He says, “Preparing for bed.” As though it were obvious.
Somehow, I manage to tear my attention away from the expanse of his chest. It is offensively perfect. “You can prepare for bed without removing your clothes.”
“I do not sleep in clothes.”
Did I really need to know that the Frost King sleeps in nothing but his skin?
Turning from him, I resume plumping the pillows. My palms slap the fabric aggressively. “You’re still sleeping on the floor.”
“So you are free to ogle me, but I cannot share a bed with you?”
My cheeks grow hot. My mouth can’t remember how to work properly. “I wasn’t ogling you. I was…”
“Ogling,” he finishes, sounding pleased. I don’t think the Frost King has ever sounded pleased before.
I will deny this ogling until my last breath.
“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” he continues. “If anyone is sleeping on the floor, it’s you. You’re young. I’m many millennia old. I have back pain.”
“You do not have back pain!” I cry, whirling around. If he has back pain, then I’m a snail. But then I notice the shape of his mouth, its subtle upward curve. “Did you just make a joke?”
He stares at me, and I expect the smile to disappear, but it doesn’t. It looks completely out of place, this soft thing shaped by so severe a man.
“We share the bed.” In this, he is firm. It’s in the crossed arms, the braced legs, the unyielding ridge of his jaw. The stance of a man who is letting his wants be known.
“Have some decency,” I squawk with mounting desperation. “You wouldn’t want to make your own wife uncomfortable, would you? Not when she is frightened and—and shy and…”
Boreas snorts. “I believe we are referring to different people, for I did not think my wife was afraid of anything.”
His words give me pause. Flattery, or truth? I tell myself I will not be swayed, but the possibility of this immortal seeing me as fearless is appealing. “Fine,” I say. “Just… keep your trousers on.”
Boreas nods his agreement. As he turns to stoke the fire, however, I catch sight of his naked back. My heart stills.
The pale smoothness is interrupted by ropes of heavy scarring, welts that drip and smear down his spine like hot candlewax. It is old, tough skin.
As if sensing my gaze, the Frost King stiffens.
Whipping around, I fluff the pillows once again to busy my hands. But I sense his attention on me, the space between my shoulder blades, the curve of my neck, lower. Saliva floods my mouth. I feel ill.
With their advanced healing abilities, I was under the impression gods did not suffer or bear scars, but I was wrong. The ruin of his back is evidence enough.
Someone hurt him. I do not know why this upsets me.
His bootheels clip the floorboards. Warmth at my back, and then he is past me, vanishing behind the washroom divider.
While the Frost King bathes, I kick off my shoes and climb into bed fully clothed. I reek of wine and sweat. Maybe the stench will keep him at arm’s length.
Sometime later, he rounds the divider, his torso bare, dressed in only his trousers. Damp, black strands curl around his neck. After a pause, he climbs onto the other side of the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and I tense.
“You can rest easy, wife. I’m not going to touch you.”
His tone suggests he has little desire to, which shouldn’t bother me, but his words sting. “My name is Wren.”
“I’m aware.”
“Why call me ‘wife,’ then?”
He shifts onto his side so we face one another. “I could ask you the same question.”
