“Wait!” I stumble forward. “I’ll come with you. Just let him go.” Let him go, and he will live—I will have my sleep tonic, I will have my captor’s death.
I will be free.
“Please… Boreas.” I dare to rest my hand on his forearm. Lean, sinuous muscle twitches beneath my touch, but he doesn’t pull away.
“This matter does not concern you, wife.”
“If the matter concerns my life, then yes, it does.”
He whispers, so faintly I almost miss it, “He has taken much from me. Why should I not return the favor?”
The rough, anguished tone strikes a chord in me, and I step closer without realizing it. They are brothers, and that bond is forever. Whatever wound exists between them, it cannot be staunched with revenge. “It doesn’t have to come to this. You can choose to walk away.”
“And turn my back so he can strike me unaware?” he murmurs, too softly for his brother to hear. But I hear him. And I hear the things he does not wish to say.
A sharp gesture frees Zephyrus from the ice. “Leave,” the Frost King booms. “Leave my territory and do not return. Brother or not, I will kill you the next time the opportunity presents itself.”
A brutal gust launches me into the air and deposits me atop his darkwalker’s back. Moments later, the Frost King settles behind me, and we tear out of the clearing as if death itself trails us.
9
THREE DAYS HAVE PASSED SINCEI gave my blood to the Shade. In that time, I’ve slept little. My heart races at odd moments, and no amount of wine can dull that particular unease. I’m plagued by memories: dark, alarming things that press upon my eyes. I don’t leave my room. I can’t. If I am to be chained as an animal, then these walls offer the only sanctuary—distance from the king who reigns.
Instead of killing the North Wind, I helped him strengthen the barrier to his realm. Instead of ending people’s suffering, I extended it. I failed Edgewood, Elora most of all.
Inevitably, my thoughts turn toward Zephyrus. I imagine he’s made himself scarce for the time being. Anyway, we made a deal. He promised to investigate the sleep tonic. I do not think he will break that promise.
Rolling over in bed, I pinch my eyes shut so the darkness deepens and all I know is the void behind my eyelids.
The door opens after a brief knock. “My lady?”
I haven’t the energy to reply, so I merely toss an arm over my eyes as a lamp flares, forcing back the dim that covers me like a cloak in winter.
Orla rushes to my side. “My lady, are you ill?” The back of her hand rests against my forehead, searching for fever.
“I’m fine, Orla.” Sighing, I lower my arm, peering up at my maid. “What time is it?”
“It’s nearly sundown. The king requests your presence at dinner.”
So the Frost King has finally noticed my absence. It only took three days.
Pushing myself into a seated position, I run my fingers through my knotted hair. “Please tell the king I decline his invitation.”
“My lady, I cannot do that. He insisted you wear this”—she plops a ridiculously frilly dress into my lap—“and that you join him tonight.”
Pinching the fabric between my thumb and forefinger, I hold it against the light. It’s hideous. I’m used to simpler cuts, plainer gowns. This billowing monstrosity bears layer upon layer of bile-colored fabric, bulbous cap sleeves, and a collar that might very well strangle me should I manage to squeeze my head through it.
“Orla,” I say, my gaze cutting to hers so aggressively she stumbles backward. “I’m not wearing this. And I’m not attending dinner either.” I toss the monstrosity aside and snuggle into the pillows. There is little I desire save darkness and peace.
Snatching the dress with a surprising amount of frustration, my maid moves to drape it over a chair before yanking on my arm. For a dead woman, she is surprisingly strong. “Get up.” Another yank brings me to the edge of the bed. “At least attempt to make conversation.”
My feet hook over the edge of the mattress as she tugs harder. Despite my morose mood, laughter tickles the back of my throat. “Orla.”
“Someone has to watch out for you, my lady.” Sweat dots her hairline, and she gives another great heave, her face reddening from exertion. “If you don’t go, he wins.”
We both still.
He wins.
