“We should collect extra sap if possible,” he tells me, getting straight to business. “It might prove useful for future potions.”
He walks to the pack, and I watch him, waiting for him to say something more.
He doesn’t. All he does is focus on the task at hand.
I guess it’s up to me then.
So, I stand straighter and take a tentative step closer, praying to every god in the Universe that he’ll run to me, kiss me, and say he still loves me.
Still, nothing.
I try to inhale, but ithurts.
I can do this,I tell myself, since I’m not giving up on him. Not now, and not ever.I have to do this. For both of us.
“How do you feel?” I finally ask, even though he’s completely focused on the pack, retrieving the waterskin like this is just another step in a mission.
“I’m fine. Although I must admit, I’ve had better.” He shrugs. “You’d think that in all those centuries of being alive, that dryad would have had more time to practice her technique.”
My chest aches at his attempted humor.
It sounds like him—that dry, sarcastic wit I fell in love with—but there’s something missing.
The warmth that usually lingers beneath his jokes is gone, replaced by empty observation.
“That’s really what you’re thinking about right now?” I ask. “A dryad’skissing technique?”
“The feeling of kissing sandpaper will likely leave me haunted for life,” he replies, so casually that it’s almost cruel. “I’d give it a three out of ten, at best.”
I stare at him in shock, waiting for him to say something—anything—to show he cares.
All he does is walk to the tree to examine the sap.
He’s joking. He has to be. Any second now, he’s going to give me that familiar smile and tell me he can’t believe he tricked me like that.
Seconds pass.
He says nothing more.
“You just bargained your love for me away in a deal with a dryad,” I say flatly, unable to believe this is happening. “And all you can comment on isratingthe kiss, like you’re some sort of frat boy?”
He exhales in frustration and focuses on me again. “Given that you’re apparently in need of a reminder, I’m a winter prince,” he says, and a swirl of frost curls in his palm, solidifying into a sharp, intricate crystal. “Not some mortal playing drinking games in a local bar.”
I flinch at the obvious jab at my prior job and use my air magic to blast the ice crystal out of his horribly arrogant hand.
It melts before it can hit the ground.
“Someone’s wound up,” he says with that trademark smirk of his. “And it’s certainly not me, since I’ve just confirmed that tree spirits aren’t my type.”
I glare at him again, searching his face for some flicker of warmth, some trace of the man who—just minutes ago—looked at me like I was his entire world.
I find nothing.
His smirk remains, casual and detached, like none of this matters. LikeIdon’t matter.
I can’t accept that. Iwon’t.
“We both know what your type is.” I keep my gaze level with his, challenging him to say that his type isme.
