He takes another sucking drag, gathering the last of the juice before swallowing. A flush ignites beneath my skin, scorching me from head to foot. I expect Boreas to pull away, but he doesn’t. A low sound emanates from deep within his chest, the rough vibrations traveling up my arm. My core clenches in response to that sound, for it is something an animal might make, twined in madness and desire.
The tip of his tongue flirts across my fingertips before sliding through the space between my pointer and middle finger. My breasts grow heavy as his tongue licks across my skin, leaving no area unmarked.He holds my gaze with bold daring, outright challenge, even. I’m imagining his tongue on other parts of my body. Across my breasts. Between my legs.
When Boreas at last pulls away, my gaze drops to his mouth, those lips gleaming with dampness. I realize we’ve somehow leaned toward one another, for I can see blue striations, like fractures of light, in his irises.
As though he did not just rock the ground beneath my feet, he removes the covering from a slightly larger plate. A small cup of what appears to be broth sits on display, steam wafting upward.
“This is bone broth from the spotted elimna, which is similar to the grouse. It is a delicacy to my people.” His voice is smooth, cultured, dignified. I’m almost offended. Was he affected by that demonstration at all?
It takes effort, but eventually, my pulse slows. If the king insists on maintaining composure, then I will, too. “You take a sip, then I take a sip?” I suggest.
“I take a sip,” he says calmly, “and then I pass that sip on to you.” At my blank stare, he elaborates, “Into your mouth.”
“My mouth?”
“This is how it is done in the City of Gods.”
Is it though? He’s telling me all the gods partake in this sexually-charged custom, even close family members? “In case you haven’t noticed,” I croak, “we’re not in the city anymore. We’re in the Deadlands.” His mouth on mine… I’ve thought of it. I’m not a corpse. I’ve thought of that kiss in the greenhouse an embarrassing amount.
“Ah.” His short claws click against the glass. “So it is fear.”
The king has learned exactly where to prod all my weak, soft spots. If it’s a challenge he wants, it’s a challenge I will rise to meet. “Do it.”
I’m mad, I’m mad, I’m completely mad—
Taking a small sip of the broth, he leans forward, cupping my head with both hands.
My heart staggers, and I lick my lips in anticipation of the kiss. My hands curve around his wrists. To steady myself. And to keep him close.
A horn blares, cutting the quiet.
Boreas goes still.
The cry peaks, wavers, then dies. We remain locked in position as I whisper, “What was that?”
He leans back to put distance between us. I can’t read the expression on his face. “My men call for aid.” His hands drop. “I must go.”
The words howl through my mind, full of ache. There is no thought, only action, the desire to be near him longer than the day we have been given. I shove to my feet. “I’m coming with you.”
32
BOREAS ANDIMEET INthe stables, where the air smells of hay and leather. Phaethon stamps inside his stall as if sensing the gathering beyond the walls, bodies laden with weapons, the clink of armor. Hundreds of battle-hardened men.
Dawn, with her rose-kissed fingers, begins to stir the dead trees into color. As Boreas tightens Phaethon’s saddle, I perch on a bale of hay, having changed into warmer clothes, rubbing my hands together for warmth. I assume I’ll be riding with Boreas, but he surprises me by saying, “There’s something I’d like to show you.” He sounds unsure.
“All right,” I respond warily. The king is never unsure.
With a tilt of his head, he gestures me deeper inside. Specter horses drop their heads over the stall doors in interest. The stalls near the back are empty—all but one.
The mare is stunning, all long legs, an elegant, streamlined head, and a proud, arched neck. Her semi-transparent coat reminds me of wheat grass, a color shaded between the milk of a full moon and the brown of parched earth. A white star shines on her forehead.
Reaching out, I offer the mare my hand to sniff. Warm breath coasts across my palm, and she nibbles at my fingers curiously.
“She’s beautiful,” I say. Perhaps the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen, even if she is a spirit. “Which guard did you bribe to lend me his horse?” And bybribe, I meanthreaten.
The Frost King doesn’t answer. I suddenly realize how quiet it is—his men must have moved off at some point—and I turn toward him. He stands with his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. Something shifts between us. Something grows behind my eyes, as if they are opening for the first time.
“This is one of your soldier’s horses,” I ask. “Right?”
