Whatever he did to the man after that, I don’t care. As long as I don’t have to see it—or hear it ever again in my fucking life—that’s a nonfactor.
It’s what he did to the falling shower water.
‘But can’t you stop it?’
‘No. There was too much.’
If there was less hail out there in the farm, could he have done something to stop it? Or, he did stop some hailstones from hitting us, he just couldn’t stop them all.
It makes me think of the black ice on the road, when he trapped us.
It makes me think of the frost on his hand when his mood shifts dangerously.
The way he can move with the cold air, like he shudders through mists and chills.
Almost everything that Bee has told me about the dark fae doesn’t help me with Samick.
He’s a different kind of fae.
He’s not light.
He’s not dark.
He really is ice.
Even his touch—
His hand forcing between my clenched thighs with ease, the pressure of his fingertips, there was something cold about it.
Fleetingly, I thought I could feel the detail of his fingerprints. But the more I sit here and go over it again and again in my mind, the clearer it becomes.
Samick did something to his hand, did something to his fingers, the way the frost can grow over him, the way rain can stop around him and turn to ice. Hechilledhis touch.
Whether or not he did it intentionally, I don’t know.
His hand on my mouth was intentional.
He silenced me—wedged me between him and the pipes… and I should be overwhelmed with rage, by sickness storming in my stomach.
But I just feel exhausted.
I could sleep for days and nights.
But not without Samick here.
Shark grew bored of watching me a while ago. That’s when he started using the tip of a blade to clean his long, sharp nails, before he began filing them.
Felt like an unspoken threat.
But then he moved on to the mini-flute, and now, he’s sagged over the edge of the mattress, head dangling between his legs, and he hums an eerie tune.
The face I make at him is of blatant concern—and judgement, too.
Then he sits up straight, his eyes on the entryway.
I don’t hear the bootsteps out there in the cellblock corridor, so maybe the warriors move quietly. I decide I’m right, becausesuddenly, Arwyn’s beefy shoulders are squeezing through the doorway.
Shark slips off the bottom bunk.
