The distant howl faded, swallowed by the oppressive quiet that followed.

Elaria’s pulse was still hammering, though not entirely from fear. The scent of Draven — sharp steel, musk, and the wild tang of blood — pressed in from every side, muddling her thoughts.

His hand was still wrapped over hers where it rested against his bare chest. The heat of him seeped into her skin, into her bones, chasing away the cold in a way no fire ever could.

“Draven…” She meant for his name to be a ...