“It doesn’t matter.” My tongue darts out to wet my lips. He stands too close for comfort but I haven’t the courage to shove him back. “Elora has the life she wants, and I’m… alone.”
It is done. Finally, at last, I have voiced this fear, yet I feel no better for it. I’ve only revealed another weakness.
“You have Orla,” he points out. “Silas, the cook.”
A knot of emotion lodges in my throat. “It’s not that.” If only it were that easy.
Something sharpens in his gaze, as if he reaches an understanding. “Then what is it?”
What do I want? To free myself from this shame? To connect with the man who is my husband, regardless of my feelings toward him? Whatever the reason, I don’t hold back.
“I am alone in here,” I say, pressing a hand to my heart.
The creases around Boreas’ eyes smooth with unexpected solemnity. I wince. I can’t believe I have unloaded this horrible truth onto him. He does not care. And I am a fool.
But then the king lowers his head, and my hand lifts to rest over his heart. To push him back, I tell myself, even as my fingers curl into the front of his bedclothes, the fabric warmed from his body. His palm shapes the curve of my hip before slipping to my back, and my pulse rises, it leaps upward and climbs.
“Please,” he whispers.
My tongue refuses to cooperate. My heart soars toward an unknown destination as the space between our bodies shrinks to nothing. His thighs brush mine, the hand on my lower spine hot as a brand.
“Please… what?”
“Please don’t stab me for this.”
That is the last I see of his eyes, for the Frost King closes the distance, fitting his mouth seamlessly to mine.
His lips are dry, yet warm. He parts my mouth with the barest pressure, but it goes no further than that. His very breath is cool, and floods my mouth like the iciest of breezes.
The kiss lasts no more than a few heartbeats. When he pulls away, my head spins, and he quickly hastens a retreat.
“Wait.”
His footsteps slow to a standstill. I steady myself against the wall behind me so I don’t collapse. “Why did you kiss me?”
Boreas hesitates, then turns in my direction. “I, too, know what it’s like to be alone.” His eyes lift, the blue so pure and unguarded I feel as though I am seeing him for the first time. “Maybe we can be alone together.”
25
MAYBE WE CAN BE ALONEtogether.
It’s all I’ve been able to think about the last three days. The memory lingers like a cloud of hot air. It sits inside me, circulating through, until it coats my tongue: his taste, potent and sweet and divine.
I’ve spent this afternoon exploring the citadel. My explorations led me here, to the gaping interior of a stone cathedral, the columns like ribs, the vaulted ceiling like lungs unstirred by breath. Long, rectangular stained-glass windows brighten the lamplit interior, and rows of benches face the cloth-draped altar.
Perched on one of the pews, I close my eyes, letting the distant hymns drift through me as I reexamine every gesture, every glance we’ve exchanged since that night. Something happened in that greenhouse, something that felt terrifyingly like a truth. What Boreas and I shared could hardly be considered a kiss, but it shook me down to the soles of my feet.
I didn’t think the Frost King was capable of compassion. Why bother to comfort me, a mortal and his wife, whom he has shown time and again he does not care for? Something is changing in him, softening.
I’m not sure of my way forward. With the poppy plant in Zephyrus’ possession, I’ll soon have the tonic, the means to end my sentence. I only wonder if this path remains unchanged, or if my destiny has begun to diverge.
Pushing to my feet, I retrace my steps back to the hallway, shutting the door behind me. I search the citadel until I find Orla attacking the cobwebs in one of the large, unoccupied ballrooms. Additional servants wipe dust from the fireplace mantels. It seems pointless, considering the room sits vacant. A shame, really. It would make the most magnificent gathering space.
I wait until she descends the ladder. “Orla?”
A smear of dust darkens the bridge of her nose. “Yes, my lady?”
“I was wondering—” The words catch behind my teeth. They need a little push. “Is there something Boreas enjoys doing? A pastime, maybe?”
