He says this as if I’m not in the midst of unfastening his pants. I yank at the lacings, pulling each one free with quick efficiency. “I could have had her miles away by now,” I say. “But then we brought you.”
“That is not what I asked.” He pauses. “I can sense your worry. It’s clear you have no plan of action.”
If he said it with disdain, I’d punch him in the gut and leave him to piss all over himself.
But he doesn’t. He says it like a confidant. Like a friend who has to give you a hard truth.
“We’ll be fine,” I say flatly. His lacings finally give, and I tug his trousers wider, discovering that they’re lined with fur. No wonder he’s not as cold as we are. But when I go to pull at his underclothes, my fingers brush against bare skin. He gives a little flinch, a quick little indrawn breath.
I don’t even know what I touched, but I flushimmediately.
“Your hands are cold,” he says, which doesn’t help.
His accent turns the words to honey, and that doesn’t help either.
I have no idea whether he’s free enough to urinate without getting any on himself, but I feel flushed and uncertain, and I’m not looking downnow. I give one more downward tug for good measure, then take a step back and turn away. “Go ahead. I’ll be right back.”
I stride through the snow until I’m ten feet away, and I unlace my own trousers to do the same thing.
When I turn back, he’s dropped back a few paces, as if to demonstrate that he’s done. He’s kicked the snow over any evidence, too. But his trousers have slipped down his hips, revealing the pale curve of his buttocks.
I jerk my eyes away—until I realize I’m going to have to lace him back up. Heat crawls up my neck again, and I wish for my hooded jacket. There’s a part of me that just wants to leave him out here.
When I stop in front of him, I don’t hesitate. I just tug everything upward, my fingers brushing bare skin again. He doesn’t flinch this time, so I let go of his undergarments and jerk his trousers back together. It pulls us even closer.
“Is everything where it needs to be?” I say stiffly.
“Yes,” he says. “Thank you.”
He’sstilllooking me dead in the face. I nearly falter.
I have to look down to rethread the lacings, and I’m tempted to just thread one loop and be done with it. The only thing that makes me do it thoroughly is the fact that I don’t want Jory to see him coming undone. She flushed bright red when I curled up with her in her chambers, and that was fully clothed.
I thread the lacings carefully, our breath fogging between us again. I don’t think he’s hard—because why would he be?—but I’m very aware of the weight of him pressing against the lacings, especially each time my knuckles brush against his warmth. I hate that he’s got me so rattled. The worst part is that Ishouldn’tbe. Compared to my life with the slavers, this is nothing.
But then the knot is tied and I’m reaching for his utility belt, shoving these thoughts away. He’s our captive, that’s it. A vicious king who’ll kill me if he gets loose. He never would’ve spoken a word to me if I hadn’t forced him out of the palace. I’m nothing. I’m no one. This is just the effect of my memories, of a life where touch and closeness could be wielded like a weapon.
I tug the belt, slip the prong through the middle hole, and tuck the length away.
“Thank you,” he says again.
I grunt and turn away.
He shuffles through the snow behind me as he follows. “That was an unexpected mercy, Asher.”
Something about that makes me flush in a different way. I don’t know what to say.
When I slip back through the door, he follows, moving almost as silently as I do. Jory shifts again, but I hold my breath and ease the door closed. She burrows more deeply into my jacket and settles. She kepttucking her hands into the sleeves earlier, and I was kicking myself for not just kidnappingher. Then we wouldn’t be in this mess at all.
I wish I had a quilt, or something else to give her.
But of course, I can never give her anything at all.
I glance at the small pile of wood again. I shouldn’t add more to the stove. It’s been hours, and I really don’t want to risk anyone seeing the smoke.
But then I look at her nearly pressed against the metal legs, as if she’d crawlintothe stove to get warm.
The hell with it. I draw a ragged sigh and bury another small log in the burning embers. I think I’ll need to strike the flint again, but it catches almost immediately.
