Chapter 11
HELENA
I’m still shaken by King Theron’s touch, the gentle caresses through my hair that I didn’t protest, not even once, so much so that I can scarcely form a coherent thought.
Though he's no longer touching me, I feel the phantom tingle of his hands lingering in my hair, a pleasurable warmth that spreads through me and makes me crave… more. I draw in a steadying breath, forcing myself to calm. Forcing myself to summon the semblance of bravery I wish I truly possessed.
But courage is difficult to muster when you are in close proximity to the Winter King, a being so powerful that his name is spoken only in whispers, for fear that even uttering it might summon his presence.
He arches an eyebrow at me, displaying a stern look. I haven’t yet obeyed. I haven’t yet crawled into the large bed. The bed we’re supposed to share.
“No.” I almost gasp as the word comes out of my mouth. Holy fires, did I actually just say no to King Theron? My mouth goes dry, and my hands tremble harder in my lap.
For the briefest moment, his eyes flicker with surprise. Clearly, he’s not used to being told no. I wonder if he’s heard the word in his entire life.
He stalks toward me slowly, and I can’t help but notice his pants are still way too tight in the crotch area.
A heated wave rushes through me as I wonder just how well-endowed the king of the Winter Court might be.
My breath falters, and I start to second-guess my decision to sleep on the sofa.
He’s probably used to getting his way, and I’m not certain he’s above using force to get me into the bed.
Why does the thought of being picked up and carried to bed by him make me swelter in the robe I’m wearing?
Why am I suddenly wondering what he would look like without his shirt, the firelight bathing him in flickering rays of warmth?
The ache in my core deepens, to the point that I cannot resist pressing my thighs firmly together.
King Theron finally rounds the sofa and looms over me, all seven feet of him.
His muscular bulk is barely contained by the tunic he’s wearing that isn’t quite as flowing as it should be and the leather pants that are far, far too tight.
He reaches for my face, and I can’t help but flinch.
I just refused an order he issued, and I fear he means to strike me.
But his hand stops midair, and most of the sternness fades from his expression. He takes a deep breath and his visage turns gentle. Almost affectionate. But surely I’m imagining it. Surely he’s angry I told him no.
At last, he takes my face in his hands. He cups my cheeks and stares down into my eyes with a look so intense, I forget how to breathe. His thumbs trail over my skin, a soft caress that nearly draws a whimper from my throat.
“I’m sorry, darling human,” he says in a deep, rumbling voice, “but did you just tell me no?” His eyes reflect the flames from the hearth, making him appear more otherworldly than usual.
This is it. This is the moment he’s going to snap and kill me. I brace myself for the pain, for the violence.
But it never comes.
Instead, he keeps holding my face in his hands, gently brushing his thumbs over my cheeks, and staring into my eyes with a strangely affectionate look that strips away my defenses.
For a reason I can’t fathom, I feel like confessing my deepest, darkest secrets to him.
I feel like telling him about the loneliness I felt even when Harry was alive, how I loved him yet sensed there was something missing between us, something I couldn’t quite explain, something I kept reaching for but could never find.
And I feel like telling him how ever since Harry died, I’ve felt even lonelier, to the point of utter despair, so much so that I’ve prayed to the gods to send me another husband, an honorable man with whom I might find happiness, a second chance at love.
I become so overwhelmed with emotion that tears burn in my eyes.
There will be no second chances for me. I belong to the Winter King now, and he says he’ll never let me go. My heart breaks, cracking into pieces, causing my chest to tighten and ache.
The king suddenly drops his hands from my face and steps back.
He touches his own chest and winces, a troubled look entering his eyes.
The firelight dances off his dark hair, a cascade of shadows and orange glimmers.
His features appear especially chiseled from stone, or perhaps ice, as he stands in front of the hearth, staring at me as though I just caused him pain.
Why is he still clutching his chest?
Why does he appear so disturbed?
He starts to reach for me… and then all at once I’m falling, down, down, down, into an abyss that’s swirling with snow and ice.
It pelts my face. Eventually, I blink and find myself in a bedchamber I’ve never seen before, yet it feels familiar.
Like I’ve been here before, maybe a long, long time ago.
I’m sprawled atop the bed wearing a white, lacy nightdress that’s practically translucent.
King Theron stands before me, a gleaming, bejeweled crown atop his head that sits slightly askew between his horns.
There’s a flash of light, and his wings appear, dark and feathered, filling up the space in the room as he flares them wide.
A wicked grin breaks across his face, and his eyes burn with unrestrained lust.
One second, he’s wearing clothing, and then there’s another flash, and suddenly it’s gone. He stands at the end of the bed, gazing at me with an intent look, his cock swollen rock-hard and massive. It’s bigger than I ever imagined.
Heat quakes in my core, and I find myself spreading my legs. I’m nervous yet aching to be filled up. Aching to be claimed by the powerful male who stands before me.
“Mate,” he says. “Spread your legs wider. Show me that slick, pink pussy I’m about to plunder.”
Without conscious thought, my legs inch apart on the bed, slowly, seductively, and I feel a teasing smile touch my lips. But I’m not the one moving. It’s as though I can’t control what’s happening. I’m a spectator, and yet I’m not.
Where am I? How did I get here?
Though I can’t turn my head, my eyes dart to the side until I glimpse a window. My breath freezes in my chest. Holy gods. It’s a glittering city covered in ice. The Winter Court?
King Theron’s voice thrums through me, deep and resonating, but I’m no longer able to understand him. His voice starts to fade, and so does the room and the glittering winter city in the window.
Then I find myself falling again, into the cold snow and ice, a dark swirling tunnel that just might swallow me whole.
“Helena. Helena.” It’s the king speaking to me again, but I can’t see him. I can’t see much of anything, only darkness with brief instances of heavy, whirling snow.
Firm hands grab me, and I cry out from the pain. My upper arms hurt. I think they’re bruised. Why are they bruised? I can’t quite remember. Confusion fills me, and I hear myself cry out again, an echo in the vastness of whatever place I’m lost inside.
My eyes abruptly fly open, and I gasp for air.
King Theron is kneeling in front of me, his face only inches from mine, his expression darkened with concern. He gives me another shake, his fingers wrapped tightly around my upper arms.
“Helena.” The concern in his blue eyes deepens.
I stare at him, shocked to my core, as I try to figure out what just happened. Did I have some kind of vision? A glimpse of the future? But no. It felt like the past.
I don’t want to tell King Theron about my strange experience. I don’t want him to know I just imagined I was wearing a lacy nightdress in his bed in the heart of the glittering Winter Court while he stood above me, stark naked and ready to claim me.
Am I going mad? Perhaps the stress of the last year is catching up with me.
First, Mama’s tragic death, then Harry’s murder, followed by the fae attack on Braemar.
I’ve always considered myself a resilient person, despite my secret longing for companionship, but maybe I’ve finally reached my breaking point.
I wince again. I can’t help it. King Theron’s fingers are digging into the exact place on my arms that Peter grabbed when he manhandled me on the street.
The king draws back slightly and drops his hands from my arms, only to reach out and yank my robe down a moment later. Before I can protest or even try to push him away, he’s already drawn the billowing sleeves of my nightdress up to inspect my upper arms.
A murderous look crosses his face.
“What happened?” His voice is dark and dangerous, but I don’t think his anger is directed at me. “Who did this to you?”
“I… I…”
“Was it Prince Alaric?” His jaw clenches, his hands fall from my arms, and he jumps to his feet. “I’ll kill him.”
He heads for the door, and it crashes open under a gust of winter wind that’s as violent as his anger. Snow flurries drift in the air, and a layer of frost climbs up the walls.
“No, it wasn’t your brother,” I say, finally finding my voice.
He halts in his tracks and turns to face me. The door shuts behind him, and the snow flurries drift to the stone floor. He stares at me with an expectant look.
“It was Peter. My former brother-in-law. The man Prince Alaric killed in the street before he… before he brought me to you.” I try to push the sleeves of my nightdress down, but my hands are trembling so hard, it’s difficult, and I soon give up and just clutch the thick robe around myself.
It’s not that I’m cold and trying to get warm.
It’s that I feel too exposed, and my instincts are screaming for me to hide, to protect myself from being vulnerable in front of the king.
It’s unnerving enough when he looks at me with affection, or when he gazes at me with lust blazing in his eyes as his pants grow tight. But the revenge he wants to seek on my behalf is a frightening development indeed. I try not to think about what it might mean.