Duskfire Glacier [m] Oo

It was his voice.
A part of her knew— had always known, since the initial encounter on the cliffside, that Faust would claim this of her. It was why she had moved herself across the taiga, when logic and sense were still hers to command. Now his voice cuts as ice and she shudders, the licking abates. Over her shoulder she sees the edge of gold-tipped guard hairs and feels her tail flick in ravening answer.
Would he be gentle? Would he be kind?
Her body cries out to him in anticipation. Yet it is not the evergreen she finds, but the licking of instant fire as the scent of slaughter descends over her.
“Skorpa,” she tongues between pants. Her season had come upon her during the freeze and wakened desire— but before that Ayovi had been curious of the one northman she trusted.
Now they stand again in this triangle, and in the deep craving haze the huntress feels her tail flag. Shame and guilt drive up within her, she fears another fight while her honor crumbles to dust.
The tangling scents of more men grip her in fear— one to tease, one to play voyeur. Ayovi pushes herself protectively against the ice, silently cursing the way her nerves sting in response.