He must sense my reluctance, because his voice takes on a coaxing quality I’ve never heard before. “My frustrating, stubborn wife. Please. Just for tonight.”
“Tonight,” I concede.
The blankets rustle as I flip onto my other side and present him my back. Boreas eases closer, the mattress dipping beneath our combinedweight. All at once, heat cloaks the entire length of my spine, shoulder to back. I flinch at the contact, biting my lip to muffle the embarrassing moan that threatens to fly free.
One of his arms slides beneath my neck. The other settles over my waist, fingers splayed flat against my stomach. The shadow of him tucked into the shadow of me.
“Better?” His lips brush my ear, and I suppress another shiver.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Thank you.” I’m not sure where to put my hands, so I tuck them under my cheek. My poor feet, however, are still numb with cold. I slide them backward until they touch hot skin.
Boreas hisses.
“What?” I’m so fatigued my voice slurs. Blessed warmth drags me deep into the folds of slumber.
“Your feet are freezing.”
“Sorry.”
I’m not sorry. I hate cold feet.
For the second time in many weeks, I wake in the Frost King’s arms. He is solid heat at my back and a beating heart thrumming against skin. When Elora and I were children, I would often wake much the same: in comfort, knowing I was not alone.
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I did turn to him on Midwinter Eve. Would it be so terrible to remain in the king’s embrace, knowing everything I do, having come here to end his life? If I lie here, if I let myself feel instead of think, will something change?
Do I want it to?
Boreas stirs behind me. One of his legs is hooked over mine, anchoring me in place. “You’re awake.” His breath tickles my ear.
My eyes flutter shut. “Yes.” It’s easier to speak without looking at anything. Easier to pretend my response belongs to someone else.
As he shifts again, something hard pushes against my backside: the unmistakable shape of his arousal.
My eyes snap open on a gasp, and I roll over to face him. The blanket has slipped to his waist, and creases from the pillow mark his cheek. “You did that on purpose!”
He studies me through a bleary gaze, slightly perplexed. “What did I do?”
He has to know. He must. Unless insanity is an unfortunate side effect of marriage to a god.
“Never mind,” I mutter.
Stubble lines his jaw and chin. It rasps as he runs his hand against it, regarding me with a frustrating lack of emotion.
“My lord?”
The Frost King swings his legs over the bed. At least he’s wearing trousers. “Enter.”
“What?” I squawk. “I’m indecent!”
“You’re dressed head to toe and covered in blankets. I would hardly call that indecent.”
Pallas enters, eyes widening momentarily. I keep my expression neutral. He wasn’t expecting my presence.
“Pallas,” the king snaps.
The man averts his gaze, clears his throat. “My lord, it is nearly sunrise. What are our orders?”
“Prepare the horses. We leave at once.”
