And yet, why give me the key to the library? Why risk his life to save me on the ice, and in the mine?
Those are not the actions of someone incapable of good.
When sleep finally creeps close, my thoughts drift to my father. To how much I miss him. To how I would give anything to see him again, to know that he is safe.
That want, that aching need, is what finally carries me into sleep.
Another hope I know will never be answered.
The next morning, I dress in emerald green, because it has always suited my brown eyes and red hair. Green dye is expensive, though, so I have never been able to wear it often. Not until now.
I leave my room and head toward the tower, but the sprites are there, waiting.
They intercept me without ceremony, turning me around and ushering me down the stairs with urgent, fluttering insistence. I frown at them, confused. I’m not due at the mines today, and it is Atilia’s turn to prepare Luceran’s breakfast.
Still, I let them guide me. All the way to the towering doors of the throne room.
A draft sweeps through as I approach, pushing the massive doors open before I can touch them. They slam hard against the walls, the echo ringing through the vast space, and just when I think I have grown used to the cold, I gasp as the chilled air bites into my skin.
Thin, nearly translucent curtains billow along either side of the hall, stirring in the icy wind pouring through the tall, open windows. At the far end of the chamber, seated upon his frozen throne, is Lord Luceran.
He wears a heavy coat of silver furs, broad across his shoulders, framing the powerful span of his body beneath. His trousers are loose white linen, sitting low on his hips, whilethe sheerest pale silk clings to his torso, stretched smooth over dense muscle and hard planes. The fabric does nothing to hide him. It only traces what is already unmistakable. The solid breadth of his chest. The defined lines of his abdomen. The strength coiled beneath his skin.
The shirt hangs unbuttoned nearly to his sternum, exposing more than it conceals, turning the suggestion of his body into certainty. Every shift of his breath pulls the silk tighter, making him impossibly clear and defined.
His hands grip the arms of the chair, fingers tapping in a steady rhythm. He leans forward, eyes locking onto me at once, and the intensity of his gaze makes my knees threaten to give way.
I suddenly feel very small in this hall of giants.
“Come to me, Neve Devlin,” he calls.
I pace forward slowly, not only because the floor gleams with frost and threatens to betray my footing, but because my anxiety and fear refuse to let me move any faster.
With every step, he comes more sharply into focus, and I take him in. All of him. The carved line of his jaw and cheekbones. Ivory hair, sheened with silver, knotted into a bun at the back of his head. Otherworldly eyes that feel as though they were never meant for mortal sight.
The beauty of this Fae lord is undeniable, almost painful, and I cannot seem to stop thinking about him, no matter how hard I try.
He has healed. That much is clear, and yet the warmth I saw before, the faint pink flush that bloomed beneath his skin, is gone. His complexion has returned to its pale, wintry stillness, as if that heat was only ever temporary, something drawn out by me alone. Something my body could give, but not something he can hold on to by himself.
He looks strong nonetheless. Whole. Commanding the frozen throne with an authority that feels ancient and unassailable. When I finally stand before him, my head lowers.
Part of me knows it is protocol. The rest of me lowers my gaze, because I am not sure I could meet his without breaking apart.
Silence stretches between us.
It is not empty, but taut, humming like a drawn wire, as though neither of us quite knows where to begin or how much truth the other can bear. The cold air curls around my ankles. The great hall creaks softly, ice crackling along the walls.
Luceran is the one who breaks it.
“Twice now you have aided me when I needed it most.”
My fingers curl reflexively at my sides.
“That is not an easy thing for me to accept, and it is even harder for me to understand. I assume you have done so out of loyalty to your lord. But I am not convinced I believe that.”
My pulse stutters.
“I do not believe you would consider me worthy of the effort you have made.” There is no accusation in his voice, only an unsettling honesty. “And yet I am grateful, for whatever reason drives the choices you make.”
