel. I watch the way her lips part as she exhales his name again, the faint tremor in her shoulders easing beneath his touch. It is both holy and cruel to witness.

Rhett finally looks up, his gaze locking with mine. Heat meets frost. A challenge without a single syllable. I can feel the growl rumbling in his chest, and something in me—dark, ancient—answers.

But Isadora shifts again, breaking the stare. She looks up slowly at me, hair tumbling like ink over her shoulders. She doesn’t pull away from either of us. Instead she draws a shuddering breath, eyes flicking from Rhett to me, as though she’s caught between fire and shadow.

“Thank you,” she whispers. It’s unclear who she’s thanking. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.

I should leave. Let her choose the warmth she so clearly gravitates toward. But when I think I'm going to rise, my fingers betray me. They trail along her jaw, a ghost of a touch that sends a quiet shiver through her frame.

“You’re stronger than you think,” I say, the words low, a secret for her alone.

Her eyes—storm-gray and endless—lift to mine. For a heartbeat, the world stills. I can feel the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath her skin, hear the soft hitch of her breath. It’s a melody of life that calls to every dark craving I’ve spent centuries burying.

Rhett shifts closer, heat radiating like a living warning. I watch him. His hand stroking the small of her back. Then slowly working down her bottom. Along her thighs. Then back up before starting at the other.

Maybe I’m a fool for staying, but I can't bring myself to go.

Rhett's eyes catch mine. They are now glowing like molten gold. He shifts her from her side to her stomach. Both of her knees sink into the over stuffed leather as Rhett slips between her spread legs.

Isadora looks up to me with hooded eyes. I can see her pupils dilate with desire.

I can’t help the way my thumb brushes her cheekbone, a quiet act of reverence. “We've got you Isadore,” I murmur.

Her breath catches, a barely audible sound, but it lands like a blade.

Rhett is hidden behind her, all I can see is her expression. She beautiful. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes closes shut now. She captures her full bottom lip between her teeth to catch her moans.

I place my hand under her chin and pull her closer. I can't help myself. My lips find hers. So soft and supple. I kiss her gently at first, but she fists my shirt, pulling closer. I kiss her harder, slipping my tongue into her mouth until I capture hers. She is delicious.

The air between the three of us thickens, charged and unspoken. Rhett’s presence is all simmering fury and unclaimed devotion; mine, a pull of winter and shadow. And in the center, Isadora glows—fragile, unyielding, a spark neither of us can ignore.

I don't know how long we stayed like that, but she finally found her release. Rhett found his spot back on the couch and Isadora slumped down, satisfied and sated.

I stepped away at last, retreating into the dark edges of the room, needing to slip back in to reality. Yet even there I can’t stop watching: the way Rhett’s hand lingers at the small of her back, the way she unconsciously leans toward his warmth while still glancing toward the cold where I stand.

The wolf and the ghost.

Both of us orbiting the same impossible sun.