She shoved the door open and stomped inside.‘Clear me!’ she demanded.
Alarik, who was in the middle of sparring with his cousin, paused mid-strike.
‘What?’ he said, spinning to face her.
Elias disarmed him in one swift move, but the king barely noticed, letting his sword clatter to the floor.
‘Haven’t you ever heard of knocking, Iversen?’ drawled Elias.
Greta ignored him, keeping her gaze and her rage on Alarik.
‘Clear me,’ she said, again. ‘I want to go back to work.’
Alarik narrowed his eyes, looking her over. ‘You’re not ready.’
‘That’s not for you to decide!’ she snapped.
‘Yes, it is!’ he snapped back.
Elias whistled. ‘Did that blow to your face rearrange your personality, Iversen?’
Alarik whipped his head around. ‘Get the hell out.’
Elias raised his brows. ‘It was a joke—’
‘Leave us!’ he barked, sending his spymaster slinking from the room.
Greta slammed the door after him then stood with her back against it. Her throat tightened, her anger twisting into something deep and painful as the king pinned her with that piercing blue gaze. His breath punched out of him, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Why had she come here? Why was she angry? And why did she suddenly feel like bursting into tears?
He took a step towards her, his voice softening. ‘What’s wrong, wildling?’
‘You.’ She closed her eyes, desperately fighting back tears. ‘Youare what’s wrong.’
Silence yawned. The room narrowed as he drew closer, tugged by that invisible string in her chest. His scent washed over her, the heady mix of woodsmoke and pine making her dizzy. ‘You’re angry at me,’ he said, with quiet bewilderment. ‘Tell me why.’
‘I don’t know why,’ she said, in a cracked whisper. Her emotions were swirling like a blizzard. Too fast. Too many at once. She reached for a snowflake – something that had hurt her. ‘You left me alone.’
‘You ran from my bedroom, Greta.’
‘You never checked on me.’
‘I was giving you space.’
I don’t want space from you.
She clamped the words on her tongue. She couldn’t say that. What good would it do?
‘What else?’ he pressed, catching her tear with the pad of his thumb. She opened her eyes. He was standing right in front of her, and gazing at her with such tenderness it made her knees weak. Why had she come here, only to torture herself?
‘What else?’ he said, softer now.
She reached for a different snowflake – another point of pain. ‘You won’t clear me for work.’
‘You’re not well enough for work.’
