“Get up,” I grunt, and manage to shove him off me with one hard push. He flops onto his back and doesn’t move.
“Boreas?” Kneeling by his side, I scan him from head to toe. There’s a lot of blood. Enough blood that, were he mortal, I would be concerned. He could be a corpse given how still he lies. Oily black fluid drenches his legs.
He can’t die, I remind myself. It does little to soothe my worry.
“The blood isn’t mine,” he slurs with his eyes shut.
The knowledge brings me a surprising amount of relief. “Boreas.” I poke him in the cheek. “Get up. You need to wash the blood off.”
“Can’t. Too tired.”
Hands on hips, I study him with a weary sigh. Well, he’s alive. That’s all I care about. If he wants to sleep on the floor, then so be it. But first, he needs a bath.
“Orla!” She must be around here somewhere. I swear if I called from the opposite side of the fortress she’d somehow manage to hear me.
A minute later, the echo of her quick footsteps reaches me. “Yes, my lady?” She crosses the threshold, face splotched red from exertion, and nearly trips over Boreas in the process. A sharp gasp follows. “My lord?”
“He’s fine. Just tired.” Exhausted, rather. “Can you bring someone to fill his bath, please?”
She rips her gaze from Boreas’ prone form. “Right away.”
For a middle-aged woman, Orla is extremely nimble when the situation calls for it. It seems as if only seconds pass before a group of servants scuttles inside bearing buckets of steaming water, which they pour into the wooden tub until it’s full. They depart as quickly as they arrived.
“Thank you,” I call to their retreating backs, shutting the door behind them. Then I turn, cross my arms, and study the king. Could he be concussed?
I kick him in the leg, though it’s more of a nudge, really. He grunts, his face twisting. “Wife,” he growls.
“Yes?” I reply patiently.
His eyelids flutter open. He squints at me. “I should have known you wouldn’t let me sleep in peace.”
“You realize you collapsed on the floor, right?” When he doesn’t answer, I add, “You need to wash. You reek.”
“Understandable, considering I killed many darkwalkers today.” The words ooze from his mouth, slow with fatigue. A shudder runs through him, and the tendons in his neck pull taut.
The first lick of unease moves through me. “Are you sure you aren’t hurt?” Is it possible he was wounded but didn’t notice in the heat of battle?
“I’m sure.”
He still doesn’t move. “Well?” I snap.
“I…” He glances around the room, fingers twitching.
“What is it? Spit it out.”
“I need help standing.”
To admit that, he must truly be spent. I scrutinize him more closely. His skin is always pale, but now it holds an ugly pallor; a thin layer of sweat sheens on it. Beneath his clouded gaze rests deep bruises. The Frost King doesn’t fall ill. He can’t die. He claims he is uninjured. So why does he look so terrible?
“My power was drained,” he explains at my confusion. “Pain and fatigue are side effects of that.”
I was not aware his power could be drained. Then again, what do I know of his power, its capabilities and extent? Very little.
Hauling a fully grown man to his feet isn’t easy, but I manage. Together, we shuffle toward the bathing chamber. He sits on a stool beside the wooden tub, then looks at me drowsily. I’m remembering a desperate, clinging kiss in the embrace of tent canvas, hot, eager tongues, a fire smoldering nearby.
Had we not been interrupted, I would have climaxed around his fingers, and I imagine he would have, too, with my hand wrapped around his stiff arousal. Before the king, no one had ever touched me with so much blatant want.
My pulse flutters, and I push the thought from my mind. I realize Boreas is staring at me, as though he, too, remembers.
