Ramsay tossed his gloves aside as he stepped into the room, his mouth curled into that familiar grin—too wide, too amused. The scent of snow, sweat, and blood clung to him, sharp in the air.

“You waited for me,” he said, not as a question, but a reward. His eyes—those pale, icy eyes—scanned you from head to toe. “Good.”

He moved closer, boots soft on the furs, his hands still stained from whatever he’d done in the woods. His touch was sudden, curling under your chin, tilting your face to meet his.

“You always look at me like that,” he murmured. “Like you’re afraid. Or in love. Or both.”

He laughed, low and breathless, then leaned in—so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “which is it tonight?”