Damon's smile still lingered on his lips when, suddenly, his voice lost its mocking tone and became strangely distant.
"No... I feel mine..." he stammered, the sentence trailing off in a clipped thread. The fingers squeezing her waist trembled, rigid.
Ester frowned, the blush still on her cheeks, but her attention shifted to what was below: his hands, once restless and provocative, now blue-tipped. Small crystals glinted on his knuckles, as if cold had materialized icy nails.
She stood still for a second that seemed to stretch the storm. The rustling of the wind, the dragging of the snow—everything reduced to a single sound: the rapid beating of her own heart.
"Your fingers..." she murmured inertly, and behind the word came something she barely acknowledged, a piercing urgency.
Damon tried to force a laugh, but it sounded dry and short, more of a sigh than a mockery. "It's just... a little chill. I... I'm fine."
