“There’s a chance we can reverse this, right? Maybe if you went to the Council of Gods and appealed for your power, they would return it to you.” If his power is derived from nature’s cycle, it can’t truly be gone. “We can go right now—”
His lips brush mine, stealing the remainder of my thought. Then I’m arching into his touch, arms wrapped around his neck, starved for a taste as his tongue plunders my mouth. Eventually, it dissolves into something slow and tender and sweet, his grip loosening enough to cup my face in his large hands. Boreas breaks the kiss, our lips clinging momentarily.
“Was that your plan?” I whisper, searching his gaze. “Kiss me in hopes that I’ll forget about your power?”
“Did it work?”
My chest cinches tighter. “Boreas.”
“I need you to listen to me, Wren. Can you do that?”
Since he asked so nicely… I nod glumly.
“You,” he says, catching my chin before I can look away, “are the most important person in my life. There is nothing I would not do for you. I would conquer cities in your name. I would lay waste to the world and place its greatest treasures at your feet. I would cross realms and topple empires and alter time, all for the promise of an eternity spent by your side.”
A tear slips down my cheek, which he wipes away with the pad of his thumb.
“I don’t want my power.” His tone allows no argument. “I want you. That’s all I want. A life with you, an entire life, not just a flash amidst eternity. Your mind, your body, your trust, your laughter, your carefully guarded heart. I want it all. I will accept nothing less.”
At this, my throat bobs. I will not fear what he offers me freely. I will not fear his heart, just as I will not fear mine. “You seem certain I will give it to you.”
“Won’t you?” At my scowl, his warm, deep laughter curls around my bones, and he gathers me close, burying one hand in my hair, wrapping the other around my waist. The blue of his eyes dazzles. “Say it,” he murmurs. “Be free.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I will have to convince you otherwise.” The hand at my waist slips to the curve of my backside, squeezing playfully. “How does a slice of cake sound?”
He knows me too well. “All right, drat it all. Yes, I love you,” I hiss. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now? How dare you make me fall in love with you!” I beat my fist against his shoulder. He captures my balled fingers, brings them to his lips, and kisses the knuckles, then my temple, my cheek, my mouth. There, he sinks in, teasing my tongue with languorous ease.
When we break apart, I bury my face in his chest, eyes squeezed shut. “I love you.” Something loosens inside me at uttering these words, so I say them again. “I love you. It frightens me how much I love you.” Boreas is a fire in the hearth, warmth in my soul, peace at long last. Home. He is home.
“There,” he murmurs into my ear. “Was that so difficult?”
Insufferable prick. “I can still stab you,” I warn. But I press closer to him. I will accept not even a sliver of space between us. “What does this mean?”
“It means,” he says, nuzzling my neck, “that one day you will grow old, as will I. It means the seasons will change, and winter will come to pass, and the rivers will flow once more. It means we can build a life together, and tend to it for the remainder of our days.”
“I thought we were already building a life.” I peer up at him with a lopsided grin, warmed by the adoration in his gaze, the tenderness. Immortal he is no longer, but for me, Boreas will always be the North Wind, the Frost King, the man I love, and from whom I never wish to be parted.
EPILOGUE(In which the North Wind attempts to bake a cake)
BOREAS HAD NEVER BAKED Acake before.
And why would he? He was a god.Wasbeing the pertinent word. For five millennia, he’d lived for a single task: to call down the snows, the winds, the cold. But only in the last three years had he learned what it meant to walk in a mortal’s skin, and to love—as he had never loved before—a woman with a vivacious spirit, whose heart never wavered.
The point was, as a god, he hadn’t needed to bake. Silas cooked. The staff maintained the citadel and its grounds. The hostlers cared for the horses. This was the natural order of things.
Today, however, was special. It was Wren’s birthday. He’d left his wife dozing in their bed while dawn warmed the grass-livened fields. At long last, winter had released its relentless grip on the Gray. The snow had thawed, the air had shed its chill. A choice he had made: power or love. Eternal death or a brief, yet fulfilling, life. How he had feared the loss of control, but he needn’t have worried. Sharing a life with Wren was enough. More than enough.
He’d risen early because he needed the day. At this hour, the kitchen was deserted, the air tinged with yeast. Sunlight spread gold over the wooden countertops.
Days before, when he’d approached Silas with his intentions, the man had kindly explained the process in great detail. He had then collected all the necessary fixings: flour, eggs, butter, milk, sugar, yeast, vanilla, salt.
Boreas stared at the ingredients as though they were enemies of war.
Step one: add two cups of flour. Silas must have mentioned which measuring cup to use, but he couldn’t remember, damn it all. In the end, he went with the largest of the four available, about the size of an apple. It seemed like an appropriate amount.
As the flour hit the glass mixing bowl, however, it bloomed outward, coloring the air and coating the front of his clothes. Boreas sneered at the mess.
