Duskfire Glacier burn

the breath is ripped from him in that collision—raw, forceful, primal. faust grunts, the sharp pain of her claws slicing shallow beneath his jaw only deepening the fire in his blood. it is war, but there is no hatred in it. no malice. only understanding.
her paws slam against his throat, and instinct narrows his gaze. she presses—good. he wants her to. he wants her to fight him like the storm she is, to demand his power with her own.
he growls low and vicious, a sound from the gut, not the throat, where she presses her fury. her words linger between them, stinging like the blood now matting her pale fur. kominn tími til. he remembers.
he does not speak. he only answers with action.
her kick lands; his muscles seize as her claws rake the sensitive flesh of his belly. teeth flash, and he twists just enough to avoid her bite—her fangs clip his cheek, tearing a shallow line that burns with cold wind and blood.
he does not retreat.
instead, he drives his shoulder into her chest to unbalance her, forcing their weight to shift—pivoting to throw her off with brutal grace. one forelimb curls behind hers in an old northern tactic meant to send her sprawling.
not to end it. never to end it.
to begin again.