“This way, my lady.”
Down the stairs to the first level, where the air is so cold my teethbegin to chatter. Every fireplace sits empty, and yet sweat dampens my hairline.Endure. Survive. Fight. It is all I can do.
The labyrinthine passageways empty into a cavernous hall studded with hundreds of lamps. The king and another man—a specter—stand on a dais located in the center of the dusty room.
The North Wind’s gaze falls to me as I move toward him, drawn by some unnameable force. Ancient and undying, the pale smoothness of his countenance holds not one imperfection. He is, externally, flawless.
I’m surprised when he helps me onto the dais, black leather gloves whispering against my skin. We face one another: a mortal woman and the immortal North Wind. He, wearing black breeches, black boots, a tunic of midnight blue with a gold-threaded collar. Our outfits match. How quaint.
The officiant begins to speak.
“Today, let us witness this union…”
Sound fades. The world darkens.
My pulse is a drumbeat, a sluggish throb that hits low in my ears. The skin on the back of my right hand prickles, and I frown, staring down at it. A strange mark appears, shaped like a circle of thorns: a tattoo.
“—in times of struggle, in times of need—”
With each word, the tattoo blackens. When I attempt to wipe it away, nothing happens.
My gaze locks on the king. “What is this?” I whisper, gesturing to the mark. But when I look down, I realize the tattoo has faded. Only skin remains.
“Your promise,” he states.
It must be a way to bind me. A vow can be broken, after all. The tattoo, imbued with its enchantment, must ensure the marriage is permanent.
The Frost King takes my hand. My eyes lift to his. It’s unsettling, how intensely he stares at me. Since I entered the room, I don’t think he’s blinked once.
The officiant drones on about promise and commitment, and thenit is done. With a white scarf binding our joined hands, the Frost King and I are wed. I am his wife. He is my husband. We are bound in matrimony, and I have vowed to end his life.
“You may look upon your bride, my lord.”
The Frost King catches the edge of my veil.
So it begins.
Carefully, he draws the fabric upward, revealing the brutalized flesh of my right cheek, the puckered terrain of old scarring, pale ridges against dark, earthen skin.
Emotion. That is what has been missing in his countenance. A mien of heartless cold, yet here is a chink, shock he is unable to conceal, for I’ve burrowed underneath that hardened exterior, if only for a moment.
A breeze stirs the strands of my hair as Boreas, the North Wind, bares his perfect white teeth. For I may be a woman from Edgewood, but I am not the woman he chose.
“You,” he growls.
My smile curls nastily. “Surprise.”
5
THEFROSTKING’S MOUTH PULLSinto an ugly sneer. “You.”
“Yes, you already said that,” I drawl unhelpfully.
“Where is your sister?” He wraps his hand around my bicep, his strength overpowering mine ten-fold. I’m not sure I could pull free even if I tried.
“Back at Edgewood, I suspect.”More importantly, far away from you.
His lips compress so severely they disappear into his pale skin. “Do you know what you have done?”
