She snatched her wrist away, without so much as a flicker of anger or sorrow or resignation, oranything.
“I am doing what I must,” she said evenly.
Then she turned her back on him, and as Ger watched her go, he felt …
Helpless.
He was not supposed to feel this way again. He was not supposed tofeelhelpless; that was the whole fucking point of it, of everything he’d ever worked for. He raked his metal-clad fingers through his hair, drew down a shuddering breath through his quickly tightening lungs, and another. In and out and in and out. And when his heart had somewhat calmed its pace, he forced himself to turn around, to follow Imogen and plead with her to—
“Gard.”
Avette’s calm, sweet voice rang from behind the screen, and Gerard halted mid-step.
“Gard,”she called again.
Now seated once more, Imogen looked up from her own splayed hands, where she was slowly weaving another bead of ice. “That’s you,” she said mildly.
“Shit,” Ger muttered, and turned to the screen.
He made as much noise as he could in his approach, then halted, expecting Avette to round the screen. When she didn’t, he closed his eyes on a long, bracing exhale.
“You called, Your Majesty?”
“Come here.”
He blanched. “Come … behind the screen, Your Majesty?”
She sighed. “If you make me repeat myself again, itcouldbe considered treason.”
For fuck’s sake.
On the other side of the screen, he found Avette facing the mirror, holding the bodice of her dress to her chest—and with her entire back bared to him.
Ger’s breath left his lungs in one spluttering burst, head emptying of thought. In the mirror’s reflection, Avette’s black eyes fixed on his own; they glittered between each slow flutter of her lashes.
“These stays must be drawn as tight as possible,” she said, that melodic voice lower than he’d ever heard it. “I’m afraid I need a strong pair of hands.”
What in the bollocking fuck.
Beneath his gauntlets, Ger felt his palms prickle. Sweating; he wassweating, anxiety flooding his every nerve ending and seeping out his pores. He couldn’t put a name to the feeling, but it chased after his heartbeat, hastening his pulse until he could barely breathe without shuddering. Avette arched a perfect black brow, and he could see little option but to slide off his steel gloves and set them down on the floor. When he stood, the queen’s gaze moved with him, following every slow step towardher. Ger lifted his hands—and hesitated. She had drawn her hair to one side, and it fell like a dark waterfall over her shoulder, baring the elegant line of her neck and the dull glint of her necklace.
Seize it,said some calm voice within, a voice that certainly did not belong to Ger.Snap it.
His hands hovered between the delicate jut of her shoulder blades. One small movement, and his decision would be made; down to take her laces, up to break the clasp of her chain. He drifted slightly upward, and his fingers shook as though bearing some invisible weight. The memories came to him unasked for and unwanted; Avette’s dark brow pitched as a blast of ice wind enveloped her, dark hair whipping like a silken storm above her head. The Wielder’s snarling face as he reached for her throat, and the way his eyes and skin and body had gone abruptly glassy, petrified from head to toe.
That was when Ger realised that she did notneedto make it slow; she simply enjoyed it. She could freeze the blood in his veins with a turn of her thoughts.
He stared at his own trembling hand now, and remembered how Doran had snapped the frozen Wielder’s fingers clean off to free Avette’s necklace from his grasp. Then she had stepped neatly around him and resumed her seat on the throne.
And Ger had knelt at her feet.
“Youdoknow how to lace stays, do you not?”
Without answering, Ger took the strings in his hands and began to lace her dress. Her skin was smooth and creamy, and he took the greatest care not to touch it as he worked. He tied off the laces, and when he finally dropped the ends, Avette turned faster than he could retreat; his hands brushed her waist as shestepped into him, tilting her head up. Her eyes met his, and he could swear the blaze within them fused his joints, pinning him in place.
“You are nervous,” she said softly.
They were a lover’s words, spoken breathy and low. Her long lashes dipped as she watched his mouth for a response. All she got was a stutter of nonsense, his lips parting like a salmon’s gaping mouth around words that would not come. And when she smiled and leaned ever so slightly closer, it hit Ger in one breath-absorbing rush. Avette didn’t think he was nervous because she scared him.
