The bond pulses between us as the night wears on, carrying fragments of her emotional state. Despair giving way to determination. The Montgomery pride asserting itself. She's planning something—probably another escape attempt or some elaborate scheme to bargain her way out of this.
Let her plan. Let her hope. The eventual realization that all her clever schemes are worthless will be educational.
Around midnight, exhaustion finally claims her. I feel the moment her consciousness slips away, her mental guards dropping enough for me to sense her dreams. They're chaotic—fragments of memory mixed with fear and longing she doesn't understand. Images of ice and winter that should terrify her but instead feel like coming home.
Her omega nature recognizing its alpha, even in sleep.
Dawn comes too soon and not soon enough. I rise early, as I have for six centuries, and dress with deliberate care. Not in formal robes—I want to appear approachable rather than intimidating. A simple shirt and trousers that won't frighten her more than necessary.
The palace whispers that she's awake but hasn't moved from her corner. Still wrapped in her traveling cloak, still stubborn, still proud. Perfect.
I make my way down to her chambers, ice forming in my footsteps out of sheer anticipation. This is the critical moment—when she has to choose between pride and comfort, between stubbornness and survival.
She's curled in the corner when I enter, wrapped in what's left of her traveling cloak like a particularly elegant refugee. Auburn hair tangled from sleep and stress. Dark circles under her eyes that speak of a night spent shivering on stone floors. She looks cold, exhausted, and absolutely furious.
Exactly how I want her.
But underneath the fury, I can sense something else now. The first hairline cracks in her armor. The beginning of understanding that this isn't a game she can win through manipulation or tantrum.
I walk to the destroyed bed and run my hand along the ice-covered frame, letting my magic flow through the crystalline preservation. The palace has catalogued every crack, every splinter, every piece of her rage frozen in perfect detail.
"I won't replace anything," I tell her calmly, letting winter seep into my voice. "The palace remembers destruction. This bed stays exactly as you left it."
She glares but doesn't speak. Smart girl. She's learning that arguments are pointless when you have no leverage.
"Sleep well?" I ask, knowing she didn't. The bond tells me she spent most of the night shivering and cursing my name in equal measure.
"Fuck you."
Such language. Edgar clearly failed to teach his daughter proper etiquette. Though I have to admit, the fire in her voice makes something predatory stir in my chest.
"That's not an answer." I crouch to her level, bringing myself closer to her eye level but maintaining the position of power. "Did. You. Sleep. Well?"
She looks away, unable to meet my gaze. The first sign of actual submission I've seen from her. "Where are the extra blankets?"
Progress. An actual question instead of a demand or insult.
"In the wardrobe." I gesture to the tall cabinet that dominates one wall. "Along with pillows, linens, everything else you might need to make yourself comfortable. But you were too busy having a tantrum to look, weren't you?"
Her jaw clenches as understanding hits. Everything she needed was right there. Available if she'd bothered to explore instead of destroying things in a fit of pique.
I watch pride war with exhaustion across her features. She's cold enough that her lips have a bluish tinge, tired enough that her hands shake slightly. But admitting need means admitting weakness, and Elise Montgomery has never been weak.
Exhaustion wins.
"I'm cold," she admits quietly, the words emerging like they're being pulled from her by force.
There it is. The first crack in her defenses. The beginning of understanding that survival requires cooperation.
"Then light a fire." I stand, looking down at her huddled form. "Wood's already stacked. Flint and striker are on themantle. Stop acting like a spoiled brat and actually do something useful for once."
"I don't know how." The admission comes out barely above a whisper.
"Then learn." I move toward the door, then pause. "Or freeze. Your choice, princess."
I leave her there—cold, hungry, surrounded by the mess she made and the consequences of her actions. It's a simple lesson: she controls her own comfort here. I won't coddle her. Won't fix what she breaks. Won't clean up her messes.
But I also won't let her die. The palace will ensure her survival even if she's too proud to ensure her comfort.
