In my own room, I crawl into bed without changing, dirt and all, staring up at the ceiling.
Trying to decide whether that was the most passionate night of my life or the worst mistake I’ve ever made.
21
Iwake to muted sunlight spilling across my face and, for a long, disoriented moment, I do not understand why. Lately I have become so used to waking early, before the sky has a chance to shift from night to dawn. If the sun is up, that must mean I have slept in.
I push myself upright and the world slowly comes into focus. I rub my left eye to clear the haze, then squint at the pale yellow light pouring through the narrow gap between the curtains. Beyond the sleet, I can just make out the sun, already high in the sky. I have not stolen a few extra minutes of sleep, but hours. I cannot remember the last time I slept this late.
It is clearly what my body needed. The last few weeks have been relentless, exhausting, nothing like what I imagined the day I made a bargain with a Fae.
Then, unbidden, memory stirs.
Cold hands. A hard chest. A kiss that still feels like frost burn on my lips.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the image away. His mouth, open and intent, breathing mine in as our need blurred lines etched into ancient stone. I only have a short time with my father. I will not let him take that from me too.
My jaw tightens as I swing my legs from the bed, resolve settling where longing threatens to linger.
I wash briskly, scrubbing beneath my nails a little harder than necessary, as though I can scour the thoughts from my skin if I try hard enough. I dress with the same care, fastening buttons, smoothing fabric, reassembling myself piece by piece until I resemble something sensible again. Something untouched by the Fae in the most intimate way.
When I step into the living room, the house is quiet. A pot of tea sits warming on the stove, steam curling lazily from the spout. I pour myself a cup and carry it to the window, wrapping my hands around the warmth.
Father is already in the field, shovel in hand, digging fresh snow away from the stubborn rows of plantings. His movements are slower than I remember.
I sip my tea, my gaze sliding instinctively toward the barn over the rim of the cup.
There is no sign of Luceran.
No towering figure cutting a stark line through the white. No unnatural frost curling through the air. He is impossible to miss when he is near, so where is he? Still in the barn at this late hour? Has he overslept too? I am furious that I care, almost as furious as I am aware of the ghost of his touch, the way my skin still feels too sensitive, as though it remembers him even now.
I finish my tea and step outside, the cold biting at my cheeks as I cross the yard. I pass the barn without slowing and stop by the fence, resting one boot on the lower rail.
Father looks up when he notices me.
“Morning, love,” he calls. “You sleep well?”
“Well enough,” I reply. “You didn’t wake me.”
He snorts softly. “Didn’t have the heart. You were out cold. I even heard you snoring a little. Figured the journey must’ve worn you thin.”
I frown. “I don’t snore.”
Father chuckles. “Right. Must’ve been me then.”
A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth as he drives the shovel hard into the ground, striking the ice that hardened overnight, determined to break through it.
I hesitate, then ask as casually as I can manage, “Have you seen Lord Luceran this morning?”
Father barely glances up as he shovels. “Oh, aye. He left early.”
My head snaps toward him. “Left?”
“Yes. First thing, just after the light came up.” He nods toward the fence. “Didn’t take the carriage or those tiny critters. I watered the horses though, and put them in the barn once he was gone.”
My pulse stutters as I look to the empty road layered with fresh powder, the snow undisturbed.
“Then how did he leave?”
