The deafening ring of the hammer finally ceased, leaving a silence so heavy it felt pressurized. Ivar didn't turn around immediately. He plunged the glowing steel into a stone trough of water, and a violent hiss of steam erupted, a white ghost that momentarily swallowed his massive silhouette. Marta stayed pinned to the doorframe, her heart hammering against her ribs with a rhythm that rivaled his anvil. The heat in the room was a physical weight, pressing against her skin, drawing the moisture from her body and replacing it with a thick, metallic tension.

Slowly, deliberately, Ivar turned. He was even more imposing from the front—two meters of scarred muscle and primal authority. His chest was a broad expanse of sweat-slicked skin, matted with dark hair that glistened in the dying embers of the forge. His face was a mask of soot and shadows, his jaw covered in a thick, dark beard that made him look like a relic from a more violent century. His eyes, however, were what stopped Marta’s breath; they were a piercing, molten amber, scanning her with a clinical, predatory sharpness that stripped away her designer status in a single glance.

"You're on the wrong side of the forest, city girl," he rumbled. His voice was a deep, gravelly bass that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards under her heels. He didn't move toward her, but his presence expanded to fill every inch of the smoke-stained room. He wiped his blackened, massive hands on his leather apron, the movement revealing the terrifying strength in his forearms—corded muscles wrapped in dark, serpentine tattoos.

Marta forced her spine to straighten, her sapphire silk shifting over her shoulders. She was used to being the most powerful person in a room, but here, surrounded by iron and ash, her diamonds felt like glass and her title felt like a whisper. She reached into her expensive leather handbag, her fingers trembling slightly as she pulled out a sleek, silver-cased contract.

"I'm Marta. I sent the blueprints for the 'Obsidian' series," she said, her voice sounding thin and overly refined in the cavernous forge. She stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply on the stone floor, a defiant sound against the primal backdrop. "I need your hands, Ivar. This project is worth more than most men see in a lifetime. I need the iron to look like it was birthed by a storm, not a factory."

Ivar let out a low, mocking huff—a sound that was half-laugh, half-growl. He stepped into her personal space, the sheer heat of his body radiating through her damp blouse. He was so tall she had to tilt her head back until her neck ached just to meet his gaze. The smell of him—hot metal, oak smoke, and raw, masculine sweat—was overwhelming, a primitive cologne that made her stomach flip with a dangerous, electric thrill.

"I don't forge 'projects,' Marta," he said, drawing out her name as if testing its weight. He reached out with a massive, calloused hand and took the contract from her, his thick fingers brushing against her pale skin. The contrast was devastating—his hand was large enough to crush her throat, his skin rough and stained with the work of the gods, while hers was soft, pampered, and cold. He glanced at the elegant sketches, his lip curling in a sneer. "This is jewelry for a house that doesn't know how to breathe. It’s too clean. Too sterile. It has no soul."

"It will have a soul because you will make it," she countered, her provincial grit sparking in her eyes as she stood her ground against the giant. "I'm not asking for a craft. I'm asking for your power. Name your price, Ivar. I didn't come through a hurricane to be told 'no' by a man who plays with fire for a living."

Ivar’s eyes darkened, the amber turning to a deep, burnt orange. He leaned in closer, his chest nearly brushing her sapphire silk, his shadow completely swallowing her. "You think everything can be bought with a signature and a check," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "But out here, the only currency that matters is the heat you can handle."