Ss POV
Her hand
Finished
The moment Freya’s fingers closed around mine, something inside me stilled. For so long I had carried weight- responsibility, rage, the Whitmor name like chains forged from iron and shadow. Yet when she pulled, I followed. Step after step through the storm, I let her lead.
And for the first time in years, I felt as if I didn’t have to fight for direction. With her hand anchoring me, I could simply walk.
She drew me into the estate, past the darkened hall, until the rain was a memory drumming faintly against the windows. She closed the umbre and turned to face me. I knew what she saw: my hair stered against my face, my shirt clinging to me, every inch of me carrying the scent of rain and something broken.
That brokenness was real. It clung to me heavier than water.
Her sigh cut through the silence. Without letting go of my hand, she tugged me down the corridor, her stride steady, purposeful. I didn’t resist. I didn’t want to. She led me straight to my chambers and into the adjoining bath. Steam soon curled from the tub as she twisted the taps, filling it with warmth I hadn’t thought I deserved.
“Whatever happened out there,” she said softly, “it can wait. For now, soak. Let the heat drive the cold from your bones.”
The droplets slid down my face, off my hair, dripping from my jaw onto my chest. I could feel the chill still deep in my marrow, as if the storm had seeped past skin into soul.
I raised my head, my voice rough. “Will you wait? Here, while I-”
“Yes,” she answered, without hesitation. “I’m your protector. Your safety is mine to guard.”
Protector. That was her duty, her oath. But I wanted more than oaths.
“And if you weren’t?” I asked, the words escaping before I could stop them. I had asked once before, long ago. Back then, she had brushed it off–said there would always be others to guard me. The answer had cut like a de.
Her lips parted, but before sound could form, I fled.
I released her hand, the sudden absence leaving me colder than the rain ever could, and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door with a finality that hurt. If she spoke then, if she gave me truth, I wasn’t sure I could bear it.
The tub embraced me in warmth. The water climbed my skin, wrapped around my ribs, my throat. Slowly, the cold that had numbed me since the courtyard began to loosen its grip. But my thoughts did not ease.
When my father left earlier today, the silence he left behind had been deafening. My steps had carried me to the oak in the courtyard–the one my mother once climbed in her futile attempts to touch freedom. And as I stood beneath it, drenched, I felt her despair seep into me.
I had seen what obsession had done to her.
And what obsession had made of him.
Now, with my heart pulling deeper toward Freya, a question gnawed at me: would I repeat their story? Would I be branded by the same curse–the Whitmor curse of possession and ruin? My blood carried madness. My name was tainted.
If she turned from me, if all I gave was unreturned–would I spiral into the same pit of fury and chains?
The thought made me grip the porcin of the tub until my knuckles whitened.
When atst 1 emerged, skin flushed from heat, a robe across my shoulders, I stepped into the chamber—
And froze
Empty
She was gone
Finished
The air rushed out of me, sharp, hollow My pulse spiked, wolf stirring with panic. Had she left me? Slipped away when I was too vulnerable to stop her? My throat tightened with a fear I couldn’t name.
But then-
The door opened.
I turned, and there she was.
Freya entered carrying a tray, steam rising from the bowl upon it. The storm outside could not dim the light she brought in with her presence. Relief mmed into me so hard my knees nearly buckled.
She hadn’t left. She’de back.
“You’re finished,” she said, setting the tray down, her voice calm, as though she hadn’t just shattered my panic. “Perfect timing.
On the tray sat a bowl of dark broth, sliced ginger floating atop it. Its scent was sharp, earthy, tinged with fire.
“I made this,” she exined. “Ginger broth. It will drive the cold from you before it settles too deep.”
Her words were practical. But the act itself–it was more than duty. It was care.
I looked at the bowl in silence.
“Drink,” shemanded, her tone crisp. the kind she must have used with her squad in the Iron Fang Recon Unit.
My hands moved before my thoughts could. I epted the bowl, the warmth seeping into my palms, and raised it. Sip by sip,
I swallowed the heat. The liquid burned down my throat, spicy and potent, far harsher than any tonic I had been given before.
But I didn’t stop. I didn’t flinch.
Her gaze lingered on me, surprise flickering across her face.
“Is it good?” she asked atst.
“No.” The truth slipped out.
Her brows drew together. “Then why–your face hasn’t changed. And you didn’t even think to refuse.”
I lifted my eyes to hers. “Because you asked me to.”
Her breath caught. She didn’t answer, though I saw the words hover on her tongue. I wondered if she understood what I meant that if she asked me to drink poison, I would.
I finished thest drop, set the bowl down, and waited.
She leaned forward then, her hand lifting toward my face. Her palm pressed against my forehead, checking for fever. The touch was light, fleeting. Yet it carved itself into me like a brand.
My body went rigid, my wolf surging up in stunned silence.
“You’re fine,” she murmured, withdrawing her hand.
The air turned colder the moment her skin left mine. I almost reached for her wrist, almost begged her to stay in contact. The craving was sharp, unbearable.<ol><li>Ss Whitmor, Alpha of the Irond Coalition, breaker of enemies and heir to a cursed line–reduced to hunger by the touch of <b>one </b>woman</li></ol>
It was dangerous. Maddening.
And yet, as the storm raged outside, the only truth I could cling to was this:
I wanted more.
6:08 AM P P