Never Back Into the Cold

Bronislava “Slava” Ignatova

The violence ended not with a scream, but with the wet, sickening crunch of bone turning to dust.

I lay trapped in the frozen mud of the ravine, my blood spreading through the pristine white snow like spilled wine. The sub zero Siberian blizzard howled above the rock face, but down here in the shadow of the valley, the air smelled of ozone, copper, and raw, terrifying slaughter.

Three massive rogues, beasts that would have taken a full North Ridge hunting party to bring down, lay motionless around me, torn apart in less than three seconds.

I could barely lift my chin from the snow. Frostbite was eating its way through my fingers, and the strange, golden crimson fire burning deep inside my marrow thrummed like a dying engine. My vision fluttered, dark violet spots dancing behind my lashes as my heart struggled to pump blood through my veins.

Then, the beast turned.

The creature that had dropped from the sky wasn’t just a wolf. It was a nightmare carved from muscle, shadow, and bone. Its monstrous, jet black Lycan frame stood over eight feet tall, its burning, molten gold eyes locking directly onto mine through the falling snow.

Panic should have killed me right then. My instincts, eighteen years of beatings, floor scrubbing, and being reminded that I was less than nothing, screamed at me to shrink away, to cover my neck, to wait for the death blow.

Instead, a low, shuddering sound tore past the blood on my lips. My wolf, freshly awakened from eighteen years of poison, didn’t cower. She stretched beneath my ribs, reaching out toward the monster.

The beast took a single, heavy step forward.

With a low, bone rattling exhale that sent a cloud of hot steam into the freezing air, the colossal form began to shift. The sickening snap of rearranging bone and shifting muscle echoed through the quiet ravine. The shadow shrank, morphing into the towering figure of a man.

My chest heaved as I stared up at him.

He was vast. Broad shouldered, thick chested, and built like a mountain carved from iron. He wore black armor etched with strange, glowing runic lines along the collar, but his chest was partially bare, revealing skin lined with ancient silver combat scars. His hair was long, a striking platinum white that caught the pale light of the moon, falling over a face so sharply sculpted, so brutally handsome, it made my breath catch in my raw throat.

He stepped across the dark red snow, his boots crunching softly, until his shadow completely enveloped me.

Without a word, he unclasped the heavy, obsidian black fur mantle from his shoulders. He knelt beside me, his long, broad frame blocking out the biting Arctic wind.

The moment he draped the massive cloak over my freezing, bare shoulders, the heat of his body hit me like a physical wave.

It wasn’t normal human warmth. It was a suffocating, intoxicating furnace.

“Easy,” he growled.

His voice didn’t just vibrate in the air; it vibrated straight through the snow into my bones. It was deep, dark, and gravelly, laced with an absolute, terrifying power that made every muscle in my weak body lock up.

He leaned down, his massive, leather gloved hands slipping beneath my shoulders and the small of my back to lift me from the red ice.

The second his bare wrists brushed against the exposed skin of my neck, it happened.

SNAP.

A violent, breath stealing shockwave exploded behind my eyes.

It wasn’t magic. It was a physical, electric pull so intense, so violently intense, that my eyes snapped wide open and my lungs locked up entirely. The space between us dissolved. The freezing blizzard, the dead rogues, the smell of copper, everything vanished, narrowed down to the agonizing, magnetic pull drawing my soul straight into his.

My silver black hair fell over his leather sleeve as I stared up into his face. His molten gold eyes were pinned to mine, his slit like pupils dilated so widely that only a narrow ring of gold remained.

I felt every inch of his broad chest pressing against my ribs. I felt the dangerous, heavy rise and fall of his lungs, the terrifying strength in his arms that could snap my spine like a dry twig, and yet held me as if I were made of glass.

A deep, primal shudder ran through his massive chest. His jaw clenched tightly, a muscle ticking in his cheek as his golden eyes tracked down to my shivering, blood stained lips, then slowly back up to meet my gaze.

“Who… are you?” I rasped, my voice barely a thread, my hand rising off my chest on pure instinct, my trembling fingers clutching the front of his tunic just to stay anchored.

The heat radiating off his skin was consuming me, burning away the frost in my hair, sending a liquid flame straight down to the base of my spine. My heart, weak and poisoned, gave a sudden, hard thud against my ribs, not from the spell, but from the raw, dangerous proximity of the male holding me.

Vaelin didn’t answer right away. His thumb, rough and warm even through his glove, brushed gently across my lower lip, wiping away a drop of crimson blood. The tiny, deliberate touch sent an agonizing pulse of heat shooting straight through my core, making a soft, breathy gasp escape my lips.

His eyes darkened into pure amber, a low, possessive rumble rolling from the depths of his chest that made my wolf whine in absolute submission.

“I am the man who is taking you home, Slava,” he whispered, his face dipping low, his lips so close to my ear I could feel the searing heat of his breath. “And you are never going back into the cold.”

Before my mind could process the impossible way he knew my name, or the fierce, possessive hold he had locked around my waist, a sharp, deafening whistle pierced the sky above us.

Three dark, shadowy figures clad in dragon scale armor dropped from the ledge of the ravine, their silver blades drawn as they landed in the snow.

“Your Majesty!” the lead warrior shouted, his voice tight with alarm. “The North Ridge trackers are crossing the border! And the blood bond between you two… it’s lighting up the entire mountain! They know where she is!”