Page 21 of Kiss of Frost

I scrambled to my feet, my chest heaving. How could he be afraid of me? I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder to see if some kind of monster had magically appeared.

As quickly as it arrived, the fear fled Graeme’s eyes. The ice descended once more, and his voice went low and dangerous. “Leave.”

“Not without Callum.” As if I’d summoned him, Callum stirred in the snow behind Graeme. He lifted his head and blinked at me with bewildered green eyes.

“Georgie?”

“It’s okay,” I called out. “Don’t move.”

Callum’s gaze sharpened as he took in Graeme. Callum’s expression darkened, and he moved like he meant to stand.

“Stay down!” Graeme barked, swinging toward him.

I grabbed at Graeme, my fingers brushing his arm. “Leave him alone!”

The ice dragon swung back to me, his eyes glacially cold. “Don’t touch me.”

“Don’t threaten her!” Callum growled, shooting to his feet. He stormed forward.

Graeme charged toward him. I reached for the wind. Everything slowed down.

Callum kept coming. Graeme roared and flung out his hand. A deadly looking icicle shot toward Callum. I screamed as Callum tried to jerk out of the way. The icicle sliced his hip. Blood sprayed.

I seized the current. Power boiled in my chest.

Graeme tossed a cloud of snow at Callum, who went down with a bellow.

I hurled the wind at Graeme, but he moved faster than I could track. Something hard and cold slammed into me, and I hit the ground. Snow crunched.

And everything went black.

Chapter Seven

GRAEME

I watched from the shadows.

It wasn’t necessary. The witch and the lad were unconscious, and I was cloaked with power I’d inherited from my mother. But the shadows were safe. They were familiar, unlike the two who lay side by side on the bed before me.

A witch and one of my own kind. And they were mated. Even if the witch hadn’t said so, I would have known from the way the lad fought to protect her. His ferocity had been foolhardy, but it was hardly a surprise.

What was a surprise was that she’d fought just as hard to protect him. And not necessarily because she was female. I’d encountered enough shieldmaidens to know women could be just as ruthless as men on the field of battle. But witches were a wily sort. Weak in body, they hid behind their potions and poisons. They hunted their own kind, ripping elements from kinsmen for the sole purpose of amassing power.

But the raven-haired lass had looked ready to gut me if I touched the lad. Her eyes had glowed like amethysts as she bent the wind to her will. Unfortunately for her, the wind had proved too difficult to control.

Georgie. The lad had called her that. Unconventional, but it suited her somehow.

I tilted my head as I studied her and the contradictions she presented. I knew power. I’d always been able to sense it in others—another gift from my mother. The witch brimmed with it…but it spilled everywhere. She was like a goblet overflowing. Her magic made a mess of things.

Even so, she was a beauty. The fur I’d draped over her and the lad couldn’t muffle her charms. Black hair. Skin like fresh cream. Tall and curvy in every place a man wanted to hang onto. Her arse was just as tempting as her tits, which were plump and round and probably crowned with nipples the same deep pink as her mouth. And her scent… When it hit me outside, I’d felt almost…drawn to her.

But that was impossible. More likely, she’d sewn some kind of defensive spell into her clothing. She didn’t wear the embroidered jackets the witches favored, but that didn’t mean she was unprotected. Undoubtedly, that tantalizing essence was some kind of trickery. A spell meant to throw me off balance. Get under my skin and sow confusion.

Whatever the scent was, it was as contradictory as the rest of her. Bright and sweet, but also dark and decadent. Like berries and hot candle wax that burns like the devil before it cools. And over all this lay a whiff of smoke—another reminder that she belonged to the lad.

I let my gaze wander to him. Callum. A solid Scottish name. He’d fought decently outside, which meant someone much older had trained him. I didn’t receive much news in Gelhella, but I knew the world had changed. Men no longer lived and died by the sword. But the boy had a swordsman’s build, with thick shoulders and sculpted arms. He was a halfling, of course, although I couldn’t pin down his mother’s heritage. His hair was somewhere between brown and blond, as if it couldn’t decide which color it wanted to be. But his eyes had made up their mind. They shone like emeralds, the pretty irises fringed by long, curly lashes. When I’d fought him, I’d noticed the ends were tipped with the most enchanting shade of gold—

I jerked away from the wall, a frown tugging at my forehead. What did I care what color the lad’s eyelashes were?

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