Duskfire Glacier burn

he does not grant her the softness of restraint.
his weight crashes down with purpose, with that same bone-deep force that had shaped glaciers and carved valleys into the earth. faust is the mountain, and svalla has dared to climb it—welcomed its wrath. the heat of her fight is answered with the cold fire in his blood, a tide that rises to meet her, never pulling back.
when she strikes, he shifts. shoulder driving to the side, he diverts her jaws just shy of his throat. they graze fur—dangerously close. and still he does not flinch. she would have taken it, he knows. he respects her for that.
his breath is ragged now, hot against her jaw as he holds her pinned. not entirely victorious, not yet—but undeniable. his lips curl back, teeth bared in something that is not quite a snarl, not quite a smile. a growl brews low in his throat, vibrating against her chest through the press of their weight.
good, it says. not spoken aloud, but thundered in the press of muscle, in the gleam of his eyes.
her fire makes his blood sing.
and yet, he holds. his teeth touch her cheek—not to draw blood, but to mark her all the same. a victor’s touch. not cruel. reverent.
but it is not mercy he gives her. only proof that she made him feel. that in this frozen land, with its gods and ghosts and bitter quiet, she alone had set something inside him ablaze.