Danava looked between Zovara’s bared teeth and Luken’s pale face. Her brother, who clutched a small, frost-rimed travel bag, looked utterly bewildered, already shivering despite the Keep’s relative warmth. He was so far out of his depth.
“The choice is yours,” Zovara said. “The Hunt. Or your brother.”
“I’ll do it,” Danava said, her voice surprisingly steady, though her stomach twisted tight. “I accept the Hunt of the Bride.”
Zovara’s thin mouth curved as she turned to the sentries. “Take the boy to the guest quarters. He is to be well-fed, kept warm. And watched. Any deviation from the Alpha’s decree regarding his safety will be met with immediate execution.” “As for our ‘bride’…” Her gaze shifted to Harzog. “The Alpha will oversee her confinement until dusk. Alone, without weapons, and without a single shred of aid from any pack member. Rules are rules, Alpha.”
A low rumble rose in Harzog’s chest, but he dipped his chin. He simply strode forward, scooped Danava up with a possessive ferocity that made her gasp, and ignored Zovara’s triumphant cackle as he carried her away from the courtyard, Luken’s bewildered gaze following them.
He didn’t speak until they were inside his personal chambers, a cavernous, sparsely furnished room dominated by a massive stone hearth and a bed piled with furs. The air, though warm, still held the faint, musky scent of wolf. Harzog set her down with an unexpected gentleness on a thick hide rug by the fire. His movements were swift, efficient, as he retrieved a small, intricately carved wooden box from a shelf.
“Your hands,” he commanded, his voice rough. “And your face. You were exposed to the frost longer than you realize.”
Danava looked at her hands. They were indeed a mottled red and white, tingling painfully. The cold had seeped into her cheeks too, leaving them stiff. She hadn’t even noticed, adrenaline having numbed her senses. She held them out, and he knelt before her, surprisingly compliant.
He unlatched the lid, showing an amber paste that smelled of crushed pine needles and rendered fat. His massive fingers, usually so capable of tearing metal, were unbelievably deft as he took her hands, one by one. His thumbs brushed over her knuckles, gently spreading the balm across the reddened skin. The contrast between his sheer size, the scars that crisscrossed his forearms, and the feather-light touch was jarring. His gaze was fixed on her hands, intense, almost reverent.
“It will sting a little,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. “From the frost.”
It did sting, a sharp, cold fire that gradually faded into a soothing warmth. She watched the planes of his face, softened by the firelight, the deep lines around his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and burdens she couldn’t fathom. He was so different now, stripped of the smug arrogance of the city guide, or the feral rage of the Alpha defending his territory. Here, he was just… Harzog. A man, or beast, caring for her wounds.
When he finished with her hands, he moved to her face. She stiffened, a faint blush creeping up her neck, but he didn't seem to notice. His thumb, rough with calluses, traced the curve of her cheekbone, applying the salve with the same exquisite care. His pale grey eyes lifted to meet hers. Heat radiated off his chest, carrying the sharp tang of clean snow and cedar.
“You shouldn’t have come here, Danava,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, his thumb still stroking her cheek. “This place… it will consume you.”
“I had to,” she replied, her own voice hoarse. “For the scoop. For Luken.” She swallowed, the words catching in her throat. “And now… now I know why you couldn’t tell me about this world in the city. About *you*.”
He leaned closer, his gaze dropping to her lips. “I knew what you were the moment you sat down across from me in the city, journalist. The one pretending to be Lady Vashni. I smelled you. You reeked of ink and ambition, and something else… something that drew me in, despite everything.” His voice was a low growl, laced with something akin to longing. “I knew you weren’t the real bride. But you were my bride, nonetheless.”
The words hung between them in the heat from the hearth. He searched her face without blinking. He was so close. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips, the subtle shift in the air as he leaned in further. Her own lips parted slightly, an involuntary response to the overwhelming pull.
Just as their mouths were about to meet, a guttural, piercing blast ripped through the silence of the Keep. The low, bronze blast of a horn shuddered through the stone floor. It blared again, longer, more urgent, echoing off the icy peaks.
Harzog straightened, his shoulders locking. “A breach,” he snarled, already on his feet. “The northern ward. It’s collapsing.”
He strode to the door, pulling it open. The noise of the Keep erupted into a cacophony of shouts, barks, and the hurried thud of heavy boots. She saw shadows moving outside, wolves in their human forms, bristling with an urgent, feral energy.
“Stay here,” he commanded, his voice laced with absolute authority. “Don’t open the door for anyone. Slide the iron bar from the inside, Danava. Do you understand?”
He didn’t wait for her answer, already halfway through the doorway, his eyes scanning the chaos outside. “Drop the bar!” he barked again. Then he was gone, swallowed by the urgency of the moment, leaving the door ajar.
Danava lunged toward the heavy timber threshold. She reached for the cold iron bar, but before her fingers caught the latch, metal clinked sharply.
From the *outside*.
The heavy door swung shut with a resounding thud. A heavy exterior bar dropped into its bracket. A second later, a thin tendril of acrid, dark smoke began to curl from beneath the door, spreading its foul scent through the air. They were trapped. And the room was quickly filling with smoke.