A chill in the air that has nothing to do with the palace's perpetual winter. That cold presence that makes my skin prickle and my pulse quicken in ways I don't want to examine too closely. The very air seems to thicken around me, charged with his magic in ways that make my body respond before my mind can catch up.
He appears in the doorway like winter personified—silver hair catching the light, those frozen-lake eyes taking in the disaster I've made with what might be amusement. His lips curve in something that's definitely not sympathy.
"Hungry?" he asks mildly, as if the answer isn't written in every line of my too-thin body.
"Go to hell."
"I've been. It's warmer than this kitchen right now." He steps inside, and the temperature drops another few degrees. Ice crystals form in the air around him, dancing like tiny stars. "You could ask for help."
"I don't need help." The lie tastes as bitter as the burnt eggs.
"No?" He gestures at the blackened pan, the ruined food, the smoke still curling from my latest attempt. His voice carries that infuriating note of patient amusement. "This suggests otherwise."
My pride wars with my hunger. The hollowness in my stomach, the weakness in my limbs, the way I can barely think past the need for real food. Hunger wins, barely.
"Fine," I spit. "Help me."
He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a specimen in a glass case. "That's not how you ask for things, princess."
The endearment drips with condescension, and my hands clench into fists. But my stomach cramping with emptiness makes the words come anyway, dragged out of me by necessity.
"Please." It tastes like ash in my mouth. "Please help me."
"Better." He moves to the stove with fluid grace, examining my wreckage. When he's this close, I can smell that intoxicating scent of pine and winter and something darker underneath that makes my mouth water for reasons that have nothing to do with food. "What were you trying to make?"
"Eggs. They just... burned."
"Because you had the heat too high." He clears away my mess with efficient movements, his hands steady and sure where mine shook with desperation. "Watch."
He cracks fresh eggs into a clean pan, and I find myself moving closer without permission. The demonstration should be simple, educational, nothing more. But I'm acutely aware of everything about him—the way his long fingers handle the eggs with casual competence, the way his pale skin seems to gleam with its own internal light, the supernatural cold that radiates from his body in waves I can actually feel.
"The trick is patience," he says, adjusting the flame to something much lower than I'd used. "Low heat. Constant attention."
His voice is hypnotic. Low and controlled, like everything about him. I watch his hands as he works—elegant fingers that should belong to a pianist rather than an ancient Fae lord. There's something mesmerizing about the way he moves, sure and graceful and completely in control.
"Why aren't you helping me yourself?" I ask, though part of me dreads the answer.
"Because you haven't earned it." The eggs sizzle softly in the pan, nothing like the violent crackling of my attempts. "Help is a privilege, not a right. Something you get when you ask properly and show you deserve it."
My cheeks burn with humiliation and something else—a warmth that spreads through my chest at his words. There's something about his calm certainty, his absolute control, that makes a treacherous part of me want to please him. Want to prove I can be worthy of his attention.
I hate that part of myself.
"I asked properly," I protest.
"You asked once. After destroying half my kitchen and nearly burning the palace down." He glances at me, those frozeneyes unreadable but somehow seeing too much. "Try again tomorrow. Maybe next time you'll remember to be polite before you make a mess."
He slides the perfectly cooked eggs onto a plate. Golden yolks that gleam like sunrise, whites set just right, nothing like the charcoal disasters I've been creating. The smell makes my stomach clench so hard I nearly double over.
He takes a bite, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. My mouth waters helplessly, my body leaning toward him without conscious thought. The simple act of eating becomes torture when I'm this desperate.
"Please," I whisper. "I'm so hungry."
"I know." Another bite, deliberate and slow. "Hunger is an excellent teacher."
He finishes the eggs while I stand there, shaking with need and rage and something that feels dangerously close to tears. The casual cruelty of it—making perfect food while I starve—should make me hate him more. Instead, it makes me aware of how completely he controls my survival.
When he's done, he sets the plate aside and moves toward the door, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of properly cooked food and my own failure.
