“Astrid,” said Freya. “Should we talk about…?”
The unfinished question hung between them.
“No,” Astrid said. “Let’s not.”
This time, when Astrid leaned down, the kiss was soft and deliberate, not desperate. Freya closed her eyes and allowedherself to feel every inch of contact between them, her hands on Astrid’s wrists and Astrid’s lips on hers. Astrid was so careful with the kiss—Freya realized Astrid was trying hard not to graze Freya with her tusks, and Freya was touched by how much Astrid cared. They’d built their bond of trust for a little over a decade, and it had evolved to something deeper and impenetrable. A fortress within which only the two of them could reside.
Freya pulled Astrid closer, backing herself against the wall. She loved Astrid’s hands enveloping her own and the feeling of Astrid’s firm body against hers and the way Astrid’s soft brown hair flowed around her ridged horns. She loved that Astrid was so tall and strong and solid. She admired her queen more than she could put into words, and the emotion filled her up.
I am not in love, Freya had told Brenn, and it was a lie.
She had been in love with Astrid for years. Maybe even as long as she had known her.
The first time Freya had seen Astrid was simultaneously forever ago and just yesterday. Beaten-down Freya, finally coming to a place that promised sanctuary and peace. And there Astrid had been, powerful and steady, the only leader to whom Freya had ever wanted to bend her knee.
And now Astrid was bending to reach Freya, and Freya was pushing off the wall and pressing the palm of her hand against Astrid’s chest to direct her deeper into the room. When they backed into the bed, Astrid’s knees gave out and she sat on the edge of the sheets, surprised to be there, blinking as though coming out of a trance.
Still standing, Freya reached toward Astrid as though her hands couldn’t help themselves. She dropped them abruptly. “Do you need water? Or anything?” she asked, swallowing.
Astrid’s eyes were flushed, alive, when she shook her head, when she put one firm hand on Freya’s waist and draggedher onto her lap. Conscious of Astrid’s warm thighs under her legs, Freya let her knees sink into the mattress on either side of Astrid’s and leaned in to kiss Astrid’s neck. Astrid arched her back against Freya’s touch, and Freya had the thought that this was a kind of magic—the power to elicit this response, with Freya’s lips on Astrid’s long, soft neck. Astrid’s pulse beat against Freya’s mouth; Freya’s fingers wrapped around Astrid’s horn; Astrid’s arm wound around Freya’s waist.
Astrid’s plait was undone, stray hairs askew, and Freya thought she had never looked more beautiful.
“Stars,” Astrid murmured at Freya’s kiss, then, “Wait, Freya.”
Freya stopped. Astrid broke the contact between Freya’s lips and her neck and rested her head on Freya’s shoulder. Her breathing was deep, rattling.
After a moment frozen—Freya in Astrid’s lap, Astrid on Freya’s shoulder—Freya stroked Astrid’s hair gently, and shifted to kiss the top of her head.
Freya waited in agony for Astrid’s next words. She was impatient. Life had come at her hard and fast, and she had learned to expect the same from it.
Thisleft her unmoored, unknowing, and she hated being unknowing. Freya had learned the way Astrid worked, her rules and her preferences and her needs, but none of it applied to romance. She did not know Astrid’s boundaries, did not know what was acceptable and what was comfortable.
A pit formed in Freya’s stomach: A desire to discover this, too, the way she’d figured out the workings of this castle when she’d first arrived.Not knowingwas the thing that kept her awake at night.
I would do anything for you, she wanted to say.I would be struck by a thousand arrows every day if it meant staying by your side.
But Freya and Astrid had never been the type to use their words to say anything so powerful or true.
“You make me forget,” said Astrid, “what a bad idea this is.”
Freya squeezed her eyes shut. She would stay with Astrid in any way Astrid would have her, and yet it hurt to hear. Already, Freya had voiced why they should be together however they wanted, and why it was a waste of time to hold back.
When had this started? How far back did it go? The first name, given like a gift. The ease of communicating without words. The offering of the dagger. Everything had been a gesture of love, almost since the start.
Freya couldn’t fathom how not to love her queen.
“What are you thinking?” Freya asked. Despite the care Astrid had taken, her tusks had still scraped Freya’s chin, and the raw skin stung in the cold, stale air of the room.
Astrid lifted her head to look Freya in the eye. Shifting, Freya lifted her legs so they weren’t touching Astrid’s. The breaking of contact was like the breaking of a spell.
“We shouldn’t touch each other,” Astrid said. “Not like this.”
“All right. Of course. As you wish,” said Freya. She slid off the bed and back to her stool, with the poison book inside the romance book rested upon it. Before, she hadn’t paid attention to the cover of the fictional book on the outside of her botanical research; now, the lovers in the illustration mocked her.
“I’m sorry,” Astrid said.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Freya whispered, biting back theMy Queenand the subsequent correction toAstrid. She would need to keep her mouth shut and stay in her place to maintain her proximity to Astrid. It was not fair to Astrid to engage in something she wasn’t comfortable with, even if they both wanted it.
