Wynter sat back and watched her eat. He missed nothing. Not the graceful play of her slender fingers. Not the way her pretty lips closed around the spoon or her fluttering pleasure as the sweet flavors of the borgan burst on her tongue.

The sight of her made his c**k twitch. Ah, gods, he lusted. The need so fierce it was a living thing inside him, a hunger like nothing he’d ever felt before. Not for just any woman. His hunger had a name: Khamsin Coruscate Atrialan, his wife.

Her hair spilled in unkempt ringlets down her back, threaded with those shots of white that fascinated him so. The warm brown skin of her bare shoulders and neck was creamy smooth, the delicate bones more pronounced after her days of illness, lending her a frail air.

She was fragile. He knew she didn’t think so. Many fools might agree with her, because her spirit was so fierce she seemed more formidable than she was. But he could crush her bones to dust with one glancing blow.

He remembered the cold fury that had filled him the morning after their wedding, when he’d seen the state of her back and realized the crime her father had done against her. He could still feel the icy rage that made him want to flay the skin from Verdan’s bones in retribution and freeze his bloodied corpse in a block of ice so thick he would never thaw, so he would remain an eternal warning to corrupt cowards who would turn their gods-given strength against the women and children they were born to protect.

“How many men died?”

The sound of Khamsin’s voice ripped him out of his dark thoughts. He realized he was still kneeling there beside her, his hands gripped in bloodless fists against his thighs, his muscles bunched tight with suppressed fury. A distinct chill was emanating from him. “What did you say?” he asked.

“When I summoned the storm that caused that”—she jerked her chin up, towards the tattered canvas roof overhead—“how many of your men did I kill?”

He glanced up, then back at her. Perhaps if he had never swallowed the Ice Heart, he would not have recognized the look in her eyes. But he had, and he’d lost count of the times he’d come back from battle with that same bitter dread in his eyes, wondering how many friends his power had slain, how many innocent lives were extinguished because of him.

“None, Khamsin. All live.”

Her eyes widened. “None? But how is that possible? I know what my storms can do, and judging by the state of this tent, the storm I summoned was a bad one.”

“It was a bad one,” he agreed, “but I stopped it.”

“You—” Her voice broke off, then she whispered in astonishment, “How?”

“I starved it into submission.” Her brow furrowed, her gray eyes filled with disbelief and suspicion. “I use the Ice Heart to steal its heat and moisture,” he explained, “so it had nothing to feed on. It died away before it could harm anyone.”

“You . . .” She closed her mouth. He saw her absorb what was obviously an astonishing possibility, saw wary disbelief battle the fragile bloom of hope in her eyes. “No one’s dead? No one’s even harmed? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“I—” She dropped her head, lashes shuttering down to veil her gaze. Her jaw worked. When she finally spoke, her voice was a low, strained whisper. “Thank you.” She looked up suddenly, her eyes fierce. “Thank you,” she said again. This time her voice was firm and fervent. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

He smiled sadly because he’d only just realized what similar creatures they truly were. “Yes, min ros, I think I do.” Like him, she despised the destruction she wreaked. The difference was, he’d chosen to wield his deadly magic. She’d possessed hers since birth.

He rose to his feet. He wanted to comfort her but knew enough about wild things not to be so foolish. “No doubt you’d like a bath.” He didn’t give her a chance to refuse. He simply stepped outside and motioned to his men. She’d been asleep for one full day, out of her mind with fever for three days before that. He’d never met a noblewoman yet who could stand to go so long without the feel of warm water and soap against her skin.

Khamsin, still sitting on the pallet of furs and clutching several of the pelts to her chest, scuttled back when four soldiers entered carrying in a large, beaten-copper tub. They set it near the fire burning in the iron stove and left. Another four men entered, carrying pails of steaming water. They formed a line leading out through the tent flap. Outside a longer line wound all the way to the large cookfires burning in the center of the camp. Pail after pail of water passed down the line until the tub was well filled. The last of them handed Wynter a stack of linens and a small wooden pail filled with soap, a bottle of fragrant oil, and a washcloth.

Wynter found himself fighting back flares of aggression as he waited for them to finish. The wolf in him was getting snarly about having so many men near his female.

When he was finally alone once more with his wife, the tension of Wynter’s protective, territorial instincts faded, but a new tension, sultry and simmering, rose to take its place. He reached for the bottle of oil, unstoppered it, and poured a thin stream into the bath. The scent of mountain jasmine rose up on wisps of curling steam.

“Come, wife.” He stretched out a hand towards her. “To your bath.”

She didn’t move. She continued to clutch the pelt to her chest as if she truly thought he would let her leave this tent before he reacquainted himself with every inch of her skin, every intimate detail of her body, and every breathless nuance of her pleasure. He had an heir to sire, both to ensure the continuation of his line and to free him from the Ice Heart, but even without that, from the moment he’d realized his wife was the intriguing little firebrand he’d not been able to erase from his mind, he’d known he would spend every day of the next year learning her pleasure and teaching her his.