An uncomfortable pause follows. Zephyrus watches me patiently, and I sense the king’s gaze on me as well. The truth is, no man has ever asked this of me. No one has ever cared to. And maybe, deep down, I wished they had.
“I… hunt. And read.” Are my words slurring? I hope they’re not slurring.
“Hunt?” He perks up at that. “Your weapon of choice?”
“The bow.”
“Mm.” Dancing eyes. “And what do you like to read?”
“Nothing in particular,” I murmur, feeling faint. A bodice-ripping romance isn’t proper dinner conversation, and I’d feel foolish were they to learn of my preference for stories of love and intimacy—two things I have never before experienced.
Zephyrus forks a strip of pork into his mouth. “And how have you been spending your time here so far?”
The question gives me pause. But—the truth, I suppose, is best. “Your brother tossed me into a dungeon.”
The king’s voice drones across the table. “You deceived me.”
I shove meat and potatoes into my mouth. My stomach finally settles now that I’ve decided to feed myself, and the wine keeps flowing. I continue to drink, damn the consequences. “It’s not my fault you failed to notice I was a different person.”
His lack of denial stings. I’m not proud to admit it. Perhaps because no one aside from my sister has ever cared for me, and it is yet another reminder that I am nothing special in this world.
“You locked her in your dungeon? That’s a new low, even for you,” Zephyrus admonishes his brother.
The Frost King’s fingers tighten on the stem of his wine glass. He doesn’t respond.
Time lurches forward with every glass of wine. While Zephyrus gorges himself, the king picks at his plate. None of the foods touch, I notice. Meat, vegetables, potatoes, bread. Four little islands atop the silver. At one point, the brothers dive into a heated discussion I’m not privy to.
When the last piece of bread on my plate is consumed and my bloated stomach threatens to split the boning of my corset, I rise from my chair, leaning on the table for support. The room tilts dangerously.
Their conversation reaches an abrupt end.
“Excuse me,” I mumble. My intention is to depart the room in a smooth rustle of skirts, with all the grace and poise of a proper noblewoman, but my foot catches on the table leg, and I pitch forward, hitting the ground.
Quickened footsteps. Someone crouches by my side, one hand sliding onto the small of my back. I’m overwhelmed by sensation, the smells of wet earth and fresh green, and a warm, soothing wind teasing the strands of hair glued to my sweaty skin. A second set of footsteps, heavier, more substantial, approach. I lift my head in time to witness the Frost King’s emotionless expression twist into fury.
“Unhand her,” he snaps.
Zephyrus steps back, palms raised.
Large hands curve around my upper arms and pull me to my feet. I don’t think the Frost King realizes how inebriated I am, because the moment he releases me, the ground rushes upward. He swears, catching me before I hit the ground. “You’re drunk.”
I pull away to slump against the wall. The stone blazes a line of cold down my sweating back. “Very.”
Zephyrus eases forward. “I would offer to help—”
“I can handle my wife, brother.”
His response momentarily burns away the fog. Of course he refers to me as if I’m his property, rather than a person with thoughts and beliefs and emotions.
The West Wind glances between us with obvious amusement. “I can see that, Boreas. Married to a woman who is repulsed by your touch. What else is new?” When he smiles, I’m certain his teeth have grown points.
The king stiffens. “You’re dismissed, Zephyrus.”
The West Wind bows low in my direction. “Wren, I hope we cross paths again during my stay.” Then his soundless feet carry him from the dining room.
With Zephyrus’ absence, I’m reminded of how enormous the Frost King is, both in height and presence, that gaze probing too deeply.“I’ll see myself to my rooms,” I state, pushing off the wall. The overbalance sends me crashing into one of the chairs.
“Orla,” he barks.
