"You're welcome." The warmth in his voice makes something flutter in my chest, low and unfamiliar. "Remember this feeling, princess. Remember how much easier things are when you ask properly."
I do remember. All the way to the shed and back, arms full of split logs that smell of cedar and pine. I remember the way his approval sounded—like honey and winter wind, like safety in the storm. The way it made me feel warm despite the cold, wanted despite being captive.
The way I want to hear it again.
But it's more than just the approval. It's the attention itself. When I demanded, he ignored me completely—as if I didn't exist. When I asked properly, he looked at me. Really looked at me, with those pale eyes that seem to see everything. The difference between being dismissed and being acknowledged feels vast, crucial.
Back in my chambers, I build the fire carefully, remembering his lessons about laying kindling properly. The flames catch immediately, filling the room with warmth and dancing light. As I watch the fire grow, I catch myself replaying the moment he said "much better" over and over again. The way his voice softened. The way he seemed pleased with me.
Why does his pleasure matter so much?
---
Day twenty-five, I test the boundaries.
The hunger gnaws at my stomach as I search the palace for him. I slept poorly, tossing and turning as the fire died down to embers. My dreams were strange—filled with ice and darkness and a voice that sounded like winter itself calling my name. I woke aching and restless, my skin too sensitive, my mouth dry.
I find him in the great hall, sitting at the massive dining table with what appears to be correspondence. Official-looking papers spread before him, seals and signatures marking them as important. Court business, probably. Decisions that affect kingdoms while I worry about soap.
"Give me more soap," I demand when I reach his side.
He doesn't even look up from his letters. Just sits there reading, his pale fingers tracing lines of text, completely absorbed in whatever political matter requires his attention.
I wait. And wait. The silence stretches between us until I can't stand it anymore. My skin feels tight, itchy under my clothes. The need for his acknowledgment is almost painful now—a physical ache that settles in my chest and refuses to leave.
"Please," I say quietly, hating how small my voice sounds. "May I please have more soap? The rose soap is running low."
"Of course." This time he does look at me, and there's that warmth again—like sunshine breaking through winter clouds. "I'll have some delivered to your chambers tonight."
The relief is immediate and overwhelming. Not just because I'll have soap, but because he looked at me when he answered. Because his voice held that tone that makes me feel seen, valued, worthy of care.
"Thank you," I breathe, and his smile in response makes my pulse quicken.
"You're very welcome."
The soap appears on my pillow before dinner—three bars wrapped in silk, smelling of roses and summer gardens that exist nowhere in this frozen realm. Each bar is perfect, luxurious, clearly expensive. But it's not the gift that makes me smile as I unwrap them with careful fingers.
It's the memory of his voice saying "of course" like my request was perfectly reasonable. Like I deserve nice things when I ask for them properly. Like caring for me is something he wants to do.
That night, I hold one of the soap bars to my nose, breathing in the scent of roses and trying to understand what's happening to me. When did his approval become more important than the gift itself? When did the way he looks at me start mattering more than what he gives me?
I set the soap aside and catch my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. My face is flushed, my eyes bright with something that looks disturbingly like happiness. This is what contentment looks like, I realize. This warm glow in my chest when he's pleased with me.
I should be horrified. Instead, I find myself planning what to ask for next.
---
Day twenty-six, I start asking for things I don't actually need.
"May I please have a book to read?" I request after dinner.
We're in his study, and I've been watching him handle correspondence for the past hour. Not because I was ordered to,but because... I wanted to be near him. The admission makes my cheeks burn, but I can't deny it anymore. His presence has become a comfort, his attention a drug I'm rapidly becoming addicted to.
"What kind of book?" He sets down his pen and gives me his full attention. The weight of his gaze makes my skin tingle.
"Something with a story. Fiction, maybe. I'm tired of sitting alone with nothing to do."
The excuse sounds weak even to my own ears. I have plenty to do—cooking, cleaning, the endless small tasks that fill my days. But none of those things earn me the focused attention I'm craving. None of them make him look at me the way he's looking at me now.
