Or maybe he’s buried the truth so deeply within himself that even our shared bond can’t reach it.
My skin prickles with goosebumps as a chill slides down my spine. Whatever happened beyond the Starlit Region, whatever he did or was forced to do, has carved scars into his psyche. Heis haunted by it. Wounded. And beneath the regret, beneath the grief, there still burns a volatile, untamed rage.
The kind of rage only a fae male could harbor after being betrayed by the very soul that he should’ve been able to trust above all others.
My heart breaks for him. His mate, a female named Elssandra, tried to have him killed just so her cousin could take the throne. How utterly tragic.
Her cousin… her cousin.
The chill sliding down my spine becomes glacial.Oh, my gods.I think of my most recent vision, the bonfire in the middle of a Winter Court forest. The dozens of fae standing around the fire. The tall fae male sitting next to me, placing his hand on my shoulder, and calling meCousin.
I press my eyes shut and somehow, with great effort, push the vision from my mind.
Then I open my eyes and study King Theron for any sign that he heard my most recent thoughts. Thankfully, his expression hasn’t changed. It remains unguarded and vulnerable in a way that steals my breath. Though I don’t like seeing him so haunted by the past, so wounded, I’m grateful that his own sorrow has kept him from hearing my thoughts.
Later, I tell myself, in a secret, closed-off part of my mind. Later, when I’m alone, I’ll think about the visions and whether they relate to King Theron’s past. There’s no denying the strange clues that I might have a connection to the Winter King, a long-forgotten connection that defies logic. My excitement whenever it snows, my resilience to cold temperatures, and the flashes of familiarity I sometimes feel in King Theron’s presence.
My mother’s stories…
I don’t know who my father is…
I shove all my suspicions into that dark, secure space in my mind.
The king’s expression turns affectionate as he stares at me, and I can’t help but flush under his assessing gaze. He strokes my cheeks with his thumbs, and to my utter shock, leans forward and places a lingering kiss on my forehead.
A whimper leaves my throat, and a heated flush envelops my entire body.
“I would never hurt you, Helena,” he says. “Even if I became angry with you. I swear it, darling human. Please do not fear me. I want you to feel safe with me. Always.”
Tears suddenly burn in my eyes. His words are a balm to my lonely heart. Longing courses through me, and I find myself shifting closer to him, drawn by his earnest tone and the honesty that’s gleaming in his winter-blue eyes.
But then I go tense as I remember the images he sent me, the vision that showed him slaughtering Elssandra’s huge, extended family. Blood, snow, and screams. A violent storm of death. I think of Peter and his blood pooling in the snow, spreading fast, his face slack. Fae males can be vicious and unpredictable. Am I a fool if I allow myself to feel safe in King Theron’s presence? Am I a fool if I derive comfort from his arms?
I think of Mama’s stories, all her warnings, all the promises she made me keep.
Does my attraction to the Winter King make me a traitor to my people? Does it make me a traitor to my own mother?
King Theron straightens a bit and gives me a questioning look.
“Your mother was from the north?” he asks.
I feel the blood drain from my face. Well. It would seem I’m no longer doing a good job of keeping my thoughts hidden in that dark, quiet space in my mind. I exhale a shaky breath.
“Yes,” I finally say. “My mother was from Hersinna. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“Of course. It’s the northernmost human city in the realm, and it’s rather close to the Northern Isles. It’s the very first city my people conquered after ussha began spreading.”
Ussha. The lifeforce that powers his people’s magic. Of course. I’ve heard about it, and I suppose that explains the stories the traveling merchants have shared about glimmering vegetation and strange creatures recently entering human and orc territories.
“Who is your father?” King Theron’s eyes flicker with suspicion.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “My mother always told me that my father died before she even realized she was carrying me.”
“Where is your mother now?”
“She’s gone. Dead.” My throat burns.
“I am sorry, Helena. Truly, I am.” His expression softens, and I sense his compassion, such an unexpected emotion to detect from a highborn fae male.
