Astrid could hardly handle the weight of Freya’s gaze, but she forced herself to look into those stony gray eyes. The longer Astrid looked, the more watery Freya’s eyes became. She had never witnessed this level of emotion in Freya. Her first instinct was to dismiss it as a trick of the moonlight.
There was no way Freya could be crying forher.
“Are you going to make me say it?” Freya shook her head, incredulous.
“Say what?” Astrid breathed.
“I valueyou, Your Majesty. I—”
“Just Astrid.” Astrid wanted to rip off her cloak, rip off her skin. How stifling—Your Majesty.
Freya chewed her lip some more. “All right. I value you, Astrid, so I try to keep you close. And lately, I’ve been under the impression you felt the same.”
Astrid did not know what had possessed her to tell Freya to dismiss the formality, but the usage of her name, however awkward on Freya’s tongue, made her warm and dizzy, so dizzy she had to cling to the balcony’s railing for support.
How long had she lied to herself about Freya’s role in her life? Never had Freya acted solely as spymaster or bodyguard or handmaiden. She had been many things, everything, and Astrid relied on her more and more until Freya was of utmost importance to her. She could not imagine a future without Freya, and yet she had to. She wouldn’t be given a choice.
Astrid clutched at her heart. “Freya, I can’t discuss this right now.”
“Why not?” Freya demanded. She rocked back on her heels, using the railing for support. “Do you not feel the same?”
“I can’t answer,” Astrid said honestly. “There are so many things wrong with… We can’t do…” She swallowed. “You serve me, so the dynamic is unfair. I have my country to think about, and I can’t indulge distractions. And you will be gone in a few decades, but I will be here.”
“So many can’ts,” Freya said. “Can’t do this, can’t do that. Do they sound like excuses to you as much as they do to me?”
Without Astrid realizing, Freya had stepped closer. Astrid glanced at Freya’s hands. Those hands had braided her hair so delicately and touched the palm of her hand out of instinct.Everything Freya did occupied Astrid’s mind much longer than it needed to.
She swallowed again.
“It’s not a matter of excuses,” she argued.
“Give me a better one, then.” Freya’s eyes were earnest. She genuinely wanted an answer.
Every reason Astrid came up with could be dismissed as an excuse. How silly, then, to hold herself back when they were just two people on a balcony. She didn’t have to think about her duties as queen or Freya’s impending mortality or a power imbalance just now.
If anyone had power here, it was Freya.
Astrid fought her one last time, but even when she spoke, she knew it was futile as resisting her wyrd: “I can’t.”
Freya sensed her weakness and met it with breathtaking tenderness in her tone. “What if you could? What would you do if you could?”
By this time, Freya was so close, Astrid could feel her breath against the skin of her neck. She looked down at Freya—really looked at her, with her sharp hair and her sharp eyes and her fierce stance—and crumbled to pieces.
Astrid bent down, and Freya stretched upward, and they collided in the middle. Freya’s hand wound around the back of Astrid’s neck, pinning her in place. Her lips were so warm, so surprisingly soft. She tasted like mead. Mead and loyalty and danger. All the things Astrid wanted but could not have.
Astrid clung to Freya like she always had, backing her against the railing. Nimble as ever, Freya hopped onto it, and then they were at eye level. The soft sound of leather falling against stone was followed by Freya’s bare hands caressing Astrid’s face. Astrid stepped closer—she needed to be closer, closer, closer even than this—and Freya’s thighs wrapped around either side of her, squeezing her hips.
With the fervor of someone doing something she knew she shouldn’t, Astrid kissed Freya, and she kissed her some more. She touched the soft, short hairs on the back of Freya’s head. She clamped a hand onto Freya’s thigh, and Freya made a sound Astrid had never heard before—something between an inhale and a moan.
And Astrid knew she could die happy here. Denying herself this was foolish. She was suddenly self-conscious of her enthusiasm—aware her observant spymaster would pick up on how long Astrid had harbored these feelings. With every movement, Astrid gave away a little more of herself and how much she truly cherished Freya.
But Freya was meeting her enthusiasm with every kiss. It was pure luck they’d felt the same way. Pure luck and, perhaps, a bit of a curse.
Astrid was overcome with the desire toseeFreya’s face, not just to feel her, and she pulled away. Two ragged lines tore down either side of Freya’s lips, and it took Astrid a moment to place them—where her tusks had dragged against Freya’s skin. Freya’s lips were swollen, almost bloody, the skin scraped but not broken.
Astrid had not been careful. So much time had passed since she’d kissed someone. She should have considered Freya’s soft, human skin.
Gently, Freya leaned her forehead against Astrid’s and closed her eyes. The gesture was so tender, Astrid swallowed down bile. There was no one in the world she trusted as much as she trusted Freya.
