Alarik had almost taken a cue from Tor and flattened the steward with his fist when an unexpected avalanche pulled him outside. He had stood on the front steps of the palace, frowning up at the new fissures in his mountains.
Somewhere within, the beast was growing impatient. He could hear it more keenly now, feel the ripples of its frustration like a brisk, biting wind. He was going to have to do something about it, before the mountains caved in and fate intervened. It would take careful planning, and more soldiers than he could spare right now. Not while Vask was still breathing down his neck.
Alarik had been standing on the front steps when Elias arrived. The spymaster hopped out of his sled sporting a stark frown that demanded urgent attention.
They had gone at once to the war room, where Elias relayed his scouts’ grim tidings from the north. Queen Regna was furious. Having failed to kidnap the Gevran wrangler and losing the Spear in her attempt, she was regrouping, joining her remaining forces with soldiers from Ryberg. In one moon’s time, she was going to storm right through the Blackspires and take Gevra while its army was still on its knees.
Without the backing of Halgard, Alarik’s kingdom would fall.
If he didn’t secure his borders, he would lose everything.
His alliance – and the marriage that begot it – was more important than ever. And yet, no matter how he tried to keep his mind on the advancing tides of war, Alarik couldn’t stop thinking about Greta.
He had to talk to her. To tell her he was sorry. Not for the kiss – no. The kiss was the best thing that had happened to him in years – but for what would come next.
After leaving the war room, he bid goodbye to his cousin, before heading down to the lower floors of the palace.
Standing in front of Greta’s bedchamber, he nervously fixed his collar, swiped a hand through the unruly strands of his hair and knocked.
A moment later, the door creaked open. His wrangler was dressed for bed, wearing a pair of soft navy pyjamas with her copper hair falling in loose tresses down her back. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were red.
His stomach twisted. ‘Have you been crying?’
‘What are you doing here?’ she said at the same time.
‘I wanted to see you,’ said Alarik.
‘It took you long enough,’ she said, a barb in her voice.
He deserved that.
‘I was giving you and your brother some bonding time. I didn’t want to ruin your reunion by getting murdered by him.’
Her nose scrunched as she considered his excuse.
He said again, ‘Have you been crying, Greta?’
She snorted, then turned around, leaving the door ajar. He took that as an invitation to follow her, slipping inside and closing it after him. He looked around, taking in her meagre little chamber. And hated it at once. The bed was too narrow, there was no natural light, and the walls were damp. It was a wonder she hadn’t gotten sick.
She quickly tidied up her desk, shuffling her letters into a pile, then moved to perch against it. ‘Did you come down here to judge my lodgings or do you want to say something?’
Another barb. His wrangler was all bite tonight.
He sighed as he leaned against the wall. ‘If you want me to go, I can—’
‘No, don’t go,’ she said, her bravado faltering. Betraying a glimpse of her true emotions – hurt, and a hint of lingering desire. ‘Stay. We can talk.’
He nodded slowly, not quite sure where to begin. ‘I’m sorry about today,’ he said, completely ineptly.
‘Which part?’
Again, he was taken aback at her boldness. Not that he didn’t deserve it. She was just different tonight. A little sharper, colder.
‘The aftermath,’ he said, because even though the kiss had complicated matters, he could not bring himself to regret it, to deny that crucial taste of happiness.
‘Not the kiss, then.’
He thought she looked relieved.
