Chapter 3 Drowning in the Glacier

BANG.

The heavy oak door of the midnight-black carriage slammed shut, a final, percussive knell that orphaned Lillian from the rainy night and her last shred of hope. In the suffocating darkness, the interior felt less like a transport and more like a predator's den. It was colonized by Linus Kerr's scent-a sharp, frigid aroma of aged cedarwood mingled with the acrid, metallic tang of high-octane fuel. It was an overbearing, masculine fragrance that claimed every inch of oxygen, forcing her to breathe him in.

Lillian was thrown onto the velvet seat as the carriage lurched. The Cold-Iron chain around her neck let out a crisp, musical clink, feeling like a serpent coiled between her collarbones, its fangs sinking into her skin.

"Don't move."

In the gloom, the man sat beside her. Too close.

His thigh pressed hard against hers, a pillar of unyielding muscle. Through their rain-soaked clothes, Lillian could feel that terrifyingly low, glacial body temperature. It was a cold that shouldn't belong to a living thing, yet it made her soul ache with a desperate, shameful longing.

Lillian tried to shrink into the corner, but the aftershocks of the Magic Overload surged back like a tsunami. Although the Cold-Iron collar was venting a steady stream of frost to suppress her fire, it was a mere bucket of water against a forest fire. Her internal organs felt as though they were being cauterized; her blood was a roaring furnace. Her vision shattered into a chaotic smear of exploding white light.

"Ngh..."

With a violent jolt over the cobblestones, Lillian's leaden body gave way. She pitched sideways, but she didn't hit the carriage wall.

A powerful arm snared her waist, arresting her fall with brutal efficiency. Linus hauled her back-not to the seat, but flush against his chest.

"I told you not to move," his voice vibrated through her, laced with irritation, yet underlying it was the icy arrogance of a man who owned everything he touched.

Lillian wanted to struggle. Her reason screamed that this was the monster who had collared her-the Church's cold-blooded executioner. She should be clawing at his throat. But her body was a traitor. The moment her cheek pressed against the biting chill of his trench coat, she let out a long, shuddering sigh of pure, primal bliss.

Heaven. It was the feeling of a parched fish finally returning to a freezing, deep-blue ocean.

She didn't push him away. Instead, she did the unthinkable: her fingers, trembling and weak, clutched his lapels. She buried her scorching forehead against the crook of his neck, greedily drinking in every drop of frost he offered.

"You bastard..." she choked out, the words sounding more like a breathless endearment than a curse. "Let go of me..."

"Your mouth says 'let go,' Miss Wylde." Linus's large hand cupped the back of her head, his icy pads pressing against her burning scalp, sending waves of numbing, addictive relief through her. "But your body is begging me to save it."

He let out a low, dark chuckle. The sound resonated in his chest, vibrating against Lillian's ear like the hum of a dangerous engine.

"Admit it. You're burning in hell, and I am your only block of ice."

Lillian bit her lip until she tasted the metallic tang of blood. She couldn't refute him. In the swaying, pitch-black silence, she found herself nuzzling deeper into the hollow of his neck, seeking the lethal chill of his marrow. Linus didn't push her away. He kept his hand on her head, his fingers tracing the line of her skull, petting her like a precious, dying thing.

Finally, the carriage groaned to a halt.

"We're here."

Linus released her. Without his support, Lillian swayed, the loss of his cold making the fever flare up with vengeful intensity. The door opened, and Lillian expected to see the grim mouth of a dungeon. Instead, she saw a monolithic black spire reaching toward the storm-tossed clouds.

The Tower of Silence.

"This isn't a prison..." she whispered, her voice a haunted rasp.

Linus stepped into the rain and gave a sharp, sudden tug on the Cold-Iron chain. The jerk forced Lillian to stumble down the steps, falling straight into his waitng arms. He caught her with effortless strength, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"Prisons are for the dead, Lillian. You are far too useful."

He swept her up, bridging the distance to the massive black doors engraved with leering deities.

"This is my private residence. And from today until I have unearthed every secret in that mind of yours..." The doors slammed shut, severing the sound of the rain. "You belong to the Tower."