Cold air rushes in with him as he steps outside, the door closing softly behind his broad frame.
Father wipes his eyes on his sleeves and I kiss his cheek, then guide him to his chair. I put a hot cup of tea in his hands, and the heat stops them from shaking. As he sips, I move without thinking, drifting to the window.
Moonlight spills across the yard, cutting through the snow that falls in a slanted curtain. I watch Luceran cross it alone, his coat pulled tight against the cold, ivory hair catching the light with each step before he disappears into the barn.
Only then do I exhale, the breath leaving me in a shudder that runs deep through my chest.
Father watches me from his chair.
“Neve,” he says slowly. “I have never seen him act like that. Not once. And the way you look at each other.” He hesitates. “Is something going on between you and the Winter Lord?”
Heat floods my face. “No.”
The word comes too fast.
He studies me carefully. “He is not forcing you into anything, is he? You would tell me if he was.”
“I promise,” I say, and this time it is the truth. “Nothing is happening.”
He nods, offering a small, uncertain smile, but I know he does not believe me. I cannot blame him.
“Come,” he says softly. “Sit with me. Eat some cake before it goes dry.”
I set what remains of the sweet cake on the small table in front of him, then lift my cup of tea, noticing Luceran’s untouched cup cooling on the bench. I perch on the arm of Father’s chair, and together we nibble at the cake while the fire crackles low. As the hour grows late, Father’s cough returns, rougher now, deeper, and without hesitation I fetch one of the tonics I prepared earlier.
He drinks it with a grimace.
Within moments, the cough eases.
He looks at me in wonder. “That is remarkable. I feel like a young man again.”
I frown. “It is not an elixir of life, but it should make breathing easier and ease the pain in your chest. As long as I am at Castle Frostwyn, I can get as much as you need.”
He shakes his head. “You have already sacrificed so much for me, Neve. But you cannot stay there. Not with him. Not with that monster.”
I nod gently and offer a small smile. “It is getting late. We can talk more in the morning.”
He nods, a yawn slipping free, and I help him to bed, tucking the blankets around his thin shoulders. I tidy the dishes, straighten the furniture, sweep the snow from the threshold and off the porch, then stoke the fire until it settles into a low, steady burn.
When everything is done, when the house is warm and quiet and the embers smolder in the hearth, I retreat to my old room, pausing only to take my book from the desk in the corner. It still sits exactly as I left it.
The bed creaks the same way it always has as I climb in. My gaze lingers on the wardrobe across the room, thoughts drifting to my mother and the shape of her absence, but I do not let them settle. I open the book and balance it on my chest instead. I never did find out how this one ends.
I lose myself between the pages, time slipping past unnoticed. I do not know how late it is when I reach the ballroom scene.
In the book, the ballroom glows with candlelight and music, silk skirts brushing polished floors as couples turn in slow, intimate circles. The hero draws the heroine close, his hand firm at the small of her back, guiding her with a familiarity that feels almost indecent in such a public place.
Their fingers lace as they spin, palms sliding, lingering a moment too long. Each step pulls them closer, until the space between them is nothing at all, her breath caught againsthis collar, his mouth near her ear as he murmurs something meant for her alone. The crowd fades. The music softens. All that remains is the press of bodies, the heat of skin through layers of finery, the unspoken promise carried in every slow turn of the dance.
The unwelcome sensation curls low in my stomach. I shift beneath the blankets, heat flushing through me. I close the book with more force than necessary, but the scene lingers anyway. The slow turn of the dance. The press of bodies. Hands placed with too much intention to be innocent.
And then, inevitably, my thoughts shift.
To Luceran.
To the inn.
To the carriage.
