From Flames To Frost

Snowflakes drifted gently outside, their soft descent whispering against the quiet of the evening. A gentle light spilled through the windows inside the cozy cabin, perched high in the mountains. The wood stove crackled softly, filling the space with a comforting heat, while the kettle hummed on the stove, adding to the serene atmosphere.

In the heart of this peaceful retreat was a snug double bed, barely big enough for two. The lack of space mattered not to the honeymooning couple, entangled in a sacred connection.

The man lay on top, his strong shoulders and back glistening with pearls of sweat. Beneath him, the woman's skin glowed with a gentle red hue, marked by the soft love bites he had left behind.

"Mr. Jared Alexander Petrovski," the wife teased, her eyes twinkling playfully as she looked at her skin. She pressed her palm to his chest in a playful attempt to stop him. "No wonder they call you the 'Siberian Beast'…"

Jared chuckled, his brown eyes sparkling with amusement and affection. The sound of his laughter was a rich, melodious rumble that filled the room with warmth. The woman, captivated by the genuine joy in his gaze, wondered where the feared "beast" might be hiding.

He always looked angelic to her.

"Beast, huh, Mrs. Jerica Evans?" Jared murmured, his voice a low, seductive whisper as he nibbled on her neck. Jerica wrapped her legs around his waist, giving him permission to continue leaving his marks—symbols of their deep, shared passion.

"So, dear wife," he said, his chin resting in her cleavage, "What's your nickname for me?"

Jerica smiled, cupping his face gently. Her ring glittered in the light but she found his eyes more attractive. "Siberian Tigers are also called Amur tigers…" she began. "Amur… Amur…" Her voice trailed off as she searched for the right words.

"Amur?" he raised his brow with a smirk. "Should I turn to a tiger?" He pretended to bite her supple skin.

She chuckled, but her playfulness slowly turned to seriousness.

"Mea amor…" she wet her lips. Her heart was overflowing with the love he had given her, and in her eyes, he was everything she needed.

For a moment, Jared's actions paused, and his eyes deepened. She glimpsed the fierce side that others spoke of—the decisive sharpness. Her abdomen clenched with flames of desire. His kisses that followed revealed that he had understood what he meant to her. She willingly surrendered to him, eager to be loved and cherished by her lovely beast.

She was his and he was hers.

As the day turned to evening, the cabin was bathed in a warm, golden light. The snow had stopped falling, revealing a breathtaking view through the window. The world outside sparkled with quiet beauty.

"Who am I to you, Mea amor?" Jerica asked, her fingers gently combing through his thick hair as he rested between her breasts.

Jared looked up at her, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of the setting sun. "You?" he asked softly, his voice deep and warm, like a comforting embrace. "To me?"

Jerica's heart fluttered with affection. "Hmm…"

"You are…" Jared said, climbing over her and kissing her tenderly. "You are my wife."

Jerica laughed lightly, playfully tapping his strong chest. "That's not a nickname!"

"It's not?" Jared's voice was teasing as he began to tickle her.

"No, it's not…" Jerica said between her laughter, her eyes shining with joy.

Jared continued his playful assault until her laughter subsided, leaving her breathless and content. She lay back against the bed, her bare chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

With a gentle, loving touch, he cupped her cheeks, his gaze unwavering and filled with adoration. His voice, deep and resonant, carried a tenderness that only she knew and felt.

"You are the rest of my life," he said softly, his promise as warm and enduring as the cabin's glow.

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42 months later

Jerica Evans stirred awake, the sharp press of her wedding band against her cheek, a cruel reminder of the coldness surrounding her even in summer. Another morning without the warmth of her husband beside her.

The curtains, heavy like her heart, draped the room in a dull, twilight gloom, as if the sun itself had forgotten to rise for her. She sighed deeply, her eyes instinctively drawn to the cold, side of the bed—a chasm that seemed to widen with every lonely night.

The emptiness felt all-consuming, a void that threatened to swallow her whole.

Eight months since they last made love. Six since they kissed. Weeks since they'd spoken more than a few obligatory words. The passage of time had become an enemy, each day another notch in the growing distance between them, gnawing relentlessly at her heart.

And the worst part? She couldn't even pinpoint why.

The clock blinked 7:30 AM in the dim room. Jerica forced herself to sit up, the weight of her despair making the simple act feel monumental.

His side of the bed was a mess—rumpled sheets, a pillow askew, all abandoned without a thought. She slid her feet into her slippers, the chill of the morning seeping through to her bones, and began mechanically making the bed. The motion was hollow, a desperate attempt to impose order on the chaos that was her life.

She gathered his laundry, each article a silent testament to his growing indifference. Once, he would have gone out of his way to impress her, to make her laugh with silly antics like tossing paper balls into the trash. But now, getting his clothes into the laundry basket seemed too much to ask.

The bathroom was no better—a small pool of water spreading across the floor, the shower curtain still wet, the rug dragged haphazardly to the door. She hated wet floors, hated the careless way he left things. Yet, he didn't listen, didn't notice the small things that grated on her, didn't cared.

Her frustration simmered, barely contained, as she repositioned the rug with a sharp motion, trying to reign in the storm of emotions brewing inside her.

After freshening up, she slipped into a simple blouse and pants, her movements automatic, her long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, her hazel eyes dull, lifeless. Even the makeup she applied felt pointless, a facade for no one but herself. Who was there left to impress?

Stepping out of the bedroom, a flicker of hope kindled briefly in her heart—perhaps, by some miracle, the living room would be clean. But of course, it wasn't.

The popcorn bowl sat abandoned on the coffee table, throw pillows on the floor, and a lone beer can balanced precariously on the armrest of the couch. His nightly rituals of solitude were evident, but cleaning up after himself? That, apparently, was beyond him.

The dust on the rug, the mess left behind—it was as if she didn't exist, as if she were invisible in her own home. Did she have to do everything?

She picked up the trash, her hands moving faster than her thoughts as she headed to the kitchen, her heart heavy with resignation. But her steps faltered as she heard noise from within.

He hadn't left yet.

She paused in the hallway, her breath catching in her throat. The turmoil in her mind was like a storm, each thought clashing violently against the next.