Beside the chaise is the large thermal conductor, a column of ceramic that extends from the floor to the ceiling, radiating warmth around the drawing room.
A door in the center of the far wall leads to a hallway, which in turn leads to multiple rooms, including two bedrooms and finally, the hidden garden at the back of the compound. Another garden made of stone.
The floor has been cleaned of bloodstains.
Thyra’s eyes widen. “It’s warm in here.”
“We call this place theRose Room,” I say. “It’s more than a room, as you can see, but my father liked to think he’d confined my mother to a small space.”
Surrounded by stone walls. From which he imagined sound wouldn’t travel.
Thyra’s hand remains pressed to my heart as I carry her to the chaise lounge, allowing her to slide to its surface.
The room has no windows—like every room in this building—only a clear panel in the ceiling that allows light through. As soon as the sun sets, the light will fade, bringing only the frantic reflections of moonlight off raging snowflakes.
The chaise is free of visible dust. So are the other surfaces around us. The staff must have been keeping the Rose Room clean. I didn’t ask them to do that, but my mother was kind to them. This must be how they honor her memory.
I back away from Thyra, my shoulders hunching.
Her hand falls to her side as I retreat to the side of the room farthest from the thermal conductor. “My mother wasn’t a Frost Fae. She felt the cold as much as you must.” I point at the conductor. “That heating element taps into the hot springs running beneath Frost, drawing the heat upward. There’s a heating element in her bedroom, too. You can sleep in there if you wish.”
Maybe I’m not so unpredictable, after all.
Every other building in my palace is freezing cold, a factor that doesn’t bother me at all, but Thyra needs warmth to thrive.
Already, the strain on her breathing is easing and color returns to her cheeks, signs the heat is making her stronger.
I told myself Thyra would only stay here for one night, but the realities of keeping her alive in my frozen kingdom might force me to change my mind.
Her reply is soft. “I will sleep where you sleep.” Then, with a challenging light in her eyes and the glimmer of a smile on her lips, she says, “How else will I protect you?”
With her head held high and while still facing me, she peels off the warm cloak, swiftly undoing the toggles so she can slide the Alak-Teahan garment off her shouldersand step out of its leggings.
My response is silence as I remain hunched where I stand across the room.
She takes my stern quiet in her stride.
Turning away from me, she drapes the cloak over the side of the chaise and removes her boots before she straightens, her back now to me.
Standing straighter, she stretches her arms and her neck and rolls her shoulders.
At her sigh, the Lethian armor ripples across her body.
With every languid stretch she makes, the silver threads transform themselves, shifting around her form. Pulling away, revealing patches of skin before covering her again. Gliding across her left shoulder blade. Her spine. Her hip. Revealing the back of her thigh. Then her calf. Threads exposing and then concealing nearly every part of her as she sighs through the movement.
Does she understand the impact of her moans?
My fingertips ache to trace the edges of silver, follow the threads flowing across her curves while the material settles into a new shape around her.
A glistening gown. The final threads extend up into her hair, elevating it away from her neck.
She turns back to me, revealing a low neckline that cuts in a V nearly all the way to her waist. The sleeve on her right shoulder is short, leaving the blade’s image fully visible, while a long sleeve covers her left arm.
The material swishes around her legs. Alluring sounds.
She checks out the form the armor has taken and then shrugs at it.
“Not the garment you wanted?” I ask, gluing myself to the painted wall so I don’t give in to my impulse to close the gap between us and ask for permission to explore every inch of her body.
