Thatcher watched as Saoirse wrapped fur after fur around Tempest's lean frame, the elderly female chattering nonstop despite the early hour. Tempest just managed to nod and smile, laughing and adding her few words of input when it was necessary.
He knew she had not slept last night, as she hadn't the night before. Already in the two days of her self-induced punishment, Tempest looked gaunt and frail; her cheekbones sharp under her thin skin, and her eyes were foggier than usual. Her lips were pressed in a thin line when she was left alone, an almost permanent furrow wedging itself between her brows.
Two days and she looked like hell. Thatcher was beginning to wonder what she would look like in a few weeks.
"Táxim-se."
Thatcher gave his head an abrupt mental shake as Kynan, the ferocious but aging Herd Leader of the Lunar Kynan Herd emerged from the outdoors. He was already dressed for both battle and warmth, though he didn't need it. Like the Drul's, the elements did not affect the Lunar, for they were made up of earth magic. They changed and adapted as the earth did; nature's sway incapable of affecting their needs beyond their hunger pains.
"Kynan," Thatcher responded, holding out his arm. They embraced forearms briefly before bypassing other formalities. "Is the weather holding up?"
Kynan brushed off the ice from his coat and grinned viciously, bearing his sharp canines unintentionally at Thatcher. "If you consider snowstorm conditions perfect for a summer stroll, then it's grand." Thatcher smirked at Kynan's insolent tone. Kynan had always carried the reputation for belligerence to the point of brutality. Every conversation Thatcher had with the male was only fulfilling the expectations he had of the Herd Leader.
"Awfully windy," Kynan commented suddenly, tugging on the golden-red beard that hung in two braids off his chin. "Wind chill is in the negative." He jerked his head in Tempest's direction. "Might be a bit dangerous for the human."
"What?" Tempest asked sharply, swinging her head towards them. Thatcher fought a smile. He had to give the girl credit – she had the ears of a bat when she chose to pay attention. "I'm going," she said firmly, swinging her eyes to Thatcher, knowing with him she would have more weight than the Luna war lord.
You're such a pushover
; his tiny little voice mocked him.
She's just a girl, a silly human, but she's got you waxing poetic come nightfall.
If waxing poetic involved summoning the intense, sexually charged dream he and Tempest had shared weeks earlier almost every night for nearly five weeks; then yes, Thatcher was bloody Shakespeare reincarnate.
"The lady insists," Kynan teased, drawing Thatcher back to the present. "Maybe if I tie her to one of the trees on the timber line, she'll have a change of heart?"
"Only if you she doesn't tie you to it first," Thatcher quipped dryly, crossing his arms as Tempest approached. Saoirse had bundled her up nicely, so he knew she would be warm enough to not suffer hypothermia or even a sniffle.
But Thatcher could not take the risk.
"I'm going," Tempest repeated firmly, fire returning to her green eyes, fire that sent the smoldering coals of Thatcher's need to almost volcanic proportions. Tempest could do him in without having to even try, but damn it if he was going to make it that easy.
"On one condition," Thatcher said carefully, not allowing the playfulness of his suggestion to seep through his words. He was all iron and force, the qualities of a leader. Tempest responded accordingly, submitting slightly to his aggressive stance and firm tone.
"The condition?" she asked him quietly.
"You ride with me. At the first sign of numbness, you tell me so we can stop. Only fools suffer in silence."
"Rather be the squeaky wheel than the broken one," Kynan barked up with a hoarse laugh, clapping Tempest rather hard on the back. She took the blow with a smile, her eyes a little tight with pain.
"I guess that'll be okay," Tempest said carefully, her eyes avoiding Thatcher's as Kynan sauntered off to check the status of the search party, barking orders as he went.
Thatcher wasn't a fool. He knew Tempest was frightened, and it wasn't because of the weather.
It had everything to do with being near him, touching him, having his skin so close to hers. She wanted nothing to do with his close familiarity, even though just days ago she had lamented his coldness towards her.
Tempest could make excuses, Thatcher thought to himself as he finished pulling on his own furs and wraps. But Thatcher knew his closeness frightened her.
Because she loved him.
Because she wasn't
supposed
to love him.
Thatcher cleared his head with one soft shake and pulled the skullcap down over his ears before bringing the fur lined hood of his parka up over it, tugging the strands in the hood tight. Tempest was observing a heat rock Tavish held when Thatcher approached. He felt his chest tighten at how easily she accepted the Luna male's awkward fuzzy paws against her borrowed furs. Thatcher's eyes bore holes into the Luna's face when the lanky teenager thought to tickle her as he tucked the rock in between two layers of bear skin.
Thatcher took a final step forward, his chest almost brushing the male's shoulders at the close proximity. He cleared his throat and watched with grim satisfaction as the young Luna fumbled for an excuse, a blush of embarrassment and fear crossing his face as he stammered out words to appease him.
Thatcher jerked his chin, gesturing for Tavish to move away. Tavish did hurriedly, almost tripping over his large pawed feet as he did so.
Thatcher took over where Tavish had left off, nimbly redoing the bindings of the furs, even though Tavish had done a perfectly good job to begin with. Tempest's breath caught with each tug of the laces, her slight body jerking forward a bit when Thatcher tugged and pulled. On the final lace, he pulled her close, allowing her to feel the heat from his body – his lower body – before looking her in the eyes.
Tempest's face was flushed hot pink, her pupils dilated slightly. Her full lips were parted just a hair's width, her breathing a few touches heavier than usual. Thatcher's beast rumbled in approval.
