Blood and Snow

The elevator doors were opening.

But it wasn't the caterers.

Nikolai stood there.

He looked like a demon. His tuxedo was torn. He was holding a gun in each hand. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated terror that instantly shifted to rage when he saw Ava.

He saw the blood on her dress (Dmitri’s). He saw the bruise forming on her shoulder.

He looked past her, into the dark hallway where Dmitri was stumbling to his feet, raising his gun.

Nikolai didn't hesitate.

He fired.

The recoil of the heavy handguns sent shockwaves through the air that Ava felt on her skin.

Dmitri jerked backward as three rounds took him in the chest. He hit the floor and didn't move.

Nikolai stepped over the body. He holstered his weapons. He walked to Ava.

Ava was shaking. The adrenaline was crashing. She slid down the wall, her legs giving out.

Nikolai caught her. He pulled her into his chest. He was shaking too. The man of ice was vibrating with heat.

He picked her up, carrying her out of the service corridor, away from the party, away from the body. He carried her to the balcony.

He kicked the glass door open. The freezing Chicago wind hit them, shocking and cleansing.

He set her down, but he didn't let go. He backed her against the glass railing. The city lights spiraled below them.

He grabbed her face with both hands. His gloves were gone. His skin was rough and hot.

* Are you hurt?* he mouthed, his eyes frantic.

Ava shook her head. She reached up and touched his face. He was alive. He had come for her.

"You came," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Nikolai let out a sound that might have been a sob. He leaned down.

He kissed her.

It wasn't a gentle, movie-star kiss. It was a collision. It was desperate and violent and terrified. It tasted of blood and snow and whiskey. Nikolai kissed her like he was trying to breathe for her. He pressed her against the glass, his body shielding her from the wind, from the world, from everything.

Ava wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her hands in his hair. She kissed him back, pouring all the fear and the anger and the relief into the contact.

In the silence of her world, the kiss was the loudest thing she had ever felt. It was a symphony of touch—his heartbeat against her chest, his rough hands on her waist, the heat of his mouth.

He pulled back, resting his forehead against hers. He was panting.

* Mine,* he signed, his hands shaking. *Mine.*

This time, Ava didn't argue.