Chapter 18
A Step Up from Prince
SNOW’S ROOM WAS unlike anything she could have imagined, and yet, in an odd way, it suited him perfectly.
“What are you, some kind of prince?” Jo scoffed, pleased her snark had returned.
She wasted no time in walking the perimeter, admiring the lux decor. Because it reallydidlook like something right out of her childhood fantasies of royalty. Even in the dim lighting, Jo could see the immense amount of detail that went into every aspect of the architecture and the effects it housed; The lavish, four-poster bed bore a thick, dark purple comforter embroidered in colors and patterns she couldn’t quite place. The latticed windows overlooked an ornately landscaped lawn—complete with two fountains, winding paths begging to be walked, and neatly manicured shrubbery.
Inside, there was even a fireplace front and center. It was composed of stone pillars and carved designs; a happily crackling fire gave the room a flickering, orange glow. Yet, for as much light as it gave, there was very little heat to match. The room was comfortable, if not a little cool.
It felt like stepping right into the fancy bedchamber of a king’s castle. Well, at least her nickname of “King Snow” didn’t seem so far off.
“I used to be.” Snow’s voice pulled her out of her musing at once. She turned to face him, expecting him to have followed her farther inside, only to find him still standing by the door, hand on the doorknob as if debating whether or not to let her stay. Jo crossed her arms over her chest, the mere thought of him pushing her away again settling beneath her skin like the annoying buzz of a bad caffeine hangover.
“Used to be?” she asked, looking him up and down before raising an eyebrow at his tense posture. Snow’s head was slightly bowed, brow furrowed in thought and silver hair falling like a veil over his eyes.
“You asked if I was a prince,” he said eventually, straightening back up and finally taking his hand away from the door handle. Jo guessed she was worth keeping around for a little bit longer.How nice of him. “I used to be. Of a sort, at least. Well, it’s what some called me.”
There was something about the way the words fell from his lips that stilled her sass and made Jo’s heart ache. Even as he stood before her, tall, collected, and distant, she could see something in his eyes that spoke of painful memories. If he hadn’t done his damndest to keep her tiptoeing all this time just on the edge of curiosity and understanding, she probably would have hesitated in prying. But, much like that night in her bedroom, he seemed almost desperate for something—and Jo herself was desperate to know what that something was.
Jo let her arms uncross and her hands fall to her hips. With an overdramatic glance about the room, she asked, “Is this what your ‘sort of’ princely quarters looked like then?” Whether or not he could tell she was trying to lighten the mood, she didn’t know. But when his lips cracked into the barest hint of a smile, she considered it a success either way.
“I have made some adjustments over the years, but. . . mostly, yes.”
Jo could see him physically relaxing under the meaningless chatter, and while she hadn’t forgotten her purpose for coming here, the sight set something warm to bloom at the center of her chest. She’d had a glimpse of the stress Snow had to endure months ago in the chamber where “he’d died,” and she could only imagine what else he kept secret from the group. Like, for example, what happened when they failed at a wish? But knowing she had at least a miniscule ability to put him at ease blunted the urgency of the inquiry more than she’d want to admit, and kept her tongue on safer topics.
“So what were you like, then?” Jo walked up to him with a bit more of a saunter to her step then she’d intended. She licked her lips, ignoring the way her heart sped up as his eyes dipped down to watch. “As a prince?”
“Surely you did not come here to inquire about needlessly long lineages, debates over technicalities of what makes royalty, or to hear tales of what messes all of mortal-kind were making at the time that I was left to oversee it.” At one point, he must have met her step for step, easing into her personal space without her noticing. They were only about a foot apart now, but Jo swore she could feel his presence like a physical press against her own body.
“Not exactly,” Jo said, though it came out more as a whisper. Her gaze dragged up the firm plane of his chest, barely visible through the slit of his robe, to rest on his face. His steel gaze scanned her face from behind the fan of his hair.
“Then whatdidyou come here for?” Snow asked, and if Jo didn’t know better, she could have sworn there was something implied beneath the question, like a fisherman casting a line into the dark unknown of the sea—if she’d even dare let herself read into it that way. She had so many questions, had come here ready to demand answers, and in the end, all she could manage to do was take a deep, shaky breath.
Jo licked her lips again—why was her mouth so dry? “I’m not sure, I just don’t know all that much about you, you know? Or the Society, or the wishes, really,” Jo added hastily, not wanting to give up entirely on her original mission. She wasn’t here for him. She definitely wasn’t here for him. She couldn’t let him, or her heart, get any misconceptions about that.
“Hmm.” Snow’s hum wrapped around her like a fog, making it hard for her to think, or see, for that matter. Slowly, he took another step forward, their toes almost touching. She could feel the warmth of his body like its own touch, could see every detail within the contours of his absurdly beautiful face. “You know more than you think.”
“Tell me about it? About your kingdom and your, how did you put it, ‘needlessly long lineages?’”
Something clouded and sad drifted through Snow’s eyes at the question, though his smirk stayed firmly in place, keeping Jo from panicking. “I was not born, but created.”
“What?” Jo whispered, oddly nervous.
“It was the Age of Gods, before the Age of Magic.”
“I thought you said you were from the Age of Magic. Back in the Ranger Compound.”
Snow thought a moment. “I believe I merely said magic was real at such a time.”
“Way to be technical.” Jo rolled her eyes. Age of Magic, that was the time when Eslar and Samson had made their wishes. What was the world like before then? “Was it common, in your time? To be made?”
“Not quite. They called me a demigod.” His smirk had fallen into a small smile, still sad, but sweetened some with nostalgia.
“Demigod? Age of Gods? Sounds like a step up from prince, Mr. Modest,” Jo teased, trying to laugh.
“I preferred to be their prince for just that reason. It seemed much. . . simpler.” His eyes wandered to the window.
