Cracks in the Ice

Karios and Sorcha flew apart like guilty teenagers caught by their parents.

She scrambled to sit properly on the bed, tugging her nightgown down as heat raced up her cheeks. Karios ran a hand through his hair, standing up straight, his expression already settling back into cool indifference—if you didn't look closely enough to see the tightness in his jaw, the way his fists clenched once at his sides before he forced them open.

"Come in," Karios called, his voice startlingly steady.

The door creaked open, and the hospital director stepped in, a tablet in his hands, oblivious to the heavy, charged air in the room.

"Mr. Martens," he said briskly, offering a small bow. "The results of Miss Sorcha's scans are here. No internal injuries, just mild shock and dehydration."

Sorcha sat frozen, feeling Karios's presence beside her like a tangible force, even though he wasn't touching her anymore.

"She can be discharged tomorrow morning," the director continued. "I'll have the paperwork ready first thing."

Karios nodded once, the picture of professional detachment. "Thank you."

The director bowed again and excused himself, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence stretched.

Sorcha stared at her hands, her fingers tangled in the sheets. She didn't dare look at Karios. Not after what almost happened. Not after the way his mouth had moved on hers like he was starving. The way his hands had roamed—slow, rough, desperate.

The way she had wanted it.

Badly.

Karios spoke first. "Rest. You'll be home tomorrow."

His voice was clipped, distant. And then he turned and left without another word, shutting the door behind him.

Sorcha sat there, heart pounding against her ribs.

She knew it then—knew it as surely as she knew her own name:

She had cracked his ice.

---

The next day passed in a tense blur.

Karios picked her up from the hospital personally, refusing to let anyone else do it. He didn't touch her—not even the lightest brush of his hand—but he hovered. Always a few steps behind her. Always watching.

Back at his house, the atmosphere was... different.

Tighter.

The air felt heavier. Every glance, every casual brush in the hallway, sparked a tension so thick Sorcha could barely breathe.

And she was determined to push him.

She started small.

That first evening, she wore a simple tank top and shorts—innocent enough. But the fabric clung to her curves, and when she bent over to pick up a dropped spoon at dinner, she made sure her movements were slow, deliberate.

Karios's fork paused halfway to his mouth.

Progress.

The next night, she stepped it up.

A silk nightgown, barely reaching mid-thigh, with thin, delicate straps that kept slipping off her shoulder. She "accidentally" dropped her phone near his feet while he was reading in the living room and bent down to retrieve it, giving him a full view.

Karios muttered something under his breath and slammed the book shut.

Sorcha smiled to herself.

Each day after that, she pushed a little harder.

Brushing against him when they passed in the hallway. Stretching languidly across the couch while he worked on his laptop, sighing softly in a way that had nothing to do with boredom.

Biting strawberries between her lips, letting the juice drip slightly down her chin before catching it with her tongue—and catching his eyes darkening just a fraction.

He tried to ignore her.

Tried so hard.

He started avoiding her gaze, grunting in response when she spoke, locking himself away in his study for hours at a time.

But Sorcha wasn't blind.

She saw the way his fists clenched when she walked past.

Saw the way his throat bobbed when she giggled at nothing, curling her legs under her on the couch.

She saw the crack forming in the armor he wore so tightly.

And she knew it was only a matter of time.

---

The night it happened, there was a storm raging outside.

Rain lashed against the windows, and distant thunder rolled through the house, rattling the walls.

Sorcha slipped down the hallway, heart pounding with reckless determination.

She wore the most sinful thing she owned—a lace nightie, nearly transparent, soft and clinging to every curve. Her hair was damp from the shower, loose around her shoulders, and she smelled faintly of vanilla.

She didn't bother knocking.

She pushed open Karios's bedroom door and stepped inside.

He was standing by the window, phone pressed to his ear, muttering instructions to someone on the other end. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows, belt undone, as if he'd been in the middle of undressing.

He froze when he saw her.

The phone slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud.

"Sorcha," he said, his voice low and warning.

She said nothing.

Just crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, the lace shifting against her skin.

"I'm scared," she whispered, playing her role perfectly. "The storm... I couldn't sleep."

Karios didn't move.

Didn't speak.

His body was so tense he looked carved from stone.

She reached him, standing so close she could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"Karios," she whispered, tipping her head up, her lips brushing his jaw. "Please."

She felt him shudder.

Felt the effort it took for him to stay still.

For a heartbeat, two, three—nothing happened.

And then, the dam broke.

With a guttural sound ripped from deep inside him, Karios grabbed her.

Not gently.

Not carefully.

With a ferocity that made her gasp.

He spun them around, slamming her back against the wall, caging her in with his body. His hands fisted in her hair, tilting her head back, his mouth crashing down onto hers with a force that stole her breath.

The kiss wasn't sweet.

It wasn't careful.

It was raw. Desperate. Hungry.

A claiming.

Sorcha moaned against him, her fingers clawing at his shirt, trying to pull him closer, closer—

Karios growled, low and primal, and lifted her off the ground effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her toward the bed without ever breaking the kiss.

They crashed down onto the mattress, tangled together, and Karios pinned her wrists above her head, his breathing ragged.

His forehead rested against hers, his voice rough and wrecked:

"You have no idea what you've done to me, little girl."

And then—darkness flooded his eyes, swallowing the last of his control.