“Wren.” His attention returns to my face, and my emotional torrent dries up. He appears fatigued. I suppose that’s my fault, too. “It’s all right.”
My heart grows heavy at that unanticipated kindness, for I expected so much worse. Maybe I am doubly wrong in assuming things of him when I do not know nearly half of what I thought I did.
That’s when his attention returns to the plate of food I set on the table.
My face warms. “I thought you might be hungry. You weren’t at lunch.”
“That’s kind of you.” He studies the food suspiciously.
“I told you it’s not poisoned. You will have to take my word for it, whatever you believe it to be worth.” If I wanted him dead, I would have finished the job when I had the chance. At some point, I will need to think about the road forward and what this means for me, but not now.
Sliding into the unoccupied chair, he picks up the fork, passes a chunk of sausage into his mouth. When his gaze catches mine, I turn away.
“I apologize as well,” he says after a time, “for my actions the other day. I… Sometimes I lose control of my temper. It was not my intention to drive you from the citadel, but it is no excuse. I am sorry for whatever pain I caused you.”
If losing his temper means shifting into a darkwalker, no wonder he always seems so emotionless. “It’s all right.”
“It’s not,” he says simply. And I appreciate it, because while I expected the Frost King’s anger, I did not expect an apology, nor his understanding.
“I understand what it means to lose someone you love,” I murmur, studying him closely. This time does not feel like the others. There is an openness, an ease to my breathing, and a strange lack of fear in divulging things so personal to me. “I lost my parents when I was only fifteen.”
He spears another chunk of meat with his fork, and his eyes lift to mine. “Because of me.”
Something in my voice must have given away that piece of information. “Yes.”
He stares at his plate. Sets down his utensil. “I’m sorry.”
Again, the apology is unforeseen. That wasn’t the reason I told him, but I can’t deny that his remorse helps heal that wound. I’m not hereto punish him. I’m just here. To comfort him, I think. And to comfort myself, too.
“I can sense your curiosity,” he states. “You might as well ask.”
And I think,Darkwalker.
“I didn’t imagine the part where your hands turned into claws, did I?” It’s a possibility, considering how delirious I’d been.
“No.” The response reeks of bitterness.
My attention falls to his hands. Gloved. No sign of the shadows. “That’s why you wear gloves?”
His mouth pinches. He nods.
“Can you take them off? I’d like to see.”
He removes the gloves and tosses them onto the table. Without them, I’m able to study my husband’s naked hands—something I’ve rarely done. The nails are pointed, but they look neatly filed. Shadows blot beneath his skin and retreat, like flashes of light. They don’t appear nearly as monstrous as they did the other night.
“Those times Orla said you were sick—”
“I wasn’t able to control the change.” He sighs, tapping his pointed nails on the table with light clicks. “Generally, I’m able to anticipate the transformation before it occurs, but some weeks are particularly difficult.”
“Why? What provokes it?”
“Frustration. Exhaustion, both of the body and of the mind.” Quieter: “Confusion.”
“What of salt? Are you weakened by it?” I can’t imagine he is, considering his diet, the blood pulsing in his veins.
“The nearer to the change I am, the more vulnerable I become.” He sighs. “Pure salt cannot kill me as it would a normal darkwalker. I am still immortal, after all. But if I am exposed to salt in darkwalker form, it will greatly weaken my power.”
I absorb this information and store it elsewhere to examine later. “Does your staff know of this? Is that why you wear your gloves, to hide evidence of the change from them?”
