“We’ve discussed this.”
“We have not. I come to you with concerns. You either ignore them or brush them aside. I’d hardly call that a discussion.”
The quiet speaks so much louder than words. He says lowly, “I am never going to change.”
I do not expect him to change. All I ask is that he see me, hear me. Sometimes I think he does, in rare moments when he lowershis guard. “I do not ask you to be anyone other than yourself. I ask that you consider opening your mind.”
“In what way?” He speaks gruffly, as though the question brings him discomfort.
“Are you mocking me, or do you really want to know?”
He frowns. Shifts his hands on the haft of his weapon. “You once said asking questions helps you better understand someone.”
“And you want to better understand me?”
Do his cheeks redden, or is that my imagination? “Not exactly.”
“Ha!” I poke his chest. “I knew you were mocking me.”
“I’m not mocking you.” His terse reply is infused with an unusual amount of exasperation. Maybe he isn’t mocking me. If he wants to better understand me, it isn’t entirely unwelcome.
I step back, needing space. But mostly I need air that does not taste and smell like pine. “The court is large enough for two,” I say. “We can work on our respective exercises, if you don’t mind the company.”
“Thank you.” He watches my retreat, then turns and stalks toward a bench.
I leave him to his training while I focus on hitting targets. For every ten bull’s-eyes, I miss one. Not good enough. Not nearly good enough when a single missed shot could mean my death. Ripping the arrows from the wooden targets, I turn and catch a glimpse of Boreas across the court.
Tall, muscled, broad. Stripped to his breeches, hair pulled into a knot, he moves like air, or water, or a combination of the two. A deadly, whirring cyclone of precise cuts and jabs. The pale skin of his torso gleams like dew under sun as he spins through a set of intense exercises, slashing the spear he holds. Sweat slithers down every raw-boned facet of his face.
In all my years, never have I seen a more perfect form. A smattering of dark hair runs down his flat, ridged abdomen. His back ripples with strength. His arms… I swallow. My, but his arms are remarkable, beautifully corded, lean, in perfect proportion.
Once he completes the current set of patterns, the Frost King lowers his spear, glancing over at me, as if aware of my ogling. The shock of his blue eyes on mine is enough to send me forward. Have I forgotten myself in the presence of a muscled form? Have I forgotten where I come from, who I love? Never.
“I would like to visit my sister.” I stop a few feet away, forcing my attention to stray no lower than his chin.
A bead of sweat slithers down his temple, which he wipes clear with his forearm. “The answer is no.”
“Why?”
His fingers twitch around the spear. The crude point looks sharp enough to impale someone through the spine. “The forest is overrun by darkwalkers. It’s not safe.”
“Don’t use the darkwalkers as an excuse. You say no because, were I to leave, that’s one less person under your control.”
His face darkens.
“I’ve been here two months and I have no idea what state Elora is in, whether she is sick or well.” Midwinter Eve planted the idea to visit her, and now I’ve come to make my demand.
“The answer remains no.”
Not that I am at all surprised, but… fine. Time for a different approach. “Why don’t we settle this with a bet?”
Those slitted eyes flicker with incredulity.
“Unless,” I add, needling him, “you’re afraid to lose?”
If I were not so certain the king disliked my presence, I’d almost think he were amused.
“What are the terms?” he asks in that low, smooth tone.
