Chapter 5: Taming the Tiger
The return journey from the Dragon Mountains was a procession of triumph. Frostfall soared above, a silent, shimmering escort that sent game fleeing and scattered clouds. On the ground, the king’s column moved with a swagger it hadn’t possessed on the way up. The men laughed more. The miles passed more easily.
Ron, however, watched Leila. He saw her fatigue, the way she marveled at every new, lower elevation—the first stunted pine, the first trickle of unmelted stream. The world was being born anew for her, one league at a time. She was leaving a life of white silence for one of roaring color, and the weight of that shift lingered in her quiet moments.
On the third day, the ground began to steam in places. A rotten-egg scent, subtle at first, grew stronger.
“Sire,” Commander Torvin grunted, riding up beside him. “The Glassmire vents are ahead. The sulfur pools. We usually skirt them. The horses hate the smell.”
Ron gazed at the distant tendrils of vapor rising from a rocky cleft. A memory surfaced—the luxurious, sprawling bathhouses of his citadel, the indolent soaks that lasted hours. Leila had only known the bite of mountain snow.
“We’ll camp at the vents,” Ron decided.
Torvin blinked. “The vents? The air is—“
“We’ll camp there,” Ron repeated, his tone leaving no room. He glanced back at Leila, who was trying to identify the strange smell, her nose twitching. “The men can use the eastern pools. We’ll take the western cleft. Privately.”
Understanding, hard and resigned, settled on Torvin’s face. “The privacy is… considerable. I’ll post distant guards. On the high rocks.”
“See that you do.”
The western cleft was a hidden jewel, a bowl of moss and slick black rock carved by a rushing, ice-cold stream. Where the stream met a fissure in the earth, a vast, milky-blue pool bubbled and steamed. The heat was a palpable force, pushing against the crisp mountain air. condensation dripped from the ferns that clung to the walls.
“What is it?” Leila whispered, her eyes wide.
“Earth’s blood, warmed by her heart,” Ron said, unsaddling his horse. “It won’t freeze. It never gets cold.”
He didn’t order her. He simply began unbuckling his armor, letting plates of steel and leather fall to the soft moss with heavy thuds. He shed his under-tunic, his boots, everything, until he stood naked in the vaporous air, then walked into the pool without a backward glance.
The sigh he let out was un-kingly. Pure, unadulterated relief. The heat penetrated muscles still coiled from the mountain climb, from sleeping on hard ground. He submerged himself to the shoulders, letting the mineral-rich water work its magic.
He heard the soft rustle. A hesitant step on stone.
He turned.
Leila stood at the pool’s edge, clutching the rough-spun blanket from her bedroll around her. She was staring at the water, then at him, her expression one of profound uncertainty. The tribe of the Snowclaw cultivated endurance to cold, not comfort in heat.
“It’s just water,” he said, his voice echoing softly off the stone. “Hot water.”
“It’s… steaming. Like a cooking pot.”
“It won’t cook you. Come in.”
She bit her lip, then let the blanket fall. The contrast was breathtaking. Her pale skin, touched pink by the chill air, against the wild backdrop of dark rock and green moss. She stepped in, one tentative foot at a time, hissing as the heat climbed her ankles, her calves. She sank down quickly, up to her chin, her eyes wide with alarm that slowly melted into wonder.
“Oh,” she breathed. The sound was a revelation.
She looked at him through the veil of steam. A flicker of mischief, entirely new, sparked in her golden eyes. It was the look she’d had on the cliff face—the fearless, useful creature. Then she smiled.
A ripple moved through the water. Where Leila had been, a swirl of steam intensified. And from the cloud, with a sound like a soft shake of fur, emerged the snow tiger.
She was smaller than her full-grown kin, sleek and powerful, her coat a startling white etched with faint grey markings. She padded through the chest-high water, her movements fluid and strangely silent even in the pool. She stopped before him, cat-face inscrutable.
Ron raised an eyebrow. “Showing off?”
The tiger’s head tilted. Then, with a velocity that was pure predator, she planted her great paws on his shoulders and shoved.
He went under with a mighty splash.
He came up sputtering, hot water in his eyes and ears, the sound of his own laughter—a rusty, infrequent sound—bouncing off the rocks. She had shifted back, standing waist-deep now, her human form shaking with glee, her hands covering her mouth.
“You little tigress,” he growled, but he was still laughing.
He surged forward. She yelped, tried to scramble away, but he was too fast. He caught her around the waist, spinning her, pulling her back against his chest. Her laughter turned into a gasp as he walked them both to the smoothed rock wall of the cleft. He pinned her there, her front against the warm, mossy stone, his body pressed tight against her back. The heat of the water was nothing to the heat between them.
“That,” he whispered into the shell of her ear, his voice dropping all levity, “was a declaration of war.”
She shivered, arching back into him. “I won,” she breathed.
“You won a momentary advantage.” His hands slid from her waist, over the slick curve of her hips, mapping the territory he now considered his. “But the campaign is mine.”
He kissed the junction of her neck and shoulder, tasting hot water and her unique, clean scent. His teeth grazed her skin, not hard, but enough to make her gasp again, her fingers digging into the moss.
“When we reach the citadel,” he murmured, his words a dark promise against her damp skin, “this ends. The waiting. The camp cots and the cold ground. You will sleep in a bed that could fit twenty of you. On silk that will feel like cold water compared to your skin.”
His hand moved around, lower, exploring the softness of her belly, then lower still. She tensed, then melted, a soft moan escaping her as her head fell back against his shoulder. The steam wrapped around them like a cloak.
“I will take you there,” he continued, his own breath growing ragged, his actions belying the controlled pace of his words. “Not in the dark. In the sunlight that streams through the crystal windows. I want to watch every shade of gold in your eyes change. I want to see every flicker on your face when you finally understand what it means to belong to a king.”
“Ron,” she whimpered, his name a prayer on the steaming air.
“Say it again.”
“Ron.” It was more solid this time, a anchor in the tumult he was orchestrating with his hands, his words.
He held her there, on the precipice, for a long, agonizing, exquisite moment, letting the tension coil in both of them. Letting her feel the full, unyielding evidence of his intent pressed against her. The wild mountain girl and the ancient king, suspended in the earth’s hot breath.
Then, with a control that cost him, he slowed his hands, gentled them to a mere caress. He rested his forehead against the back of her head, his own heart pounding a fierce rhythm against her spine.
“Soon,” he promised, the word thick with want. It was a vow to her, and a brutal reminder to himself.
He released her, turning her to face him. Her eyes were hazy, her lips parted. He cupped her face, his thumb wiping a droplet of water from her cheek. The playful tiger was gone, replaced by a woman awakening to a storm of new sensations, anchored only by him.
The shouts of his men from the distant eastern pools were a dim reality. The dragon’s shadow passing overhead was a fleeting myth. Here, in the steam, there was only this: the next step on the path he was forging for them both, and the terrifying, exhilarating look of complete trust in her eyes as she leaned into his palm.