“That is quite dramatic.” She hopes he doesn’t notice the faint tremor in her voice. “Do lines like that usually work for you?”
He grins slowly, sinfully, arching a brow.
“I’m not sure. I’ve never tried before. So you tell me.” He traces his fingers over her clavicle, up the column of her neck, along her jaw. He’s barely touching her, but her body is lighting up in response. “Did it work?”
She’s definitely not breathing now. She stares up at him as his lips part, like he might kiss her, and she’s unsure what’s happening, how to feel. The prince tortured a man while she watched, and now she’s leaning in to him, craving more of his touch. The heat emanating from him makes her want to claw her clothes off, and she moves closer, as if possessed, knowing she absolutely shouldn’t, that Zryan is the last man on the continent she should want.
His words ring in her head:When you smile like that, you could bring me and my entire kingdom to its knees. She squeezes her eyes shut, freeing herself from his intense gaze, from this fever that’s gripped her, and scrabbles to think of something, anything that will douse the inferno building inside her.
Another knock penetrates the madness then, and her eyes fly open. Zryan’s gaze remains on her.
“I asked if you want to know me. What if I told you I want to know you?”
Her eyes widen. “We need to get out of here, Zryan. The king—”
“Please. Just—tell me something about yourself. Anything.” She tugs at the neckline of her tunic, his blazing focus scorching her. Incinerating her.
“I love the cold,” she bursts out. “I love the snow, and the mountains, and the frozen lakes of Isfjell. I—I miss the northern constellations, miss my home, and I’m scared I’ll never see it again.” She’s not sure where that came from, but now that she’s said it, Stars, does she feel the truth in every word. Even if Isfjell did come to feel like a gilded prison. He tilts his head, his expression contemplative. Sympathetic, even. She’s not a fan of him looking at her like that.
“What about you? Tell me something about you.”
He gives her another of those full smiles that make her insides congeal. “I’ve never seen snow.”
“Prince Zryan?” a Dreki shouts through the door.
“What is it?” he calls back, eyes still on Astrid.
“A message from the king. Your sister is returning.”
The relief on his face must mirror her own, though hers is shorter lived. If she’s back, that means Skylar has a dragon. And Astrid is going to die, after all.
Useless.
Useless.
Useless.
She shoves the intrusive thoughts out. Concentrates on her breathing instead.
“I’ll be right there,” he says to the guard, then appraises Astrid, seeming to consider something. “Hold on tight, Dimples.”
There’s a light pull in her gut, then he Teleports.
Her body feels like it’s twisting inside out, her eyeballs being sucked from her head. They appear on her balcony and she sways in his arms, trying not to heave.
“Easy.” He strokes her back, soothing her as she gulps down air. “It’ll pass in a moment, just keep breathing.”
Her forehead is pressed into his chest, and she stays like that until the dizziness retreats.
She pushes away from him and he reaches out for her, but she smacks him off.
“You ass. I thought you said we were never going to do that again.” She gasps. “Stars, how do you even stand it?” She imagines it’s what drowning must feel like.
“?‘Stars.’ I like that expression,” he muses. “I don’t feel it anymore, that compression. The first time I ever Teleported, I had no idea what had happened, I just found myself falling down a flight of stairs, vomiting as I did. Vaar, the sick was everywhere.”
“That… is absolutely disgusting.”
“It really was. My mother had me mop the ceiling. There’s nothing more humbling to a fifteen-year-old prince who’s just come into his once-in-a-millennium power than being scolded by his mother for ruining the cornice.”
