It’s not fair. Why did he have to die? Why did Mama have to die?
Why did the godsdamn Winter Court army have to conquer Braemar?
Why did thousands of my people have to die or go missing?
What happened to the Sinclairs?
I don’t throw the rings at the wall. Instead, I shove them into the pocket of my cloak, then I burst into tears. I cover my face and turn away from King Theron. I feel too raw. Too vulnerable.
Strong arms abruptly wrap around me, and I’m pulled against a hard, muscular chest. The familiar scent of pine, smoky wood, peppermint, and fresh-fallen snow surrounds me, each breath a reminder that I’m in the arms of the Winter King. My captor. My tormentor.
And yet, he is the one holding me together right now.
He doesn’t speak. He simply hugs me as though I might shatter if he loosens his hold, one broad hand moving slowly up and down my back, steady and patient. Every so often, he presses his face into my hair, kissing the crown of my head with a tenderness that makes my heart ache.
Why do his arms feel like the sweetest refuge?
I should want to push him away. I should remember everything he represents, everything he’s taken from my people, from my city. And I should judge him for it. I should hate him for it. But instead, I cling to him as though my life depends upon it. I lace my arms around his waist, holding onto him as though he’s my only hope, my only chance at ever feeling whole again.
Eventually, my sobs fade to soft sniffles. I blink, draw back slightly, and cast a shy, nervous glance at him. I can’t believe I just broke down sobbing in front of King Theron, the cruel fae king who was supposed to like my tears. The cruel fae king I was once so certain would torture me and eventually kill me.
Instead, my tears seem to disturb him. I can’t read his thoughts, not at this moment, but his ice-blue eyes betray a flash of worry and compassion.
He reaches into the pocket of his leather pants, pulls out a clean, white handkerchief, and dabs it to my face, cleaning away my tears with a quiet gentleness that speaks volumes.
Once he’s finished, he tucks the soiled handkerchief away and reaches for the rucksack. He places a hand to my lower back and guides me to the door.
“Come, darling human. Let’s return to the castle.”
CHAPTER 22
THERON
I keepan arm wrapped around Helena as we stand on the balcony, gazing out over the nighttime landscape of Braemar. The lights of the city flicker below us, and beyond the stone walls, the forest shimmers with faint traces of ussha-blessed growth.
She’s been quiet since we retrieved her belongings from the bakery this morning, though I’ve been able to hear her thoughts all day.
As far as I can tell, she hasn’t heard a single one of mine.
Not since the night we kissed.
I know she blocked me once, deliberately. I heard the intent in her thoughts, along with her fear, her desperate prayers that I would never learn about the strange visions that have plagued her of late. And yet it unsettles me that she cannot hear me now, even when I have left my mind open to her.
I want her to hear me. I want her to feel what I feel for her.
What kind of visions have inspired such fear in her? What has she seen that makes her worry I might react badly? The memory of her silent panic still claws at me.
I want to ask about the visions, but after the day she’s had, after her breakdown in the bakery, I decide now is not the right moment. Tomorrow, I tell myself. I will ask tomorrow.
Tonight, I will do whatever I can to ease her fears, whatever I can to make her understand that I will not hurt her, that there is nothing she could do to make me stop wanting her.
The realization startles me. A smile tugs at my lips, a rare burst of happiness spreading through my chest. But it’s true. I want her beyond all reason.
I snuggle her closer in my arms and take deep inhales of her frost flower scent. Not for the first time, I consider that she might have a few drops of fae blood. Then I tense at the thought… because what if she has a mate?
All those who possess fae blood, even the smallest drop, are supposed to have mates, one soul the gods designed just for them. If I ever learned she was supposed to belong to another, I don’t believe I could honor the will of the gods. In fact, I’m certain I would use violent means to keep her.
The little human shifts slightly against me, and the night breeze toys with a loose strand of her hair, lifting it across her cheek before letting it fall again.
