He looms over me, hunger and rage and promise burning in his eyes. His large hand wraps around my throat—firm, not cruel—tilting my head until I meet his feral gaze.
“On your knees.”
There’s not a single muscle in my body that doesn’t ache. My head lolls against Zev’s shoulder, his breath warm at my temple.
Cold air gusts through the holes he punched through the carriage walls, and I shiver, curling myself tightly against him.My gown lays in tatters on the floor, and I can’t be bothered to change into the spare I packed in anticipation of exactly this.
“You all right?” he murmurs, stroking my back.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “That was … intense.”
“I’m still going to punish you later.”
“I thought thatwasmy punishment.”
He scoffs. “You enjoyed it too much.”
The journey back to Tundrayn unfolds nothing like our month-long trek to Arbinj. This time, we travel the main carriage roads, stopping at small, cozy inns where warm fires burn in hearths and mismatched mugs brim with mead. Dinners in our honor are common, held by minor lords eager to gain favor with their new king and queen. I’m subjected to curious, sometimes wary, eyes, though that always changes after dinner, once I offer to heal any ailments.
Zev watches me with open, unapologetic pride etched across his handsome face, ensuring I eat enough between patients.
Nights blur together in cramped rooms with paper-thin walls, too-small beds, and scratchy sheets. We’re all sweat-slicked skin, tangled limbs, and teasing touches. Zev muffles my breathy moans beneath his large palm, whispering, “Quiet, baby. Those sounds are just for me.”
As we near Tundrayn, civilization thins and the air turns sharper. At the first sight of snow, my stomach stumbles with a wave of homesickness so fierce, my hands tremble in my lap. Zevhalts the carriages without a word, and we walk until the cold bites at my ankles and my snowballs leave him glowering.
We spend most nights curled beneath thick blankets in the royal carriage, but one evening, I coax him into the woods, guards left behind. I start a small fire while Zev hunts snowshoe hare, and we share a meal beneath the stars, like we’d done countless times, except now I sit in his lap and he feeds me pieces of charred meat, demanding a kiss between every other bite.
Later, beneath his smoke-scented cloak, Zev makes love to me, slowly, reverently, swallowing each gasp of pleasure, and worshipping me the way I’d imagined a thousand times over.
I fall asleep cradled in strong arms. Safe. Happy.
His.
A week later, my legs are shaky as I exit the royal carriage, a thick cloak thrown over my shoulders.
The cold air hits my face like home.
Let’s hope my people still see it that way.
Hand in hand, Zev and I walk through the snowy courtyard, flanked by our guards, who still pointedly avoid my gaze. I’m not sure they’ll ever look at us the same way again after this passion-filled journey.
My heart stutters as the towering ice doors, ones I’ve crossed countless times, open before us. Zev squeezes my hand.
Together, we enter.
Sorka stands ready to receive us. A good sign, I hope. Beside him, Vy watches us warily, hands settled protectively over her round belly. Behind them, standing with the waterwielders, are Sura and Tumaas. Both wear bright, encouraging grins. Other warriors stand shoulder-to-shoulder with them, a sea of blues and whites, icy eyes fixed on Zev.
“Mayah. Commander,” Sorka greets softly.
“Sorka.” I school my tone into smooth diplomacy. “Thank you for overseeing the kingdom in our absence. I trust the food stores are full? The people, content?”
A beat. Then, a nod.
“Wonderful. My husband and I are ready for the discussions you mentioned in your last letter. I don’t wish to take Tundrayn by force. But make no mistake—Iam its queen.”
Silence ripples through the room.
“Yes. About that,” Sorka says slowly. “I’ve discussed with our advisers at length. Tormik’s treachery, your mother’s murder. The storms. Your attack at the camp. And well—perhaps it’s easier to show you.”
