The door shuts with a muted click, and the tapestry falls back into place. “I think you do.” Boreas comes to stand behind me. “But I think fear tells you otherwise.”
How is it this man is suddenly an expert on what I fear? I’ve mentioned a few things, in passing, but often one must look inward to understand, and I fear Boreas has seen all I’ve fought to hide. He understands Edgewoodwasmy home, but it never allowed me to flourish. As ridiculous as it sounds, trapped in this citadel under no obligation to my sister, I was able to discover my own needs for the first time in twenty-three years.
But who likes discussing weakness? No one. And so my chin lifts in preparation for this conversation. “You would know, right?” I turn. “I understand you now. Why you lock yourself in these walls with the curtains drawn. Why you have a greenhouse full of growing things, when all the world is laid to waste in cold. You’re afraid.”
He flinches. The blow lands precisely where I want it to.
“You’re afraid of letting others get close to you. You’re afraid of getting hurt again. It’s why being in control is so important to you. Why your power is so important to you.”
And yet the land is changing because Boreas is changing. As he learns to trust in others, his heart thaws.
Blue eyes hold fierce to mine. Somehow, we’ve shifted and now stand nose to nose. One of his hands braces against the window near my head. “And you?” he demands. “You, who fears weakness, who fears you are unworthy. Aren’t you, too, afraid?”
He speaks the truth; I am afraid. But not of him. I’m afraid of what I feelforhim.
My voice grows strained. “I didn’t want this.”Don’t, I correct myself. Idon’twant this.
“This,” he says, lifting the dagger he’s removed from his belt. “This is what you want.”
I stare at the weapon. Firelight limns the edge of his god-touched blade.
Drawing my hand forward, the Frost King closes it over the hilt. Leather crinkles beneath my sweaty palm as he positions the dagger point at his heart.
My heart, which has crawled into my mouth, pounds to the very edges of my skin. I feel ill—worse than ill. My hand trembles beneath his, but he will not release me, no matter how hard I tug.
“You could not follow through the first time.” Boreas steps closer, forcing the tip deeper into his skin. His head lowers, and when he next speaks, his cool breath slips into my parted mouth. “You had so many opportunities. If not with this blade, then the bow my brother gifted you.”
The bow. I never considered using it, even knowing it was god-touched.
“But you are here again. So what now?”
Everything is different. If I were to shove the dagger into his heart, Boreas would die. I would have my vengeance. And I would truly be alone.
“Now—” My stomach churns as the lies surge with rising demand. “Now—”
“Be forthright, Wren. For once.”
It is never easy letting go of what once was. But that is what I must do. Elora and I will always be sisters. I will always love her. I will always wish her happiness. But I know my place now, and my place is here, in the Deadlands, beside the reticent god who rules it, the man I love.
“I don’t want to go.” I choke with emotion. “I don’t want to return to Edgewood.” I haven’t wanted that for weeks.
He lifts his hand, cupping the scarred side of my face gently. “Then what do you want?”
Why do the simplest questions have the most trying answers? I have given the North Wind every part of myself save my heart, and now I give him one more thing.
“You,” I whisper hoarsely. “I want you.”
39
BOREAS PRESSES HIS FOREHEAD TOmine, our noses brushing affectionately. “Then you have me.”
Gripping my waist, he tugs me close, and it is the greatest relief to slip my hands over his shoulders, curl them around the back of his head, and sift my fingers through the silken strands of his hair. He tucks his face into the curve of my neck, inhaling deeply. His large hands roam my back, tracing each vertebra of my spine.
Damp, glancing heat on my collarbone. Another kiss marks the swell of my shoulder through the fabric of my dress. As though sampling the finest of silks, he maps the dip of my waist, my shoulder blades, before drifting south again. When I chase his mouth, he angles his face away, denying me that pleasure. “Bastard.”
Warm laughter drifts over me. “Patience, wife.”
Patience is for those who know little of what they want. I tell him as much.
