“More,” he whispers. My lips part in response to his prurience, the hunger that swells black in his pupils, that fists in my gut in unending ache. Just as his hips begin to shudder, I lightly squeeze his shaft and Boreas erupts in my hand with a hoarse cry, his seed slickening my grip, mindless thrusts chasing his pleasure to completion, every drop sucked dry.
My strokes slow as he sags into the water, utterly spent. His gripon my arm loosens, and he caresses the skin for a brief moment before releasing me.
I wash my hand, satisfied by the sight of his drooping eyelids. He will sleep well tonight. As for me, I ache and throb in the most secret places, but I force myself to stand and reach out my hand. “Out.”
The Frost King is barely conscious as I snag a towel and wrap it around his waist. Pressed body to body, I shuffle him toward the bed, the scent of soap rising from his skin to tease my senses.
“Thank you,” Boreas says.
“For?”
He gestures to the fire.
“Oh.” And why should it matter that he noticed I lit a fire? The room was cold. Anyone would have done the same. “You’re welcome.”
His attention shifts to my right, and awareness sharpens in his gaze. For whatever reason, I’m afraid to look, as if, subconsciously, I know what he’s focused on.
I turn. He’s staring at the bed. More specifically, the indentation in the center of the mattress, undeniable proof that a body had lain there.
He asks, very carefully, “Were you sleeping in my bed?”
My face grows hot. “I was… testing the support.”
“I see. And what about this?” As if the indentation isn’t embarrassing enough, he gestures to the enormous spot of dried saliva on one of the pillows.
“That,” I say with whatever shred of dignity remains, “is a mistake.”
“Mm.”
“Lie down, Boreas.” I nudge him toward the mattress, where he collapses with a bone-weary groan. The towel clings to his waist from sheer will alone.
“You don’t need to stay,” he manages. “I know you would rather be elsewhere.”
He assumes things of me I’m not sure are true anymore. But let him think what he will. It’s easier to maintain distance. Easier not to think of how he so effortlessly unraveled me and took things I did not realize I wanted to give him.
I pull the blankets over him. In seconds, he is out. And since there’s no reason for me to linger, I return to my rooms. Boreas was right. I didn’tneedto stay.
But I would have, had he asked me to.
Boreas is not at breakfast the next day. Either he is avoiding me after our latest sexual encounter, or he has reason not to attend. He was breathing when I departed his chambers, and I didn’t see any open wounds on his body, but I don’t know the consequences of draining one’s divine power.
Either way, he will be hungry. So I gather a plate of food and bring it to his rooms while the staff busy themselves passing out meals to our many guests. This time, I enter the north wing without incident. As I lift my hand to knock, the door opens. Boreas, dressed in a tunic the color of the sea in winter, and loose trousers, halts in surprise.
“Hello.” I lift the plate to draw his attention to the food rather than the blush warming my cheeks. “You weren’t at breakfast, so I brought you this. In case you were hungry.” Because what else would he do with a plate of food? Stupid. In any case, his health appears much improved.
Boreas looks at the food, then at me, then back at the food. “There are people in my citadel.”
I lift an eyebrow. “There are.”
“The entirety of Neumovos, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You are not.”
A dark glower demands I explain myself.
Brushing past him, I set the plate on an end table, saying, “I didn’t have a choice. They asked for refuge, and I couldn’t turn them away.”
At this, he nods, as if he would have decided the same, and plucks a piece of toast from the plate. “The darkwalkers are scattered at the moment. I’m not sure how long until they retaliate.”
