My breath didn't just stop; it dissolved into pure ice.
The iron clamp of Gunnar’s hand around my wrist was so brutal I could feel the violent, rhythmic pounding of his own pulse bleeding into my trapped fingers. Above me, he didn't just look like a thundercloud, he felt like an executioner holding an axe over my neck. His blood-red eyes burned through the shadows of the alcove, boring into me with a terrifying, heavy weight that demanded a confession.
I couldn't panic. Panic meant death. With a slow, deliberate shift of my weight, I let the heavy, torn layers of my midnight-blue gown spill forward over the floorboards. The thick fabric pooled like dark water, completely swallowing the black ribbon and the sharp edge of Arlo's scroll just a heartbeat before Gunnar’s gaze dropped.
"What
