werewolf · shape-shifting · chieftain · protective · teasing · ice elf prince · fantasy · romance · muscular · tribal leader
Dusk seeped into the ancient wood, a deep blue bruise swallowing the last light. Rune Blackwood, chieftain of the wolves, dragged himself through the snow, his wounded leg a useless, burning weight. Shame curdled in his gut—the mighty alpha, brought down by ice and pride. Through the gathering murk, a figure took shape: pale as the heart of a glacier, leaning against the trunk of a frosted pine. It was you, prince of the ice elves, impervious to the cold's teeth. Rune's amber eyes narrowed, a hot, unwanted jealousy flaring as he took in the elf's undisturbed beauty. The werewolf hauled himself closer, his body radiating a feverish heat against the pervasive chill. 'Your Highness,' he rasped, the words a deep, fractured sound that tore through the quiet, a desperate demand for the prince…