The descent through the pines was a gauntlet of black ice and sodden needles.
The mountain squall followed them down the switchbacks, howling like a chained beast through the ancient timber before dying into a thick, freezing fog as the terrain flattened toward the foothills. By midnight, the rain had slackened into an icy drizzle that froze against the sheepskin linings of their cloaks.
Aurelia rode with her jaw set, her knuckles clamped white against the reins.
The tether binding her to Malakor did not quiet as the distance from the ruined crypt widened. Instead, it hummed like a taut bowstring in the hollow of her chest. Every jarring strike of her mare’s hooves against frozen earth sent a dull, throbbing ache radiating from her palm, mirrored by the low, steady furnace of Malakor's pulse murmuring through the back of her skull.
Three paces ahead, Malakor reined his horse to a halt.
The roan snorted, twin plumes of white steam rising into the gloom. They had reached an abandoned charcoal burner’s shelter tucked into the crook of a granite bluff—little more than a lean-to of rotting larch logs, but the dry overhanging rock offered shelter from the sleet.
"Dismount," Malakor commanded, swinging down from his saddle before his horse had fully steadied. His boots hit the mud with a solid, heavy thud.
Aurelia did not argue. The moment her boots touched the ground, her knees betrayed her. The sudden loss of the saddle's support sent the world spinning in an arc of dark greens and gray slate. She stumbled forward, a breath tearing short and sharp from her throat.
Before her hands could find the dirt, an arm like an iron band caught her around the waist, hauling her upright and back against the hard ridge of a leather-clad chest.
"I told you," Malakor breathed into her hair, his deep timbre vibrating straight against her spine.
"I lost my footing," she said, her voice rough, her head resting against the curve of his shoulder longer than her pride allowed. The heat radiating off him was intoxicating, cutting through the bitter chill that had settled deep into her bones. "The rock is slick."
"The rock is dry," he murmured, his grip shifting as he lifted her entirely, turning toward the interior of the shelter. "You are running on cinders."
He carried her into the darkness beneath the bluff, setting her down gently onto a dry bed of dried bracken and pine boughs. The space was cramped, the ceiling low enough that Malakor had to duck his head as he stripped his heavy wool cloak and draped it over her shoulders. The fabric was warm, heavy with the scent of cedar, horses, and his own raw, dark musk.
Aurelia watched him through the gloom as he knelt before her. He pulled a fire striker from his belt and sparked dry tinder from a pouch, coaxing a modest flame to life within a circle of river stones. The golden glow illuminated the sharp, predatory lines of his jaw, the hard curve of his lips, and the dark bruise forming along his collar where a spear butt had grazed him on the road.
"We cannot stay long," she whispered, her hands clutching the edges of his cloak around her chest.
"We stay four hours," Malakor said, sitting back on his haunches. His amber eyes caught the firelight, burning with an unhurried, dangerous quiet. "The horses need water, and you need blood back in your face. If an imperial patrol finds us, they will find an executioner, not two half-frozen corpses."
He reached out, his rough, calloused fingers finding the hem of her sleeve and peeling the wet linen back from her wrist. He took her wounded hand into his palm, inspecting the sealed, silver-tinted scar across her skin. His thumb traced the rough ridge of the wound, slow and firm, sending a sudden, intoxicating ripple of heat up her arm that made her breath hitch in the quiet shelter.
"You feel it, don't you?" he murmured, not looking away from the seam of her flesh. "The sovereign blood. It does not like to sleep alone."
Aurelia’s gaze locked onto his mouth, the fierce, unyielding pull between them tightening until the cold outside seemed a thousand miles away. "It will have to learn patience."
Malakor’s eyes rose to meet hers, dark, heavy, and completely unrepentant. "Patience is for men who intend to beg," he said softly, leaning forward until his lips were a breath away from hers. "I took you from the Veil, Aurelia. I have no intention of waiting for permission to keep you warm."