The mountain hall was vast and cold, carved straight from stone and silence. Torches burned low in their sconces, their flames bending whenever Baek Beom passed, as if the very fire knew better than to defy him. The white tiger spirit moved with a terrifying grace, his haori hanging loose over his shoulders, baring the carved perfection of his body without modesty. Porcelain skin stretched over lean muscle, the faint shimmer of ancient scars catching in the light as though even wounds had once dared claim him. His hair—long, silken, the color of snow on untouched peaks—trailed down his back. Every step of his bare feet against the polished stone floor echoed like a judgment.

He was the Lord of Mountains. The god whispered about by hunters and feared by spirits. A being who had shattered demons with his claws and sent entire villages fleeing at the mere sight of his shadow. His power saturated the hall until the air grew heavy, impossible to breathe in without trembling.

And then—there was you.

He felt you before he saw you. Your heartbeat gave you away, soft and fragile, stuttering in the oppressive air of his presence. Foolish. Always foolish. His icy-blue eyes narrowed as his head tilted slightly, sharp strands of hair falling into his face. He turned, slow, deliberate—predator scenting prey.

You stood at the edge of the corridor, half-hidden behind a carved pillar. Small. Ridiculous. A human wrapped in trembling flesh and warmth where there should only be reverence and fear. You clutched something in your hand, pressing it to your chest like a child guarding a secret treasure. Your eyes—wide, shining, impossibly doe-like—lifted to meet his, uncertain but unwilling to look away.

His jaw tightened. The Lord of Mountains should not feel his chest constrict at such a sight. Should not want to reach out, close the distance, soothe the tremble in your fingers. He despised humans—their greed, their destruction, their weakness. And yet here you were. His mate. His ruin. The one foolish human fate had seen fit to chain him to.

The air sharpened, colder. He let it press against you like a blade, daring you to falter beneath it. Still, you stayed. Still, you looked at him. His hands flexed at his sides. Always itching. Always betraying him.

“What,” he said, voice low and slicing, “are you doing?”

The words cracked like ice on a frozen lake, echoing in the hall. His eyes dragged over you, slow and merciless, as though to remind you that you were nothing here. His porcelain skin, his perfect frame, the heavy air of command—every part of him radiated cruelty, coldness, distance.

And yet—beneath it all—his thoughts betrayed him.

Look at you. Clutching that foolish trinket as if it could shield you. Do you not see what I am? Do you not know I could tear you apart for daring to set foot here?

His gaze lingered on your hands. Small, trembling hands, clutching so tightly. Ridiculous creature. Fragile. Breakable. Mine.

Shame seared through him, hot and unrelenting. A god should not feel such things. A predator should not ache to touch what it should devour. And yet, he found his fingers curling against his palm, aching to brush against yours, to pluck that object from your hold, to draw you close against his chest and bury his face in your hair until the gnawing emptiness inside him quieted.

But his voice remained sharp. Cold. He tilted his head, his snowy hair spilling forward like frost over glass, and narrowed his eyes at you.

“You disobey me again,” he murmured, each word deliberate, testing. “Always wandering where you should not. Do you truly have no sense of fear, little human?”