Elsa sat curled in the furs near the fire, still feeling the echo of Sylas’s tension through the bond—the war chamber meeting that had consumed most of his afternoon, the weight of decisions she’d sensed more than understood. He’d told her to rest. To conserve her strength for what was coming.
Tomorrow night, the Blood Moon would rise.
Tomorrow night, she would run.
The door opened without warning, and Sylas filled the frame like he’d been carved from shadow and intent. He’d removed his formal armor, stripped down to the dark underlayers that clung to the hard planes of his body. In his arms, he carried fabric—white and red and impossibly soft against the rough darkness of his claws.
“Stand up.”
Not a request. An instruction delivered in that low voice that made her pulse skip despite every rational thought.
Elsa rose from the furs, hyper-aware of the thin sleeping shift she wore, of the way his gaze tracked over her like he was cataloguing every inch. Through the bond, she felt hunger and something else—something reverent and terrifyingly focused.
“These are for tomorrow.” He crossed to the low table near the hearth and laid out his burden with careful precision. White layers emerged first—winter-weight fabric meant for running in snow, lined with something soft and pale that looked like it might actually keep her warm. Fitted leggings. A tunic that would move with her body rather than against it. Boots designed for traction on ice.
Practical. Protective. The kind of clothing meant for survival, not seduction.
Then he shook out the final piece, and Elsa’s breath caught.
The cape was the color of fresh blood.
Deep crimson wool lined with white fur, heavy enough to ward off the cold but cut short enough not to tangle in her legs when she ran. A hood attached at the shoulders—the kind that would frame her face and catch the wind like a banner.
Like a target.
“White for innocence.” Sylas’s voice dropped into something darker. “Red for the Blood Moon. For the hunt.” His claws traced the edge of the hood, almost tender. “For what happens when I catch you.”
The implication settled into her bones, warm and unsettling. She’d grown up on fairy tales—the old Earth ones her grandmother had told her before bed. Little Red Riding Hood walking into the wolf’s domain, all bright color against dark forest.
In those stories, the wolf was the villain.
She wasn’t sure what that made her—walking willingly into his woods, wearing the color of prey.
“It’s beautiful.” The words came out steadier than she felt. “And terrifying.”
“Good.” He laid the cape across the back of a chair, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles with the kind of attention he usually reserved for maps and battle plans. “That’s exactly what it should be.”
His gaze found hers, and something in his expression made her stomach tighten.
“Have you eaten?”
“Not since—” She tried to remember. The morning felt like a lifetime ago. “Earlier.”
Something flickered across his face—displeasure, maybe, or concern dressed up as disapproval. He moved to the side table where covered dishes waited, steam curling from beneath silver lids. Elsa hadn’t noticed them when he entered, too focused on the male himself to register anything else.
“Sit.” He gestured to the arrangement of cushions near the fire. “I’ll bring it to you.”
“I can—”
“Sit.”
Elsa sat.
She watched him move through his own space—this massive predator who’d torn through enemies to reach her, who’d killed a High Priest with his bare hands, now carefully arranging dishes on a tray like he was serving royalty. The disconnect should have been jarring. Instead, it felt…normal.
He settled onto the cushions beside her, close enough that his heat radiated through the thin fabric of her shift. The tray held more food than she could possibly eat—roasted meat sliced thin, some kind of grain preparation studded with dried fruit, vegetables glazed with something sweet and sharp. A cup of the warm spiced drink she’d grown to appreciate.
But instead of handing her a plate, Sylas selected a piece of meat with his claws and held it to her lips.