Ice.
Frost.
He and the cold one…
I think they are the same in their difference.
But where the cold one’s eyes are either white or green or somewhere in-between, this new guy has stones for eyes, like they’ve been popped into his skull.
Those sun-bleached pebbles slide our way.
He looks at the cold one for just a moment before he moves straight for us. His advance draws him away from the other stray swallowed up by the cheers, the wine bottles passing from hand to hand, the one-armed embraces—
Like these warriors are people too, with friendships and lives and connections outside of our fucking genocide.
I see it in the almost relieved grin from the stone fae, I hear it in the way he speaks his name, “Samick.”
It’s reciprocated.
“Arwyn,” the cold one murmurs before they collide in an embrace.
For a long moment, I stay tucked behind him, waiting out the embrace. It’s an odd thing to see.
Males in this world, in the Before, rarely hugged. If they did, it lasted a second before it quickly started to dissolve with boring deflection jokes that would have me rolling my eyes.
But among these warriors, it seems to be an open sort of custom, or an act that comes without shame.
It surprises me, more than it should.
Maybe I just expected more of the toxic part of maleness when it comes to these brutal dark fae warriors, and a lot less hugging.
The cold one’s voice is a murmur, a language that feels like needles spiking up from tar, like barbed wire whipping at me.
I look up at him, at the back of his head, blood crisping some strands at his nape, and—
The other warrior latches his gaze onto me.
My shoulders bolt, a deer in the headlights.
Still, he stares.
His skin has a matte sheen, like granite polished in a light drizzle. His stone eyes bore into me, then drop to the rope fastened to my wrist.
This Arwyn speaks, but I don’t know what he says. I just know it’s about me, and it draws them apart from each other.
The cold one turns a lightly furrowed look on me.
I shrink even further into myself.
The cold one states, firm, in English. “Bargain.” Then, tugging the rope once, he adds, “Dare.”
Arwyn lifts his chin, face tight, then—after a heartbeat—nods.
His stone eyes are firm on me.
A frown is tugging on my brow.
Why is this guy so fucking interested in me?
