“Opening yourself to love, maybe, but how you feel should be simple. Think of your sister. You love her, don’t you?”
Yes, I do. Thankfully, she is safe in Edgewood, where she will remain until she gives birth—an occasion I wouldn’t miss for anything. “It’s not the same.”
“Isn’t it?” Orla challenges. “Will you hide in your chambers for the rest of your days?”
I mean, I could.
“My lady,” she warns.
Slowly, I uncurl my spine and sit taller in the chair, leveling a glare at my maid, whose eyes twinkle with knowing.
“Go,” she whispers. “The lord waits for you.”
Those words give me the courage to stand and shake out the wrinkles from my dress. Orla is right. I cannot hide in this room forever. I cannot—will not—hide at all.
The number of sentries guarding the north wing has increased to ten. After the breach, I imagine they are reluctant to leave the king so exposed.
Pallas is nowhere in sight. A younger man with a scraggly beard has taken his place, and he states, “My lord is not taking visitors at this hour.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a visitor,” I say flatly. “Now get out of my way before I gut you with a fork. I promise, I will make it hurt.”
The men exchange a worrying glance, as if wondering how unbalanced I have become these past few days cooped up in my rooms. As it turns out, quite unbalanced.
They shuffle aside, allowing me to pass. Two heartbeats is all I allow myself to hesitate.
Death to fear.
Steeling my nerves, I barge into the king’s rooms.
Boreas springs to his feet. “What is the meaning of—”
He blinks, and the fury pinching his face melts away. A book slips from his hands onto the armchair he’s just vacated. “Wren.”
The orange firelight may soften his features, but it cannot erase the horrible sight before me. A man now, a god no longer. The bruising and swelling on his face, the gray pallor of his newly mortal skin, a reminder of how much he suffered to ensure my safety, and I can’t pretend I do not care. What have I done? I am the fool who fell in love with my enemy.
The Frost King has neither a heart of ice nor a heart of stone. It beats like any other. Bruised and weary it may be, but I’d like to think it is healing. I’d like to think I am the reason for that healing.
Boreas clears his throat. He wears breeches and a loose white undershirt that falls to mid-thigh. “Would you like to sit?” He gestures to an empty armchair awkwardly.
As if I am able to sit at a time like this.
“I’ll stand.”
He takes a step toward me, then stops. Clumps of hair poke in every direction, and he attempts to smooth them over in a rare display of self-consciousness. “How are you?”
“Fine.” Which is a lie of gargantuan proportions. I have missed my husband these last three days. I’m here now. So why do I still miss him?
He goes quiet. Thinking, perhaps, of a way to bridge this gap.
We speak at the same time.
“Have you—”
“I was thinking—”
I cross my arms over my chest, shivering despite the fire’s heat. “You first.”
“No,” he says. “You go first.”
