Forme.
“Neve,” he says, voice hoarse. “Please. Go to your room.”
I try to speak, but no sound comes out. My lips tremble. My whole body trembles. Somehow, I force myself upright, legs unsteady beneath me.
I turn toward the castle and walk. I don’t run. I don’t look back. I don’t dare.
I know he does not follow.
The snow crunches beneath my bare feet when I reach the bank. My nightgown clings cold and wet to my skin. The roses scratch my calves as I pass, frozen petals tugging at the fabric like they’re trying to keep me from leaving. But there is no force in this world that could make me stay. Not when Luceran looks at me like he might devour me. Not when I might let him.
I slip inside and close the door behind me, the quiet click sounding far too small for what I’ve just witnessed.
And I go straight to my room.
10
The next morning is one of the days Atilia does not come to the castle. I know her rotation by heart now, exactly when she will storm through the doors with a scowl and when she will not.
Today, the duty is mine alone.
I rise before dawn, pull on my warmest layers, and make my way downstairs. The kitchen is silent, and I keep myself busy, afraid of what might surface if I allow myself to linger. If I dawdle, the events of last night creep back in. I am not ready to believe any of it was real.
So I focus on one thing only. Preparing his breakfast exactly as he likes it.
I set the table with care, silver polished, plates steaming, napkin folded to precise perfection.
Then I wait.
And wait.
But Lord Luceran never comes downstairs.
A knot tightens in my stomach. I glance at the stairs, then back at the untouched food. Something prickles along my spine.
Eventually curiosity snaps whatever restraint I had left.
I walk the familiar halls first. No sign of him. No sound at all. Only the hiss of snow squeezing through cracked windows and whispering across the stone.
Then I reach a hallway I’ve never entered.
The temperature drops immediately, so sharply I stop mid-step. Frost crawls thick along the walls, a white crust that clings to the stone as my breath fogs the air.
The hall ends at a single heavy door. I raise a hand, knock twice.
“Lord Luceran?” My voice cracks. “Your breakfast is ready.”
Silence.
I wait. Nothing.
I consider opening the door, but evenIam not that foolish. Breaking into a winter lord’s private chamber would be the most spectacularly stupid mistake in a long string of stupid mistakes.
So I pull my coat tighter, shiver my way back down the corridor, and return to the one place where I always find some sense of control: the tower.
I bury myself in paperwork, letting the hours slip by until the numbers blur together. By the time the veiled sun bleeds low behind the icy peaks, I have nearly convinced myself that last night was nothing more than a horrible nightmare, something imagined, something that could not possibly have happened.
But when I return downstairs to prepare his dinner, the world corrects me. His breakfast is still there, untouched and cold as stone. He never came at all today.
