It is all I see. The wooden frame bears a tiny,tinymattress, covered with a colorful patchwork quilt.
The Frost King begins to cross the threshold when I snag his arm. “Wait.” The command wheezes out of me. “Can’t we stay somewhere else?”
“Why?”
If I tell him it’s because there is one bed, he will scoff at me. We are, after all, husband and wife. And yet the marriage was never consummated. “It smells weird.”
He considers me in puzzlement. I can’t imagine he can read me easily, as we haven’t spent much time together outside of meals. Though admittedly, I’m able to read him more readily as the weeks pass.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
Now that he mentions it, I feel close to passing out. “I think I’m going to faint.”
Alarm flares in his eyes.
“My corset… is strangling me. You need to take it off.” I cling to the doorframe, fingertips biting into the rough surface. “From the back. Hurry,” I gasp. My lips begin to tingle from lack of air, and darkness slides through my vision.
“Damn laces,” he growls behind me. He tugs at them to no avail.
“Cut it off me.” I slump forward. “The corset,” I snap when his fingers still. “Cut it off me!”
Gripping my arms, the Frost King spins me around and rests my back against the cottage’s outer wall. His dagger glints. He makes a deep score down the front, slicing through the ribbing of the corset, and then my vision blackens.
“Wife? Wren!”
With an enormous effort, I manage to pry my eyelids open. Boreas’ face hovers inches from mine, deep lines of concern etched around his mouth. I’m lying partially across his lap, his arms supporting my torso. “I fainted?”
“Yes.”
Wonderful. Brushing aside his hands, I stumble onto my feet. At least the vise around my body is gone.
He holds up the remains of my corset and asks, “What is this?”
I snort. “An instrument of torture.” Snatching the corset, I toss it into the snow with satisfaction. May it forever rot into the earth. “I still think we should return to the citadel.” Because the bigger issue is the single bed that squats inside like an ugly toad.
“Even gods must sleep.” And with that, he tugs me into the cottage and shuts the door.
The sound of the lock tumbling makes my pulse flutter. One bed for two people who cannot stand the sight of each other. The gods must hate me.
Striding toward the bed with far more confidence than I feel, I toss a pillow at his face, which he catches. “You can sleep on the floor.”I cross my arms over my chest for good measure, lest he thinks I bluff.
The Frost King lowers the pillow, appraising me with what I believe is amusement. That cannot be. I’m not even sure his mouth knows how to smile. “There’s room enough for two.”
There is not. The bed is as narrow as they come. “Like I said,” I repeat slowly, because my tongue has swollen to the size of a watermelon, “you can sleep on the floor.”
“We are married, wife. It should not be difficult to share a bed. It is expected.”
“I don’t care.” I’m not ready, especially with the conflict between body and mind. “The fire will keep you warm enough.” Anyway, it’s not as if he can die from hypothermia. He can’t die, the bastard.
His lack of reply is suspicious, but I think little of it as I begin turning down the bed. Fabric rustles behind me. There’s a muffled thump, like cloth hitting the floor. I freeze. He wouldn’t dare.
Slowly, I turn around. “What are you doing?” I shriek.
Boreas pauses in the middle of shedding his clothing. His cloak and tunic lay discarded on the ground.
Firelight renders his torso in gold. Sleek, pale skin clings to a body of cut, rippling muscle. His shoulders are wide, his waist solid. My eyes drift lower. A smattering of black hair dusts the area between his nipples, trails to his navel, and disappears beneath the loosened waistband of his trousers.
I’ve seen my fair share of chests and abdomens. I’ve bedded more men than I can count, though not in recent months. The Frost King is an entirely different breed of male virility.
