Ilie stretched across the velvet cushions, the carriage rolling beneath me as feeling seeps back in slow, uneven pulses. The pain at the back of my head eases from a blinding throb to something dull and bearable. Blood has dried and matted in my hair, tugging sharply when I move. I welcome every ache, every discomfort. It means I am still here.
The sprites stir on the opposite seat. At first they move gingerly, testing wings and limbs as if unsure what will answer them. Then, emboldened, they zip about in erratic loops, chattering to one another. One of them flings the door open in a burst of enthusiasm, and a whirl of snow floods into the carriage.
“Hey, close that door,” Luceran growls from the driver’s bench.
The sprites bicker instantly, blaming one another in indignant bursts before darting outside to slam the door shut. A moment later, I see them scramble up to the front, and through the small window I catch sight of one perching boldly on Luceran’s shoulder, wrapping itself in his long hair while the other somehow balances on the tip of his ear.
Despite everything, a weak smile tugs at my mouth.
I watch as he speaks to them, his words lost beneath the rush of wind and the steady clap of hooves. They answer with quick nods and bursts of rapid babble, and I ache with the wish that I could understand them. That I could be out there too. That I could speak, because the words searing through my head, burning on my tongue, desperate to escape, have nowhere to go.
I tell myself it is only exhaustion. That I am battered and bruised and not thinking clearly. But even knowing that does nothing to ease the pressure. It is all too much.
The carriage rolls on, and my head lolls with each uneven bump in the road. A hollow ache blooms in my chest, sudden and overwhelming, grief and fear and relief knotted together until I cannot tell where one ends and the next begins. It is the screams in the forest and the darkness beneath the lake. It is my father’s porch, the loft in the barn, thehowl in the night, the hands that smashed through frozen rock and dragged me into the light.
Tears well before I can stop them. My chest shudders, breath hitching, and then the dam breaks entirely. I sob, loud and helpless and ugly, unable to name the reason because there is no single reason at all. It is everything.
The carriage jolts to a halt.
I feel the shift of weight as Luceran drops from the driver’s bench. The door wrenches open, and cold air rushes in, but I barely register it before he is there, urgency driving every movement, still wearing the fur knotted around his waist and nothing else. He lifts me without hesitation, his hands finding me instinctively, gathering me into his arms as if he has been waiting for the moment I would need him again.
The sprites scramble forward to take the reins as Luceran pulls me onto his lap. I fold into him without thinking, pressing my face to his chest, my body shaking as the tears come fast and unchecked, so fierce I cannot imagine them stopping.
A layer of frost clings to his body as he holds me close, one arm firm around me, the other cradling my head, his hand moving through my hair in slow, steady strokes. His breath warms my temple as he murmurs low, wordless sounds meant only for me, meant to calm what is breaking loose inside my chest. Between those quiet murmurs, he presses feather-light kisses to my brow.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, the words barely audible through the tears.
He hushes me at once, tightening his hold. “There is nothing to be sorry for,” he says quietly. “Just rest now. With me. I won’t let anything hurt you.”
And for the rest of the journey back to Castle Frostwyn, I do exactly that.
I stay wrapped in his arms, and he does not loosen his hold, not even once.
Eventually, I begin to recognize the land outside the window.
The road curves in familiar ways now, and I know without needing to see the towers that Castle Frostwyn is close.
I hear Luceran’s heartbeat through his smooth skin.
It is slow. Steady. Nothing like my own, which still flutters too fast, too loud, a frantic rush beneath my ribs. His calm pace eases me, seeps into me, until my breathing begins to follow it. There is a quiet certainty in that rhythm, a reassurance I can feel rather than name. The stillness that comes with cold. The safety of being held by someone who does not know fear.
My hand drifts upward without permission from my thoughts. My fingers curl around a strand of his hair, my knuckle brushing the line of his collarbone, and I feel the smallest hitch in his breath beneath my touch.
I lift my chin and nuzzle into the hollow of his neck. The chill of him grazes the tip of my nose as I breathe him in, the crisp bite of winter threaded with the subtle musk of leather-bound books. My lips hover at his throat, barely touching, close enough to feel his pulse leap beneath my mouth.
Then I press a single kiss there.
He inhales sharply.
“Luceran,” I whisper.
It is the first time I have spoken his name without a title.
He looks down at me. Blue and gold meet my gaze, and the space around us seems to shrink. Everything that had me boiling over, pushing me past what I thought I could handle, slips suddenly out of reach. For one quiet breath, it means nothing at all. Just a small pause, suspended in the stretch of time opening before us.
I lift my hand, cup the side of his face, feel the strength there beneath my palm. With the smallest tug, I draw him down toward me.
He comes willingly.
