He is so still his heart beats visibly against his sternum.
“What do you need?” Boreas murmurs.
My chin wobbles, because I did not realize how much I desired to hear those words. “I need—” Comfort. Compassion. Patience and understanding. To know that someone in this world needs me, too. I know Boreas doesn’t. It’s a ridiculous notion. But he kissed me. He told me he was alone, like me. So is it so bad, to voice this to him? “I n-need…”
His hand envelopes mine, his skin rough, yet warm—the first true touch of compassion I’ve received in months. I cry harder, because I didn’t realize how starved I’ve been. He is the last person I expect to show kindness to me now—my husband, and the man I find I cannot kill.
Without moving his eyes from mine, Boreas slides the dagger free of my trembling fingers and tosses it onto the ground. “Wren,” he says. “You’re safe now.”
I’m too distraught to move. Everything has gone so wrong, but as his arms slip around me, gathering my body to his warm, solid chest, I settle. Thrashed in the fury of a storm, I find a sliver of calm.
The world drifts into sensation: hot skin against my cheek, the slow drag of his breath across my forehead, the scrape of his calloused palms against my arms.
Then: softness at my back. Boreas stands over me, tucking the blanket around my stiff, chilled body. I’m in my chambers, nestled in a panoply of pillows. A flare of lamplight etches his naked torso in burnished light.
Leaning forward, the king tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, frowning slightly. And that is the last I remember of this night.
PART 2HOUSE OF DREAMS
27
THE MORNING GREETS ME WITHa cold slap.
Sunlight pours through the window, banishing any lingering darkness. My head throbs as though someone hammers a fist against it, demanding to be let in.
I shift onto my side. Horrible decision, as it turns out. My stomach cramps with the intense pain of emptiness, and grit has clumped in the corners of my eyes. It doesn’t take long for the memories to resurface. And when they do, I wish for nothing more than the dark forgetfulness of sleep.
What do I remember?
I remember the smooth grain of the carved wooden bird in my hand. I remember the crack of the first crumbling pillar. I remember,You lie. You always lie.I remember the blacks of Boreas’ eyes. I remember a numbing cold, shame, turmoil after realizing I’d misstepped. I remember running, hiding, dying, the craving for wine so acute it reduced me to some mindless animal, throat parched and belly empty. I remember my return to the citadel, shining blade held to Boreas’ throat. And then—
Wren.His voice, deep and enticing, burrowing into the heart of me.You’re safe now.
I had slipped into the Frost King’s room in the dead of night to kill him, and he hadcomfortedme.
Last night did not unfold how I imagined it would. For whatever reason, in that moment of truth, I was not able to slide the blade into my husband’s heart.
A moment of weakness, that’s all. I was guilt-ridden, exhausted. Even if I had killed him, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’ve yet to find the door leading from the Deadlands. And I am no longer welcome in Edgewood. Whether I like it or not, this place is my only sanctuary.
My arms shake as I push myself into a seated position, the blankets falling to my waist. What on earth… My nightgown sticks to my chest, completely soaked through.
“My lady?” Orla knocks softly, then opens the door. She takes one look at me and gasps. “You’re awake!” Beaming from ear to ear, she hurries to my bedside and takes one of my clammy hands in both of hers. “It is so good to see you well.”
The sight of Orla’s kind, familiar face never fails to soothe that which is uncertain. “It’s only been a night.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “It’s been quite a bit longer than that. You’ve been asleep for a week, my lady.”
“Aweek?” It’s not possible.
Orla sobers. “You were very ill when you returned. The lord had Alba give you a tonic for deep, restorative sleep. You were not yourself.”
A frisson of panic itches at my skin. I pluck at my sweat-soaked nightgown as if it might explain the trepidation wending through me. “Of course I wasn’t myself. He kicked me out of the citadel. I nearly died from exposure. I was delirious.”
Orla clasps her hands at her front, fiddling with her apron. “You talked in your sleep, my lady. Asked for wine, always wine. He told me not to give you any.”
My blood ices over. Dropping my legs over the side of the bed, I shuffle toward the armoire across the room, yank open the doors, and dig through the pile of clothes at the bottom. Months ago, I had hidden two wineskins there, but they are now gone.
Alarmed, I rush to my dresser, wrench open the bottom drawer. The flask I stashed there is gone, too.
