CHAPTER 369: THE WARMTH WE DON’T SPEAK OF

[IRAYA]

"You’re getting it," Lyander said as we glided slowly together down the trail. "Told you it would be fun."

I sighed. "It’s tolerable. Slightly less horrible than I expected."

He leaned in just a little. "That’s practically a love confession, coming from you."

I tried to push him. Missed. Fell again. Right into a snowbank this time.

When he helped me up, his hands lingered on my waist a little too long.

And I didn’t move away.

We stopped near a ridge that overlooked the forest below, trees powdered in frost, the sky painted orange and lavender from the setting sun.

I stood beside him, breathing in the cold air, realizing that—for once—I wasn’t thinking about being stuck. Or angry. Or alone.

I was just . . . there.

With him.

Stupidly.

And I didn’t hate it . . . for now.

"Why are you really doing this?" I asked, more quietly this time.

We stood at the edge of a snow-dusted ridge, the world around us blanketed in white silence. The air was crisp, biting even through my layers, and the sky was the kind of blue that only seemed to exist in postcards.

Lyander looked at me with that infuriatingly nonchalant grin and said, "Because you barely step outside. At this rate, I’m afraid you’ll finish reading every book in the library."

I folded my arms. "And you just decided that for me?"

Lyander said nothing, but his smirk grew. I glared at him and added, "And for the record, I didn’t read all the books in your library."

"Oh? Only what—fifty?"

"Ten."

He snorted. "Right."

=====

As the days blurred, I found myself falling into a strange rhythm.

Lyander, of course, didn’t seem to run out of ideas. Every morning, he’d burst in with something ridiculous: breakfast in a cabin by the frozen lake, a challenge to build a snow fort, a mysterious sleigh ride under starlight.

He was relentless. Annoyingly so.

But I couldn’t deny it.

I began to forget what day it was. I stopped checking the dusty old clock in the hallway. I stopped counting the hours until I could escape and leave.

And somewhere between rolling my eyes at his terrible snowman-making skills and trying not to fall on my face during one of his spontaneous "Let’s snowshoe through the forest" adventures, I laughed.

Actually laughed.

He never made a big deal of it when I did. But I noticed the way his eyes would soften, like he’d caught a rare glimpse of something he’d been hoping for.

And for some reason, I forgot everything—even the thought of escaping or going home.

=====

One morning, I woke to the smell of cinnamon and fresh bread. I padded out into the warm, golden kitchen, still in my oversized sweater and thick socks.

Lyander was at the counter, apron on, covered in flour.

"You’re baking?"

"I bake," he said seriously, as if this wasn’t the most ridiculous image imaginable.

"You look like a pastry commercial."

He grinned. "Jealous?"

"Yes. But not your dough-handling skills."

He tossed a bit of flour at me. I squealed and ducked. Ten minutes later, the entire kitchen was a warzone.

He won. Barely.

Then came the afternoon I hated him again.

He dragged me up the mountainside with snow skates. Snow skates. Like a snowboard had a lovechild with ice blades.

"No," I said flatly.

"Yes," he said, smug as ever.

"I’ll break my face."

"You’ll be fine."

"Lyander—!"

"Just one try."

"No."

He didn’t argue further. Instead, he simply clipped the gear to my boots and shoved—yes, actually shoved—the board into place beneath me. Then he gave me a push.

I screamed. Cursed. Clung to the air for dear life.

But then . . . something shifted. I slid. Not elegantly. Not well. But I didn’t die.

And when I stumbled, he was right there, catching me by the waist, his laugh ringing across the empty white.

"Not bad for a first time," he said.

I punched his arm. "I hate you."

He grinned wider. "You always say that when you’re having fun."

I hated that he was right.

We spent the afternoon going down the slope over and over. I tumbled most of the time. Fell on my face. Ate snow.

But at some point, I forgot that I had been angry.

There was a moment—one I don’t think I’ll forget—where I caught just the right balance, glided smooth and fast over the snow, and when I looked up, Lyander was watching me, awe plain on his face.

"You’re doing it," he called.

I let out a whoop. "I’m amazing!"

"You are."

I blushed. Stupidly. But I didn’t stop.

Later, when the sun began to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows on the snow, we sat beside a firepit on the porch with hot cocoa in hand.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

It was enough, just being there.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Because in the quiet, I realized I didn’t feel like a prisoner anymore.

I felt . . . free.

Even if I was still in the middle of nowhere, still technically held against my will, still ridiculously annoyed by this arrogant man—I was also warm. And happy. And alive in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.

That night, curled beneath soft blankets, I stared at the ceiling and whispered to myself, "What are you doing, Iraya?"

But I already knew.

I was falling.

And I didn’t know how to stop.

I couldn’t sleep.

The walls felt too quiet, the room too warm, the blankets too heavy. Thoughts swirled in my head like a blizzard refusing to settle.

So I got up, slipped my arms into the thick shawl hanging on the chair, and padded barefoot through the hushed manor.

The hallways were dim, lit only by the occasional wall sconce flickering against stone.

Outside the tall windows, snowflakes fell silently under a winter moon, dusting the pine trees in a silver veil.

I rubbed my arms, trying to shake off the chill that wasn’t just from the cold.

I headed toward the kitchen, thinking maybe warm milk or tea would help lull me back to sleep.

But as I passed the parlor, a soft glow caught my eye.