He simply holds that strand of hair, staring at it as though the world has narrowed to that single point of contact. Long enough that I feel the shift inside me, an unwanted flicker of awe at the terrible beauty of him. The Fae who loathes me. The male I fear. The monster I swear I despise, yet whose breath stirs something reckless in my chest. I catch myself wondering, shamefully, how his skin might feel beneath my touch.
Then he lets go.
His hand drifts away and curls into a fist that trembles. Trembles. My breath stutters as something in his expression fractures, anger dissolving into something far more raw.
Pain.
He staggers back, barely catching himself. His other hand shoots to his chest, clutching at the fabric as if tearing at a wound unseen.
Then, with a strangled gasp, he drops to one knee.
My heart lurches.Is he…dying?
He cannot breathe. His face twists in agony, and for the first time I see him not as a lord of winter or a wielder of impossible power, but as a creature crumpling beneath something he cannot control.
I step wide around him, keeping my distance, my gaze locked on the door. He makes no move to stop me. He can’t even speak.
This is my chance. There are no guards. No barriers. Just us.
I could run. I could escape this cursed castle. I could get home. My father could be free.
But then another thought freezes me.
What if he survives?
What if I flee and he comes after us both, enraged beyond reason?
My gaze flicks to the knife on the table. My breath catches.
What if I ended it now? What if I made sure he never followed? What if my father and I never had to fear him again?
If Lord Luceran Frostwyn were gone…Would the curse lift? Would Brunemar finally thaw? Would everyone in this land finally be free?
Luceran gasps again, the sound rougher now, scraped raw. He slams a fist against his chest as if trying to force his heart to obey him. The motion steals what little strength he has left, and he pitches forward, catching himself on one trembling hand as his breaths grow thin and uneven.
I freeze.
The knife glints on the table. My fingers twitch toward it. This could end everything.
I hover between choices, freedom or fear, mercy or survival, and reach for the blade.
But then he drags in a shuddering breath and lifts his head.
His mismatched eyes meet mine.
And what I see there—pain, confusion, something lost and strangely human—strikes me so sharply I gasp. The ache behind my ribs blooms without permission.
The knife slips from my thoughts.
I move before I can stop myself. I drop to my knees beside him, one hand steadying his back, the other gripping his forearm, feeling how violently he trembles beneath my touch.
“My lord,” I say, breathless with urgency. “Stay calm. Just breathe.”
His skin is cold beneath my hands, but smooth, as I imagined it might be, and I do not recoil.
His arm trembles under my grip, muscles coiled tight. I steady him.
“I am here,” I repeat, softer. “Breathe with me.”
