Chapter 6
Iwake at dawn to a room still warm from the embers in the hearth. My sleep was thin, restless, broken by dreams I refuse to remember. But morning means work, and work means survival.
I dress quickly, pulling on thick, thigh-high tights and two scarves today, wrapping them snugly around my throat.
My woolen gloves go on next, clumsy but warm.
Only when I feel sufficiently layered against the rest of this cursed castle do I slip out into the corridor and make my way to the galley.
To my surprise, the place is better stocked than I expected.
Shelves overflow with jars and dried goods. Three different types of flour. Spices I have only ever read about. In the cellar below, I find pork and beef hanging in the cool air, preserved perfectly, though the icebox itself is pointless in this place. Everything stays cold whether stored or not.
The galley is vast compared to what I had at home.
At first it feels overwhelming, but I force myself to move through it methodically, memorizing where each pot hangs, where each pan sits, where the knives are kept.
The repetition calms me, gives my hands something to do while my mind claws for steadiness.
Breathing deep, I set out to prepare a breakfast fit for a lord.
Eggs. Bacon. Warm beans in a cast-iron pot, and a kettle of tea so hot it sends curls of steam ghosting toward the ceiling.
Not because he deserves kindness. Not because I want to please him.
If Luceran choked on the bacon, I would not shed a tear.
This is to keep him from deciding I am as disposable as the servants who came before me.
I plate the food with steady hands, steadier than I feel, then stand back and survey it with a tight, determined breath.
Let him complain. Let him scowl. Let him hurl the plate across the room.
At least today, he will not accuse me of providing anything cold, and maybe I will make it through another morning alive.
I lay out the dining table with a fresh white tablecloth and the finest silver I can find, each piece polished until it gleams. The plates are heavy porcelain, patterned in icy blues and golds, real Fae craftsmanship.
Somewhere above me, I hear movement. Floorboards shifting. A door closing.Luceran is awake.
A spike of panic pushes me into motion.
I hurry back to the galley, gather the food I have been keeping warm over the hearth, and arrange it on the table. It looks… good. Better than good. Impressive, even by human standards.
But something is missing.
As the footsteps upstairs grow louder, I whirl toward the hall of windows. The double doors leading to the rose garden stand slightly ajar, cold light spilling through the crack. Before I can second-guess myself, I rush through them.
The air outside bites instantly, but I push forward down the frosted rows. I curse under my breath when I realize I brought no shears. No knife. Nothing.
Fine. I will manage.
I grasp a stem and snap it off with my bare hands.
A sharp sting slices across my palm.
I hiss, biting back a cry as blood warms my skin, bright against the surrounding frost. Still, I hold tight to the rose. I shake off as much ice as I can, ignoring the pulsing pain in my hand, and sprint back toward the dining room.
He is not there yet.
Relief slams through me.
I snatch a small glass vase from a sideboard, fill it quickly, and place the single frost-kissed rose beside the food. It looks delicate. Simple. Beautiful.
A sudden drop in temperature sweeps through the hall.
Luceran is near.
The doors swing open with a force that rattles the silver. I drop my chin to my chest, heart pounding as I back away, shrinking into the nearest corner, hands tucked behind me to hide the blood still trickling from my palm.
His steps are heavy. Controlled. Icy air rolls ahead of him.
I keep my eyes fixed on the floor as Lord Luceran Frostwyn enters the room.
I do not dare look at his face, even though part of me is desperately curious. Does he look surprised? Displeased? Indifferent? I have no idea, and I do not want to know unless it means he is pleased, unless it means yesterday’s cruelty has been buried for both my sake and my father’s.
But he says nothing.
I hear only his slow steps as he crosses the room.
A chill spreads outward from him, creeping across the floor inch by inch until my breath turns faintly visible.
I keep my eyes fixed on the stone, but in my peripheral vision I see enough.
His tattooed hand gripping the chair. The flex of muscle along his forearm as he pulls it out.
The broad lines of his back as he sits before the meal I prepared.
Then the faint clink of silver. The pour of tea into a cup. A swallow, and finally, a soft, barely audible exhale.
Satisfaction.
It hits me like a miracle. He might as well have applauded.
He eats. I hear the scrape of the fork, the rhythm of refilled tea, even the near-feral slosh of his jaw as he devours the meal. Human or Fae, I know the sound of someone enjoying their food.
Relief loosens the tight knot in my chest… until he stops.
The fork drops against the plate with a violent clang.
His pale, powerful hands, veined and steady, grip the arms of his chair. The room stills around him.
“What is this?” he growls.
My stomach plummets. That tone is not pleased. It vibrates through the air, through the floor, through me.“I… it’s breakfast,” I manage. “It’s hot. I made sure…”
“Not the food,” he snaps. “This. What is this?”
I force myself to look at him. Terror crawls up my spine as I raise my chin.
His jaw is clenched hard, his eyes blazing, a scowl carved so deep it feels like it could cut me open. He nods toward the table.
I follow his gaze… and finally see it.
A trail of blood. Five or six drops, stark and damning against the pristine white tablecloth.
My stomach twists.
Behind my back, I clench my fist and feel warm blood pool in my palm again.
“I am sorry, Lord Luceran,” I whisper. “I was trying to make it perfect. I cut myself on a thorn when I took a rose from the garden.”
The temperature plunges. The stone beneath him cracks outward in jagged lines of ice. I gasp as it bites through my layers like teeth.
He rises so quickly his chair skids across the floor, gliding on a sudden sheen of frost until it slams into a pillar.
His gaze snaps to the table, then to the rose. The single bloom resting in its glass vase.He must not have noticed it before. He notices now.
“Who gave you permission to take a rose from the garden?” he demands.
I swallow, teeth clicking together. “No one, my lord. I just thought…”
“You are not here to think. You are here to do as you are told and nothing more. What is so hard to understand about that, Neve Devlin? You are my servant. You only breathe because I allow it.”
My whole body shakes, part fear, part cold, part raw fury I cannot smother.
He stalks toward me, frost curling around his boots like smoke.
For a moment, I truly believe this is it.
The end. Humans are disposable in a world ruled by the Fae, and I was na?ve to believe my fate would be any different.
But fear does not stop me from straightening my spine.
We may be lesser in their eyes, but I will not die cowering.If he means to kill me, he will do it looking into my eyes.He will remember the face of the girl he chose to break.
His hand lifts slowly, fingers curling as he reaches for my face. The runes beneath his shirt pulse, his chest rising with each controlled breath, and gods, if I did not know better, I would swear he is trembling too.
His fingers reach the end of a loose strand of my hair. He twists it around his finger, the vivid red stark against his winter-pale skin. Night and day. Fire and ice.
But he does not yank. He does not strike. He does not freeze me where I stand.
He simply holds that strand of hair, staring at it as though the world has narrowed to that single point of contact.
Long enough that I feel the shift inside me, an unwanted flicker of awe at the terrible beauty of him.
The Fae who loathes me. The male I fear.
The monster I swear I despise, yet whose breath stirs something reckless in my chest. I catch myself wondering, shamefully, how his skin might feel beneath my touch.
Then he lets go.
His hand drifts away and curls into a fist that trembles. Trembles. My breath stutters as something in his expression fractures, anger dissolving into something far more raw.
Pain.
He staggers back, barely catching himself. His other hand shoots to his chest, clutching at the fabric as if tearing at a wound unseen.
Then, with a strangled gasp, he drops to one knee.
My heart lurches.Is he… dying?
He cannot breathe. His face twists in agony, and for the first time I see him not as a lord of winter or a wielder of impossible power, but as a creature crumpling beneath something he cannot control.
I step wide around him, keeping my distance, my gaze locked on the door. He makes no move to stop me. He can’t even speak.
This is my chance. There are no guards. No barriers. Just us.
I could run. I could escape this cursed castle. I could get home. My father could be free.
But then another thought freezes me.
What if he survives?
What if I flee and he comes after us both, enraged beyond reason?
My gaze flicks to the knife on the table. My breath catches.
What if I ended it now? What if I made sure he never followed? What if my father and I never had to fear him again?
If Lord Luceran Frostwyn were gone…Would the curse lift? Would Brunemar finally thaw? Would everyone in this land finally be free?
Luceran gasps again, the sound rougher now, scraped raw. He slams a fist against his chest as if trying to force his heart to obey him. The motion steals what little strength he has left, and he pitches forward, catching himself on one trembling hand as his breaths grow thin and uneven.
I freeze.