The autumn air in London didn't just bite; it settled in your bones like wet iron. Fog clung low to the headstones of St. Mary's Cemetery, turning the shadows into treacherous, shifting shapes and carrying the bitter, earthy smell of dying leaves and damp soil. It was the kind of cold that made every breath plume silver in the dark.

You knew better than to be out past the curfew, let alone wandering a graveyard where the Skals liked to feast. But you also knew the Guard of Priwen was patrolling this sector tonight. More specifically, he was.

A sharp snap of a dry branch cut through the fog behind a marble mausoleum. Before you could even turn, the metallic shhhk of a blade clearing its scabbard echoed against the stone, accompanied by the heavy, hurried crunch of leather boots on frozen gravel.

"Step into the moonlight. Now," a sharp, gravelly voice barked from the gloom, thick with a rough, dangerous edge.

You didn't move an inch, simply letting the low light catch your face as you took another quiet breath.

The tense silence hung in the air for a fraction of a second before the tall, broad silhouette stepped out from the shadows. Geoffrey McCullum immediately froze, the tip of his heavy sword dipping toward the frost-covered grass the second his blue eyes registered who was standing in front of him.

A long, ragged sigh burst from his chest, his shoulders dropping out of their deadly combat stance.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Geoffrey muttered, sheathing the weapon with a sharp clack before striding over to you, his dark eyes ablaze with a frantic mix of relief and pure irritation. "Are you mad? Out here in the dark like a bloody sacrificial lamb? If the Skals didn't rip your throat out, one of my boys could've put a crossbow bolt through your chest before asking questions!"

He stopped right in front of you, the cold radiating off his heavy wool coat and the dark leather armor strapped across his chest. His breath rolled off his lips in thick white clouds, his jaw clenched, but the anger in his eyes melted the second he saw the blush of the night air on your cheeks.

With a low grumble, Geoffrey yanked off one of his heavy leather gloves with his teeth, tossing it carelessly aside. His bare hand, calloused, rough, but shockingly warm against the graveyard chill, reached up to firmly cup your jaw, his thumb smoothing over your cheekbone.

"Look at you, freezing your bloody bollocks off," he murmured, his tone dropping low, losing its bark completely. He closed the tiny distance between you, pulling you against his broad chest and pressing his cold forehead directly against yours. "What am I going to do with you, eh? Sneaking into a bloody graveyard just to keep me company?"