I don’t touch her.
I can’t.
Despite the tangible thread, my hand glides through her form as if I were a ghost.
She isn’t awake.
She hasn’t woken up all week.
She doesn’t know I’m here.
Each night, I’ve tried to see the image of the Dragonstone Blade emblazoned on her arm, but it’s either been covered by her long sleeve or by her blanket.
Tonight, it’s clear she isn’t wearing clothing beneath the blanket.
And now, she stirs, turning onto her back, the blanket bunched beside her, its edge barely covering her breasts.
The underside of her arm becomes fully visible to me.
A soundless snarl builds in the back of my throat.
The dark runes on her arm are moving.
Each rune rotates. Very slowly. Turning in its place like an object with multiple different sides, shifting through shapes.
Until they all pause at the same time.
The sides of the runes align, the small gaps between them doing nothing to obscure the image they’ve collectively created.
Snowflakes.
Black as night, they sparkle along the ivoryribbon.
The icy air wafting around her intensifies. The same ice that’s chilling me to the bone.
She stirs again, and I lurch forward, knowing I can’t wake her but needing to try, only to realize that the bunched-up blanket at her side is gathered against the body of another person.
For the first time in a week, Thyra isn’t alone.
The Frost King lies beside her, breathing deeply, his eyes closed.
Suddenly, I understand why Thyra isn’t wearing clothes.
I’ll fucking kill him.
I’ll fucking tear him apart.
I’ll—
My fury fades as quickly as it grew because she looks so damn peaceful. So damn content.
A contentment I won’t be able to give her.
Whatever needs she has, I won’t be able to fulfil them.
I haven’t been able to touch a woman for years.
I can’t fuck without burning.
