Chapter 13
HELENA
With the white robe wrapped tightly around me, I walk onto the balcony that overlooks the courtyard.
King Theron has been absent all day. He was gone when I awoke and I haven’t seen him since, though glamoured slaves entered to bring breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I considered trying to run past them into the corridor, but each time the thought entered my mind, I hesitated.
The truth is, I’m not just afraid of the king’s reaction if I tried to escape. I’m afraid of the other fae males I might encounter during an attempt to flee. Each time I stepped onto the balcony today, I could see highborn fae, as well as faefolk, coming and going from the castle.
I gaze in the direction of Sinclair’s Bakery.
I count the days in my head and a chill washes through me.
Tomorrow is Tribute Day. Thankfully, Mr. Sinclair has the required ten pieces of silver for the tribute, but I’m still bothered that he must come to the castle and bring Isabel with him.
It bothers me that entire households are expected to show up together, no matter how young or old.
Will I witness violence tomorrow? Tears burn in my eyes.
There are more heads on the parapet today, and I don’t believe all of them belong to soldiers.
The cruelty of the fae shouldn’t surprise me, but it does.
It’s difficult to reconcile King Theron’s darkness with the gentle way he’s treated me thus far.
A vision of the king, stark naked, flashes in my mind. I close my eyes and give my head a shake, trying to banish the unwanted reminder of the vision I’d had yesterday. The vision I haven’t been able to make sense of. What could it mean?
Perhaps it was a warning.
A warning that I must be careful not to allow myself to feel anything for King Theron.
I must ignore the pulsing heat that pangs between my thighs whenever he comes near.
I must forget the euphoric sensation of his hands in my hair.
He’s a cruel fae king and I shouldn’t like anything about him.
I shouldn’t allow myself to feel even an ounce of temptation or warmth in his presence.
Yet the vision had felt so real, too real, as though it were more than a warning. As though it had already happened. I open my eyes and peer across the city of Braemar.
From my little room above the bakery, I used to spend the evenings gazing out at the city as it settled into night, listening to the distant laughter and voices coming from the nearby taverns.
Even on cold nights, I frequently left my window cracked just so I could hear the voices and smell the chimney smoke from neighboring houses, a comforting reminder that life was still going on.
A promise that one day I might emerge from the darkness of my own personal tragedies and start living again.
Just when I’d begun to believe things were getting better—I had wonderful friends in the Sinclairs, a safe place to live, and a job—the Winter Court army attacked Braemar.
I sigh and run a hand through my hair. As I’m about to turn and go back inside, I glimpse movement in the star-encrusted sky, and I pause to stare at the large form that’s suddenly blocking out the stars and the moon.
A highborn fae. My heart skips a beat.
And he’s coming closer, flying straight for the balcony where I’m standing.
Oh, gods.
I break into a tremble and take two steps back, but my legs soon become weak with fear, and I find myself unable to move. I remain frozen in place, watching as the huge, winged form comes closer.
Maybe I’m about to die. Maybe this highborn fae, whoever he might be, was out for an evening of bloodsport when he spotted me standing here like a fool in the wide open.
I know the door to King Theron’s bedchamber is locked, warded with magic, but I’d never given any thought to how unprotected the balcony might be.
I curse my stupidity and try to take another step back, but my legs simply won’t move.
The thunderous sound of flapping wings reaches me, and then the huge male lands on the balcony in front of me. He stands there, staring at me with his massive, black-feathered wings spread wide, as I gasp for air and try to calm my racing heart.
Familiar blue eyes pierce straight to my soul.
The corner of his mouth quirks, and he takes a step closer.
There’s a flash of brilliant white light, and then his wings are just…
gone. Vanished. Because he’s a powerful, highborn fae, and like all highborn fae, the king can summon and vanish his wings at will.
I already knew that about him, but it’s the first time I’ve glimpsed his wings, the first time I’ve witnessed that formidable side of him outside of the vision.
Gods, the vision.
Somehow, I’d known just what his wings would look like even before I glimpsed them in real life.
“Hello, darling human.” He approaches me with slow, calculated steps.
His gaze is focused, heated, and brimming with desire.
Despite my earlier resolve not to feel any attraction to him, waves of heat undulate in my core, causing my breath to catch in my throat and my heart to skip a beat.
Longing courses through me, and somehow, it feels like an echo.
A memory. It’s as though I’ve felt this way before about this specific male.
Considering the vision I had yesterday, it’s unsettling. Deeply so.
I think about Prince Alaric’s assertion that I look like someone King Theron knows.
This entire situation is starting to feel like a puzzle that I can’t quite assemble.
Too many pieces are still missing. Or perhaps the clues are there, but I’m just not ready to reach for them.
Sometimes, I feel like I’m hiding from the truth, a truth that draws breath, ready to whisper in my mind, only to fall silent at the last moment.
King Theron strides up to me and places his hands on my shoulders. His touch isn’t as cold as I expected, and I find myself wanting to step into his embrace, to wrap my arms around his waist and lean my head against his chest.
How preposterous. I don’t want to hug the Winter King. I don’t. I don’t even want him to touch me.
And yet… I cannot stop the yearning that’s unfurling inside me. The persistent ache that’s both physical and emotional. I’m eager for his touch, but also for his company. When he’s with me, even when we’re sparring, I no longer feel like the lonely widow who’s starved for companionship.
I feel as brave and carefree as the wind.
I feel more like myself and like another person entirely all at once.
As I gaze into King Theron’s ice-blue eyes, I experience another wave of familiarity, as though I’ve met him before.
And yet I have no memory of such a meeting.
Until the Winter Court army stormed past the walls of Braemar, I’d never seen a fae with my own eyes.
I’d only heard the stories, the stories that warned me of the fae’s coldness, cruelty, and violent tendencies.
“Did you miss me?” The king’s voice is a deep, seductive vibration in my ear. He’s leaning close, so close I detect pine, peppermint, smoky wood, and the faint sweetness of fresh-fallen snow.
“I didn’t miss you,” I finally say, but it’s a lie.
I didn’t go more than a few seconds without thinking about him today.
Each time I heard footsteps in the hall or voices approaching the bedchamber, my heart would start racing, and I would feel jittery as I anticipated his imminent arrival.
Then, after the footsteps or the voices faded down the corridor, I would be left to contend with my sudden disappointment.
The lines around his eyes crinkle as he smiles.
He shifts his hands from my shoulders and cups my face.
His thumbs immediately start tracing circles on my cheeks, and I can’t help but quiver at his touch.
My head swims with the familiar pleasant delirium of being close to a trusted lover… but surely that can’t be right.
He’s not my lover. We’ve never even kissed.
He’s my captor. He’s the cruel fae king I wish to escape.
“I don’t believe you, darling human,” he says with a wicked chuckle that somehow prompts another pang of warmth between my thighs. “I think you missed me terribly. I think you were out here on this balcony waiting and watching for my return.”
I scoff and pull away from him. I march into the room and close the balcony doors in his face.
However, the doors don’t remain shut for long.
I don’t make it more than three steps into the bedchamber before the doors burst open under a gust of winter wind.
The familiar buzz of fae magic swirls through the air, causing my flesh to tingle.
It’s a jarring sensation, though I can’t claim it’s unpleasant.
My heart lodges in my throat at the intent look in his eyes. He follows me inside. For every step backward that I take, he takes two or three until he finally reaches me.
“No one has ever slammed a door in my face,” he says in a shocked tone. His eyes hold a glimmer of surprise as he narrows his brows.
My pulse spikes. Have I finally angered him? Truly angered him? Perhaps I was a fool to believe he wouldn’t hurt me. Not only is he a highborn fae, but he’s the Winter King. And though I don’t know the details of his lineage, I know enough to fear the power that flows in his veins.
My mother’s warnings come back to me, a frantic whisper in my mind.
The fae of Spring and Summer are dangerous, yes, but they still carry more Seelie blood than Unseelie. Their magic leans toward the light, though it is still imbued with trickery and cruelty.
But the fae of Autumn and Winter are different. Darker. They are descended from Unseelie blood, their power drawn from shadow and cold.
If there are fae you must never cross, never trust, never provoke, it is those born of Autumn and Winter.
King Theron grabs me, pulling me flush against his hard, muscular body. His eyes sparkle with dark intent and passion. His hardness presses against my stomach. A groan escapes his lips, and I suddenly can’t stop glancing at his mouth and imagining what it would be like to kiss him.
Surely a kiss from the Winter King would destroy me.
The balcony doors slam shut under a frigid gust of wind that ruffles my hair. His hands shift from my cheeks as he works to tame my errant tresses, slowly and tenderly tucking several locks behind my ears. As he tends to me, he keeps his hardness pressed to my stomach.
Though he’s not really holding me anymore, I don’t back away. I remain very still as he combs his fingers through my mussed hair. I savor the feel of his huge erection poking at my stomach through the layers of our clothing, a testament to his desire for me.
“Tonight,” he says as he keeps running his fingers through my hair, “you will refrain from stacking pillows between us. Tonight, you will let me hold you.”