by Alana Serra
But if he couldn’t stem a simple winter storm around a single human village, then he truly had lost Kiova’s favor, and it wouldn’t be long before he was a used-up husk of a Raknari—no better than the magic-less Svag.
Closing his eyes, Rheor stretched his hands out wide, his fingers spreading. Tiny crystals of frost beaded at their tips, coalescing along his hands, adding a thicker layer to the ice that already coated his bare arms. Magic pulsed through his veins, so strong he could feel it beneath his skin, could taste it in the back of his mouth. There was something off-putting about it, as if he’d indulged in too many candied fruits. But Rheor endured, tamping down the wave of nausea, breathing in through his nose to try and calm the burning in his lungs and the feverish pounding of his heart.
When he’d been young and first coming into his powers, it’d felt just as uncomfortable as this, but with the excitement of a new experience to dampen the effect. After so many times, that excitement had faded, leaving only discomfort behind. But still he pushed on, accepting the curse along with the gift, drawing upon Kiova’s brutal power and channeling it through his own body.
The ancient runes began to glow a bright blue, shining beneath his frozen armor. All down his body he could feel them, like the burn of ice touched to his skin. There was pain in it, sharp and unyielding, but pleasure quickly followed, pulsing through him and far outweighing the feelings of discomfort he’d experienced before.
This was what he was used to. This feeling of being closer to the goddess than anyone ever dared. Of reaching out to touch her, and being folded in her icy embrace. It wasn’t Kiova he imagined running her long fingers down his chest, though, it was someone who’d long since departed from this realm of existence. Someone who’d left him to struggle on; to learn how to cope in a world where she did not exist.
Rheor’s heart swelled with sorrow and his powers responded, a pulse of energy emanating from him. Window panes frosted over, the icicles that clung to the eaves became thicker, and the winds previously held in check by the wall barreled past it, buffeting the village in a violent, terrible storm. Rheor let out a growl, his fingers curling against his palms, his muscles flexing as he struggled to contain it. He imagined pulling the storm into himself, imagined grabbing hold of it and not letting go.
And eventually, that was what happened.
He drew the storm inward, all of that cold seeping in through his skin, through his runes, let into his already frozen heart. It formed a thicker wall; a sheet of ice none would ever penetrate.
Drawing in a breath through his nose, Rheor steeled himself, his body becoming a fortress meant not to keep the storms at bay, but to contain them. He could feel the winds ripping through him, howling and raging and begging to be released, but he fought them back, only the subtle twitch of his muscles, the tick in his jaw betraying the fact that he was doing anything at all.
Then, like an icy vortex drawn back into the sky, all was calm. Quiet. And Rheor dropped to his knees.
He managed to catch himself, the ground already feeling softer under his fingertips. His fingers dug into it, raking furrows through fresh dirt, and he waved off his two warriors as they rushed to his aid.
“You’ve done it,” the chieftain said, awe in his voice. “Dear God, I can’t believe you’ve done it.”
“By Kiova’s will alone,” he grunted as he pushed himself back to his feet, brushing the dirt from his palms. “Remember that, Chieftain. Teach it to your children and to any that are born after this spring She has granted you.”
Rheor’s legs were still shaking more than he wished, his muscles weak. It was a struggle to take in breath, to even keep upright, but he forced himself through it until he began to feel more steady. He looked around, not surprised by how different everything seemed.
The ground had indeed thawed. Ice and snow were melting from the rooftops. The trees past the wall were still barren, but no longer weighed down by snow. The gray clouds overhead parted to reveal the sun’s light—a glowing promise of new life.
It was perhaps idyllic for the humans, but it felt oddly sterile to Rheor. Gone was the blue cast, the crystalline shimmer, the crispness he associated with winter. The link he had to his goddess felt strained here, and only by drawing into himself could he feel it again, that storm quieted, but still churning within.
He needed to return to the Tempest Spine and his seat at the Frozen Peak. He needed to seek out the tallest point and speak to Kiova directly, to know if he’d regained her favor.
Though even now, as the humans wept and celebrated and Rheor went to claim what was his by right of the pact, he had the feeling Kiova was scarcely aware of his actions, let alone interested in forgiving him.
Chapter 4
Imara waited in the barn, the smell of sodden hay suffocating, the darkness raising her unease to levels she’d never felt before. She paced, rubbed at her arm, tried to listen to what was happening outside, and generally felt more useless and unprepared than she ever had in her life.
Though she could find some dark amusement in the fact that she’d more or less been pawned off like livestock and was now awaiting her new “owner” in the barn.
The amusement didn’t last. The longer it took the great beast of a creature to retrieve her, the more time Imara had to think. And the more time she had to think, the more she couldn’t help but question her actions.
It was insanity, pure and simple. She’d always been impulsive, but that impulse had landed her with extra chores or a missed supper in the past, not a lifetime of servitude. What had she been thinking? She ill liked the idea of tethering herself to a human man, bearing his children and keeping his household. Now she was expected to become property to a Raknari?
Imara’s hands balled into fists at her side, her restless feet carrying her to the door. She reached for the panels, very nearly throwing them open and demanding they find some other way, but then Elora’s terrified yet resigned features flitted through her mind.
Her sister had been so brave, so ready to sacrifice herself for the greater good. And Imara wanted to believe that El could make it through anything and still come out smiling, but she wasn’t willing to test that belief. The dismal reality of the endless winter had already started to steal the sunshine from her sweet baby sister. She wasn’t going to see her broken like an ox, made to carry out one very degrading role with no hope of doing anything her heart actually desired.
For as keenly as Imara began to feel her own fear, it was nothing compared to what she felt on her sister’s behalf. So she would go. She would subject herself to whatever this pact was to come. Maybe one day the Raknari would grow bored of her and she could return home to live out a quiet life. No men would bother her, her father could hardly ask anything more of her, and she could just support El as her sister became the leader she was meant to be.
It sacrificed some of her own dreams. She’d always wanted to explore, to find new solutions to the problems that had plagued her people for centuries. And maybe some part of her had wanted a true partner who would love and support her. But those sacrifices hardly mattered. At least that was what she told herself over and over as she waited for the Raknari to come back for her.
She could hear the two men standing outside the barn. They spoke in their own language, a guttural tongue full of harsh consonants that shattered against the stillness like cracking ice. In the distance she could even hear their leader speaking her own tongue, likely talking to her father. Imara drew in a sharp breath through her nose, anger coiling inside of her like a snake just waiting to strike. She knew this was very likely the last time she would see him. She knew she should try to make amends. But she couldn’t forgive him for being so willing, so ready to hand over Elora.
As she stewed, she could practically hear her own thoughts, her own emotions howling through her. Or perhaps that sound wasn’t coming from her at all. The walls of the barn shook, cold air seeping in through the cracks. The roof began to lift as though it were caught
in a great cyclone, boards pulling free, supports threatening to give way. Imara pressed herself to the door, as far away from a possible collapse as she could get. But after several harrowing moments, the shaking stopped. The roof settled. The cold air receded and she swore she could smell the first hint of spring. Fragrant wildflowers. Trickling streams. Fresh, impossibly green grass.
He’d done it. The bastard had kept his end of the pact and brought an end to the long winter. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and Imara decided she was more sentimental about her people and her village than she thought.
She expected the Storm Lord to collect her soon after, and she wasn’t wrong. The ground didn’t crack beneath him anymore—probably because it wasn’t coated with a thick layer of frost—but she swore she could still feel the impact of his gait and his hulking form as he approached the barn. She heard him outside, that rich, deep voice giving instructions to the other two. Footsteps receded and Imara’s pulse quickened as he opened the door, filling the doorway with his massive frame, his body silhouetted by the sunlight that poured into the village.
Imara wanted to see it. She wanted to dart past him and into the village square to look upon the softness of spring one last time. But she was frozen in place, held fast by those glowing, icy eyes. And God help her, she felt that thrill dance up her spine again, tingling through her entire body, lighting up parts of her that had long been dormant.
He let the door close behind him, used the board to bar it, and her breath died in her throat. Was he going to take her here? Bend her over the nearest bale of hay and fuck her like she was an animal? Heat pooled in her center, needy and shameful. She’d never responded to any man like this before, even the ones who’d tried so desperately to bed her. But none of those men had been quite so interesting, quite so dangerous as the creature that stood before her now.
And that was the most shameful truth of it all, wasn’t it? She wanted to protect her sister, and she knew Elora would be broken by the treatment she was likely to receive. From the time she’d been old enough to dream of such things, her sister longed for someone good and kind who would be gentle with her. She deserved someone like that. But Imara’s tastes had always run… darker. The first time she’d stumbled across her own desires, she’d been caught sneaking out by one of the guards. He was only a few years her senior, but gruff and unwilling to bend despite how sweetly she spoke to him or how much she promised.
When he’d dragged her back home, she felt that same frisson of interest. Far less than now, but present just the same. She hadn’t examined it until later, when she was alone in her bed, left to imagine what might have happened had he not been the dutiful soldier. She’d touched herself before then, but that was the first time she remembered ever achieving anything with it. She’d been forced to bite down on a strip of leather to keep from crying out too loudly.
After that, when the high of it all faded, when she faced that guard in the light of day, she’d felt ashamed of herself. She was a deviant. She’d always known that, but her feelings had given her demonstrable proof. Yet they were nothing compared to what she felt now, all but cornered by this hulking, inhuman figure in a dark, cramped barn.
But she refused to just hand herself over to whatever he wanted. She’d never been the type for it, and she wasn’t about to start now that she was the property of a Storm Lord.
“You may have purchased me, but you’re not just going to strip me right here and fuck me while my family still gather outside,” she asserted, crossing her arms over her chest. “You can control yourself until we get to your home. Unless you’re just some common beast like my people assume you to be.”
A deep chuckle reverberated through his chest and stroked over her nerves in a tortuous caress. She felt so on edge, wound so tight, none of it helped by the fact that some part of her wanted all of that to happen. She ached for it, her body responding more eagerly than she’d ever felt before.
The Storm Lord didn’t stop. He kept approaching, prowling toward her like a tiger until her back hit the wall, the wood panels scraping against her leathers. He caged her in, his muscular body creating a solid wall she could never have hoped to pass. His large arms bracketed her, palms braced on either side of her, and he leaned down so close she could feel his breath on her face. Cool. Crisp. It shouldn’t have been so alluring, and yet she couldn’t help looking up at him.
Again her fingers ached to trace those runes. They were glowing softly now, pulsing again in time with what she imagined was his heartbeat. Faster now than before. Was she doing that to him? Imara’s gaze traveled down his hard body to his leather breeches—the only article of clothing he wore, outside of boots. The thick bulge in them made her breath hitch, and a shock of heat lanced through her. She was certainly doing that. There was no other explanation for it.
Which meant he was going to ignore her halfhearted demands. Perhaps he would loosen the laces on his breeches and hers, lift her up against the wall of the barn, and have her right here. Perhaps—
“Not to worry, little flame. I can control myself until we get to my home. Then I will take what belongs to me.” He leaned in even closer, his face by her neck. The tiny hairs there stood on end, waiting for him to do something. Anything. “The question is, can you keep yourself from begging?”
Imara scoffed, turning her face away from him. “I have never begged for anything in my life, and I won’t start with you.”
“I believe the first part of that, chieftain’s daughter. But the second…” Another deep chuckle. He was so close, yet he seemed deliberately against touching her. “You are already wet for me.”
“How—”
When he finally did touch her, his big hands roughly gripping her hips, she gasped. Her body tingled, her cunt aching as he pulled her to him, against the hard, hot length of him that stood in stark contrast to how cold every other part of him seemed to be. Imara shuddered and it took every ounce of her willpower not to buck against him in search of relief.
“And you can feel how hard I am. My cock has been as firm as iron since you suggested I unlace my breeches in the middle of your village,” he said in a low, quiet voice.
“That wasn’t an invitation.”
If her body was going to betray her, Imara was determined to keep her dignity in some other way. Her hands reached up to his chest and she shoved him. His muscles were unyielding beneath her palms. It was like trying to move a mountain with her bare hands. Yet after a moment, he did step back. Her knees shook, threatening to give out on her. A pang of longing, fiercer than any she’d ever known, nearly made her follow.
But she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. If nothing else, she would ignore her desires until they’d reached the mountains. Then if she gave in, it was only because it was expected of her. She couldn’t be faulted for that. No one could call her wants, her lusty thoughts wickedness if those things were being demanded of her.
“My half of the pact is fulfilled. If you wish to reconsider your farewells to your father and the rest of your family, you may do so now.”
He’d stepped even further back from her, and though his words were strangely considerate, there was nothing warm about them. They were cold. Detached. Spoken as if they were a part of his duty. And so far removed from the arrogant, taunting creature of heat and fire he’d been just moments before.
It was such a difference that Imara was left feeling cold, too, despite the fact that the air had warmed significantly. So much so that when she finally did step out of the barn, the furs felt unnecessary.
She started to remove her outer coat, but the Storm Lord’s voice stopped her. “You will need it, where we are going.”
Imara’s gaze lifted to the mountain again, honing in on the misty, snow-covered peak. That was going to be her home now. A desolate place at the top of the world, far from everything she knew and loved. All the fleeting pleasure, all the confusing feelings weren’t ever going to make up for that, and she felt her stomach twi
st as reality set in anew.
True to his word, the Storm Lord didn’t stop her from going toward her mother and sister. Her father was nowhere to be seen at first, then she caught a glimpse of him with the other council members, walking the perimeter of the village. Hurt blossomed in her chest, so pervasive that she couldn’t even enjoy the view of a clear, bright sky behind him.
“Has he changed his mind?” her mother asked, hand over her mouth, her face streaked with tears.
There was fear in her voice, and it only took her eyes darting to Elora to make it clear she worried the Storm Lord would take her youngest daughter—her more precious daughter—instead.
“He’s letting me say goodbye before we leave.”
Her mother embraced her, the familiar scent of mint clinging to her. Imara would miss that. Those small things that reminded her of better times. Somehow she doubted she’d get much of it on the mountain. There was a distant hope that she could build new memories, but it seemed like the desperate grasping of a naive girl at this point.
“I’m so sorry,” her mother said, the tears coming anew, “it never should’ve come to this.”
“I’ll be all right.” Imara returned the embrace stiffly. In the space of an hour, every preconceived idea she had about her parents had been wrong. She no longer knew how to even act around them. “It’ll take more than a few Raknari to get the better of me.”
That she did believe. No matter her duty, no matter how her body responded, she was not raised to be a slave to any man.
Pulling back from her mother, she gave her a reassuring smile. She had half a mind to joke about the fact that life would be far less difficult without her around. She’d always been the troublemaker, after all. But the timing for it was terrible, and so Imara just looked to her younger sister who was watching her with a calm sense of acceptance so different from her mother’s tear-filled denial.
“I’ve decided I’m not going to say goodbye,” she said. “We’ll see each other again, and soon. I know we will.”
