Another Collar in the Snow

Bronislava "Slava" Ignatova

The word echoed off the frostbitten canyon walls, freezing the blood in my veins.

Your Majesty.

The dark, imposing figure holding me wasn't just a powerful rogue or an unchained monster of the woods. He was a king. A sovereign. The kind of highborn ruler who treated lower-ranking wolves like disposable pawns on a chessboard.

Panic, sudden and suffocating, sliced through the strange, intoxicating heat flooding my limbs.

Eighteen years. Eighteen years I had spent at the mercy of highborn Alphas. I had spent my youth kneeling on cold flagstones, bleeding under Kirill's sneering gaze, drinking Matrena's bitter tea while they treated me like garbage. I had just escaped one cage in the snow; I wasn't about to let another ruler put a collar around my neck.

"Get... off me," I choked out, my voice raw and scraped ragged by the arctic wind.

My inner wolf, wild and newly unsealed, roared in my chest, demanding freedom. Driven by pure, feral desperation, I balled my trembling, frostbitten hand into a fist and slammed it straight into his chest.

I might as well have struck a cliff face of solid iron.

My knuckles throbbed with agonizing pain, but the blow didn't even make his broad shoulders shift. Vaelin looked down at me, his molten gold eyes darkening until the pupils slitted like a predator scenting a challenge.

"Slava," he growled softly, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that rattled straight into my ribs. "Stop moving. Your veins are tearing."

"I said let me go!"

I thrashed against him, my small, weakened body fighting his massive frame with every drop of strength I had left. I dug my short fingernails into the collar of his tunic, straining to push myself away from the suffocating, furnace-like heat radiating off his skin. I bared my small, blunt teeth, my vision swimming in violent streaks of crimson and black as I fought the massive stranger who held my life in his hands.

I expected him to strike me back. I expected him to throw me into the snow, to press his heavy boot against my spine the way Kirill did whenever I dared to look him in the eye.

He didn't.

With breathtaking, terrifying ease, Vaelin caught both of my wrists in a single, massive hand. He didn't squeeze hard enough to break my bones, but his grip was absolute, locking my hands securely against his chest.

"You fight well for a dying girl," he whispered, his face dipping down until his mouth was inches from my ear.

Before I could spit another defiance into his face, he shifted his weight. In one fluid, seamless motion, he drew me flush against his massive torso, sliding his free arm around my lower back and pulling my hips tightly against his broad thighs.

A sharp, breathless gasp caught in my throat.

The physical impact of his body against mine was like hitting an open flame. His chest was thick, sculpted, and radiating a searing, dark amber heat that dissolved the ice trapped in my clothes within seconds. Through the thin, torn fabric of my tunic, I felt every ridge of his muscles, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his massive heart, and the sheer, overwhelming density of a male built for war.

"Vaelin..." I gasped, my protest dissolving into a weak, pathetic whimper.

The proximity was agonizing. It was too close, too intense, too violently intimate. My thighs were pinned between his long, hard legs, and the scent of him—crushed pine needles, cold iron, and a dark, intoxicating musk—flooded my senses, dragging my newly awakened wolf into a dizzying haze.

A low, primal growl shuddered from the deep recesses of his chest. It wasn't a roar of anger. It was a protective, possessive rumble that vibrated through his breastbone straight into my core, sending an electric, forbidden shiver shooting down my spine.

"Hold still, little wolf," he growled into the column of my neck, his hot breath making the tiny hairs on my skin stand on end. "I have you."

My heart gave a frantic, chaotic leap. The slow-burn friction of his broad body wrapped around mine sent a surge of hot, unadulterated electricity through my blood, making my toes curl against the cold leather of his boots. For a terrifying second, I didn't want to fight him. I wanted to bury my face in the notch of his collarbone and let his heat consume me whole.

Then, my body gave out.

The violent rush of adrenaline that had fueled my struggle evaporated into thin air. The poison in my blood, purged but still leaving my core hollow, exacted its toll. My vision blurred, the snowy canyon tilting wildly on its axis. My knees turned to water, and my head fell back heavily against his shoulder, my small frame going completely limp in his iron grip.

"Slava!" Vaelin’s voice dropped its dangerous edge, laced instantly with a raw, sharp edge of alarm.

He caught me before I could slide down his body, shifting his arms to scoop my unconscious frame into a cradle against his chest. He pulled his heavy obsidian fur cloak around me, sealing me inside his dark warmth, shielding me completely from the freezing wind and the eyes of his warriors.

Through the heavy haze of my slipping consciousness, I felt the ground vibrate.

Vaelin didn't walk; he moved with blinding, unnatural speed, his heavy boots crunching into the snow as he carried me toward the cliff face where his warriors stood guard.

"Your Majesty!" the lead warrior shouted, stepping forward with his silver blade lowered. "The North Ridge trackers have reached the ridgeline! They are deploying bloodhounds! We need to evacuate to the skimmers immediately!"

Vaelin stopped in his tracks.

I couldn't open my eyes, but I felt the violent surge of his Lycan aura flare up around us, thick and heavy enough to press the snow flat around his boots. His grip on my limp body tightened until I could feel the hard rivets of his armor pressing into my ribs.

"Let them bring their hounds," Vaelin’s voice echoed through the dark valley, cold, ruthless, and dripping with lethal promise. "Nikolai... set the perimeter charges. If Kirill Rostov steps one foot into this ravine..."

He paused, leaning his head down, his lips brushing against my sweat-damp forehead as my breath faded into tiny, shallow hitches.

"...tell him I will send his pack home in pine boxes."