Chapter 3: The Lycan King's Hand

The cold woke her first. Snow packed into her nostrils, crusted her eyelashes shut. Her right hand had frozen into a claw over her stomach--the other arm lay pinned beneath her hip. She could not feel her cheek against the ice, only a numb burn spreading down her jawbone. Something warm touched her mouth. She snapped awake. A man's face above hers. Dark hair plastered to his forehead. Gold eyes that caught the lightning flicker of the storm. His thumb had wiped snow from her lower lip--she tasted salt and iron from her own chapped skin. "Do not take me back," she rasped. He did not move. His gaze dropped to her wrist--the burned, half-faded mark of a rejected mate. The flesh was still weeping, still raw where the bond had torn loose. The skin around it had turned purple, swollen as if branded with a hot iron. "I do not deliver women to men who leave them in snow." His voice was low, rough as bark. His thumb still rested on her lip. He pulled it away slowly. She tried to sit. Her ribs screamed. Her stomach clenched--a hard knot deep inside, warm against the cold. "My baby." The word stopped the wind. Behind him, the wolves dropped to their bellies. One whined. The captain slid off his horse, boots crunching in the drift. She heard the leather of his gloves creak as he gripped his saddle. Darius placed two fingers against her throat. His skin was dry and warm. Her pulse hammered under his touch, quick and thready. He held her gaze while he counted. "How far?" "I found out tonight." Her throat cracked. "He rejected me tonight." "Rowan Vale?" She stared at him. "You know him." "Everyone north of the river knows the fool currently ruining Blackridge." A humorless twist of his mouth. His fingers still pressed her pulse point. He did not release her. A broken laugh escaped her. It turned into a cough that tasted of copper. He shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. She flinched. The wool smelled of pine, smoke, and something older--moon-wet stone. She forced herself still, ashamed of the flinch. Her fingers curled into the collar instead. "Name," he said. "Nora Ashford." Not Nora Vale. Something flickered in his eyes--approval, or maybe recognition. His gaze dropped to her mouth again, then to the mark on her wrist. The air between them thickened. He slid one arm under her shoulders, the other under her knees. "I can't walk." "Then argue later." He lifted her. Her body sagged against his chest. She weighed nothing. That angered him--she saw it tighten his jaw. Blackridge's Luna should have worn furs and guards, not a ceremonial gown frozen into a shell. The fabric crackled against his leather jerkin. He carried her toward his horse. The moon broke through the clouds. Light fell across her stomach. Under his coat, under the frozen folds of white silk, a faint silver crescent glowed. It pulsed like a heartbeat, steady and insistent. She watched his face change--something ancient and sharp flicker behind those gold eyes. His breath caught. His arms tightened. The captain behind them went pale. "Your Majesty..." Nora turned her head slowly. "What is that?" He did not answer at once. His grip on her tightened. Through his shirt, she felt his heart--steady, deliberate. She felt his breath against her temple, warm and uneven. His hand pressed flat against her stomach over the glow. The heat of his palm soaked through the frozen silk. "Your child is alive." His jaw was hard. His thumb traced a slow circle over the mark. The first tear slid down her frozen cheek. She did not sob. She looked like a woman receiving a weapon she had no choice but to protect. The tear froze on her chin. "And?" He shifted her higher against his chest. His beard brushed her temple, rough and warm. She caught his scent again--moon-silver, winter, old enough to make her wolf stir in her rib cage. His lips were close to her ear. "And if Rowan Vale discovers what your child carries, he will not simply take the baby from you." Nora's breath stopped. Her hand moved to cover his on her stomach. His fingers laced with hers, almost without thought. Darius's wolves watched the dark trees behind them. One growled low, a vibration in the snow. Another pricked its ears, muscles tensed under its pelt. "He will kill you both before the Winter Council ever hears the name Nora Ashford." Snow hissed through pine branches. The silence stretched. Nora lifted her chin from his shoulder. Her hand came up, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. She felt the heat of his skin beneath the wool, the steady beat of his pulse under her knuckles. His own hand remained pressed to her stomach. "Then do not let him." Darius looked down at her. Half frozen. Half furious. The crown-moon mark glowed through the fabric, a secret that could topple thrones. His gaze caught on her mouth for half a heartbeat. His thumb moved from the mark to the dip of her collarbone. He traced it once, slow, then stopped--a deliberate restraint. "No," he said. "I do not think I will." The words were almost a whisper. His voice scraped. "But tonight, you sleep in my tent. In my bed. Alone." His arm tightened as he swung onto the horse. She ended up across his lap, his chest at her back, his arm locked around her ribs--his hand still pressed against the glowing mark. The wolves surrounded them. Hoofbeats were swallowed by the snow. Nora felt the child kick--soft, insistent--and pressed her palm flat against her stomach, over his hand. Behind them, Blackridge's torches guttered and drowned in the storm. She did not look back. But she did not close her eyes. The child kicked again. She pressed harder. His fingers tightened around hers. She would not let it die. And she would not let him forget how she felt in his arms.