Eira's POV
Eira hadn't expected to follow the prince into the inn.
She hadn't expected to still be breathing, either.
Kael Vorenth, Warden of the North, heir to the frost-bound throne, had ordered the apothecary to stay open past dusk. The man hadn't dared refuse. No one refused a Warden.
The root was wrapped in cloth, tucked into Eira's pouch — her lifeline to Lira, her sister, the only person who'd ever loved her without condition.
And yet… she didn't leave.
She sat in the corner of a dim firelit room, opposite Kael, the air between them thick with things unsaid.
The innkeeper had been paid to vanish. The guards posted discreetly outside. Snow fell beyond the shuttered windows in silver spirals. The fireplace crackled and hissed — an echo of the tension in her skin.
She could feel him watching her. Again.
"I can't decide if this is a prison or an invitation," she said, sipping from the mug of steaming tea he'd poured her.
"That depends on you," he said, voice calm.
"And if I set the curtains on fire?"
He didn't even blink. "Then I'll watch."
That answer hit her harder than it should.
He's dangerous, she reminded herself.
But so was she.
"You didn't bring me here just for conversation."
"I brought you here," he said, rising from his seat, "because I wanted to know what it feels like when fire stops pretending to be tame."
He crossed the floor in slow, deliberate steps.
Eira stood, but she didn't retreat.
He came close. Too close. Close enough that she could feel the shift in the air — his frost, her flame. Not battling. Merging. Her pulse quickened, and with it, the Mark on her neck throbbed, like a second heart.
Kael reached out, ungloved now, and touched her collarbone. Skin to skin.
Her magic jumped.
Not in violence — in longing.
She gasped. "Don't—"
"Why?" he asked, voice low. "Does it hurt?"
"No," she whispered. "That's the problem."
Kael's POV
He shouldn't be touching her. Gods, he knew that.
Everything he was — discipline, duty, restraint — screamed at him to stop. But the moment his fingers made contact with her skin, he felt something awaken inside him.
Not lust.
Not yet.
Recognition.
The stories said fireborns couldn't bond. That their magic burned through every connection they tried to make. That they were cursed by the gods themselves.
But this woman... this fire...
It didn't devour him.
It drew him in.
"You were taught to hate me," she said softly, looking up at him through lashes darkened by firelight.
"I was taught many things."
"Do you believe them?"
He traced the edge of her Mark with one fingertip, reverent. "No."
Eira leaned into his hand. Her breath caught. Her eyes closed.
"You don't know what this means," she whispered.
"Then show me."
Her eyes opened again, wild and searching. "If I let you in... you'll see things you can't unsee."
"I'm not afraid of your fire."
"You should be."
Their foreheads touched, breath mingling. His hands moved to her waist, tentative at first, then anchoring her gently.
"Why aren't you stopping me?" he asked.
She looked up at him, a war in her gaze.
"Because no one's ever touched me without wanting to control me... or kill me."
Kael's lips brushed hers — not a kiss, not yet. Just the ghost of one. "I want to know you."
Her eyes burned.
"Then burn with me."
Eira's POV
The kiss was soft — at first.
But it carried heat in the marrow of it. Not just her flame. His cold, too. His magic met hers like a storm meeting a wildfire — chaos and power spinning together in something volatile and intimate.
His mouth was cool, but it made her skin flare. Her hands slid up the smooth curve of his neck to the edge of his jaw, then into his hair. She felt him shudder as she kissed him deeper.
He didn't fight it.
Neither did she.
Their bodies pressed together, breath growing ragged. She didn't care that she was in an enemy's kingdom. That her bloodline was illegal. That she could be killed the moment this magic flared too bright.
Kael held her like she was precious and explosive all at once.
And she loved it.
She moaned softly into the kiss — and something between them ignited.
Literally.
A wave of warmth burst from her skin — not fire, not burning — just raw heat, desire manifested. The fireplace behind them roared. His body tensed against hers, but not in fear — in need.
His hands dropped to her thighs, lifting her onto the table between them. Her cloak spilled open, her tunic tugged at gently as his fingers danced beneath.
Her skin flushed as fire poured toward him.
But still… he didn't burn.
Kael's voice was rough against her throat.
"Tell me to stop."
She should.
She didn't.
"Touch me," she whispered. "And don't stop unless I beg you to."