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“I have a desire to knock the teeth from your mouth. That’s winning, I’d say.”

“You seem nervous.”

“Nervous? Of whom? I’ve never had a fear of bats,” she quips.

“Then why do you keep palming the hilt of your blade?” He grins, eyes darting to her hip and lingering.

“I was considering cutting out your tongue.”

“OK, a free shot then. Why don’t you take a swing at me and if it lands, then you’ll have put me in my place?”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Oh, it won’t. And when you miss, I’ll take the blade for myself.”

The slightest shade of pink warms her cheeks as she glares, and it thrills him that he could finally elicit it.

“Your ego is greater than your sense. You’re willing to risk a knife in the chest to prove a point?”

“Your knife will not get near my chest. I am much too fast, and I think you exaggerate your ski–”

Dawsyn dives toward him, her blade suddenly glinting at his throat. She straddles him, one foot on either side of his thighs, her knees bent, holding herself an inch above his lap. The tip of the blade touches the same place it did before – when he dragged her from beneath the stump of a tree. He feels its cold edge following the path of a vein that disappears into his jaw. Dawsyn’s face is dangerously close to his.

Nose to nose, she tilts her head to the side and considers him. “What do you know? Itdidn’tget close to your chest.”

Her warm breath hits his face and throat and he shivers involuntarily. His hands itch with need. The need to dislodge her, perhaps. Or the need for something other.

“You bait me?” she asks. “Why?”

He swallows and feels the knife press more firmly. “Maybe I just really like your blade.”

She huffs her amusement. “You accuse me of exaggerating my skill? Where are those quick hands you speak of? Only stupid men goad women with knives.”

He smirks – he cannot stop himself. “I’ve made worse decisions.”

“I’m sure you have. But just so we are clear, Iamfaster, I never miss, and I only rise to bait worth eating.”

She slides away from him then, her knife gone again by the time she resumes her place.

Ryon looks upon her, studies her, this human girl who appears to fear nothing. She is… unexpected.

“If the storm clears by morning, we should reach the valley by nightfall,” he rumbles.

“It’ll clear,” she says blankly, settling carefully against the wall, wincing when her shoulders scrape the rough edges.

They sleep to the sounds of the raging storm outside as it reshapes the mountain.

When Ryon wakes, it is to the sounds of Dawsyn’s steady breaths heating his neck, her body tucked into his like a piece in its place, and Ryon wonders what exactly he is doing.

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

“What is at the bottom of the mountain?” Dawsyn asks.

They have emerged from the den to air that is deathly still. The cloud cover above is light and the sun’s rays fight valiantly through, leaking to the ground in places. Dawsyn is entranced by those patches, where the light turns the snow into jewels, so blindingly white. Her eyes squint painfully against it.

Ryon stretches, and for a moment there is a hint of wing unfurling, as though they wish to stretch, too, but they quickly retract and disappear. “The slope runs to its end there. It is nearly impossible to cross on foot. It is like a barricade of rock. They call it the Boulder Gate.”

“Who calls it that?”