Chapter 17
HELENA
I stare into King Theron’s eyes, feeling utterly lost. Confusion spreads through me, followed swiftly by a wave of dread, stealing the air from my lungs.
His gaze is too intent, too knowing, like he’s listening even now, straining to catch the words I would never dare speak aloud, the private thoughts I am desperate to keep secret.
Does he know I tried to escape?
Does he know the unkind thoughts I had when he entered the room?
As I replay those moments in my mind, my dread deepens. Oh, gods. He must know everything. Every harsh word. Every uncharitable thought. Not that he doesn’t deserve some of my judgment… but still.
I wince inwardly. Why can’t I stop thinking? The harder I try to empty my mind, the more unruly my thoughts become, colliding, spiraling, echoing too loudly, each one a declaration I can’t take back.
What about my unwanted attraction to him? Does he know about that too? Heat rushes to my face as I remember all the times warmth pooled low in my belly when he caressed my hair, touched my cheek, or held me close.
I squeeze my eyes shut, as though I can will those thoughts out of existence.
As though closing my eyes might somehow erase them before he hears them too.
How humiliating. I don’t want him to know I’m drawn to him.
I don’t want him to know how breathless I become when he merely looks at me, how his presence unsettles me, and how his winter-cold scent lingers in my senses long after he steps away.
“Look at me, darling human.” His voice is gentle yet filled with command.
I tremble as he cups my face. At last, I open my eyes.
His gaze is as intent and knowing as ever.
My heart races faster, and warmth quakes through me, a blissful wave of desire I cannot stop.
Shame heats my face anew, and my throat tightens with emotion.
It’s bad enough that I’m his captive. He has no plans to release me, ever.
And the prospect of not only being trapped with him but also unable to hide my most private thoughts is almost too much. How will I endure such a fate?
His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath, and I sense his mutual excitement.
You smell delicious, Helena, he says down the unwanted tether that connects us. That slickness between your thighs… gods, how I long to taste you. How I long to pleasure you and make you climax as you cry out my name. A lusty growl reverberates in my head.
“No, no, no.” I shake my head. “This can’t be happening. Make it stop! Stop listening to my thoughts, and stop letting me hear yours!” I don’t want this. I really don’t.
Panic skitters through me, a cold coiling sensation in my gut. I’m not sure I can bear to keep sharing this kind of intimate connection with the fae king who is my enemy.
“I must admit that I have no idea how this is happening, darling human, but it is. Perhaps the gods have a sense of humor.” His eyes twinkle, and it bothers me that he isn’t as disturbed by the events that are unfolding as I am.
I sense his confusion, but I also sense his excitement and hopefulness.
Why would our ability to hear one another’s thoughts bring him feelings of hope?
He snorts. “Do you really want to know why I’m feeling hopeful?”
Then his thoughts fill my head, one after the other. I cannot stop myself from hearing them. It’s a rush of truth that shakes me to the core of my being.
I’m hopeful because just as you are drawn to me, I am drawn to you.
His voice is a deep rumble in my mind. I’m hopeful because I’ve been lonely for too long, but now you are here, keeping me company and making my life more interesting and vibrant.
I’m hopeful because whatever is happening between us is unprecedented, and maybe, just maybe, it means the gods are giving me a second chance.
Giving us both a second chance. Together.
I’m stunned. Truly stunned.
The Winter King just admitted that he was lonely. And it sounds as though he’s starting to view me as more than a possession. More than his captive. It sounds as though he thinks a romantic relationship of sorts might develop between us.
“What about your mate,” I blurt before I can think better of it.
“I-I’ve heard that all fae have mates. Have you not met your mate yet?
If not, surely one day you will, and then…
” My voice falters, trailing off into silence.
I don’t need to finish the thought. Because he knows what I was trying to say.
He can hear my thoughts as easily as I can hear his.
He stiffens. His eyes darken, and the warmth I sensed moments ago vanishes. Before his thoughts fully reach me, I feel it, the hollow ache of loss that has shaped his solitude, the grief that has hardened his heart into something jagged, cold, and unforgiving.
And yet… beneath it all, there is change. A softening.
As if the ice has begun, impossibly, to crack.
I met my fated mate, Elssandra, nearly three hundred years ago, he says along the tether. She died less than a year after we mated.
His eyes flash with rage, but I don’t flinch. The fury isn’t meant for me. It is turned inward, backward, anchored to memory. To betrayal.
I know enough of the fae to understand what that means. Mates do not betray one another. It is unthinkable. Fae mating bonds are sacred. To betray a mate is to unravel the very bond that defines them.
She conspired to have me killed so that her cousin could take the Winter Court throne, he continues, his voice cold and razor-sharp.
Images slam into my mind. Blood, snow, and screams swallowed by a raging winter storm.
I killed her entire family, he says. They were all complicit. And then I chased her beyond the Starlit Region, beyond the Northern Isles. I hunted her down and…
The words stop.
He gives me an uncertain look. A wary look. As though he fears that if he utters the truth, it might fracture something irrevocably between us. He doesn’t want to tell me what came next. And yet… I need to know.
Even if he killed her.
Even if he tormented her.
Even if he enjoyed it.
The thought sends frost through my veins.
A fae male killing his fated mate feels impossible, and monstrous.
I’ve always been told that fae are possessive to the point of madness where their mates are concerned.
Protective. Devoted. I never imagined one could destroy the very person the gods created just for them.
Even in the face of a terrible betrayal.
Slowly, I reach for him. My fingers brush his hand, tentative at first, then sure. I lean into his palm, holding his gaze, offering silent encouragement.
I shouldn’t do this.
I shouldn’t want to comfort him.
Not after today. Not after Braemar endured the cruelty of Tribute Day.
A shudder runs through me as the memories surface. Sobs, screams, and desperate pleas for mercy echoing through the courtyard and the halls of the castle.
And yet… I don’t want him to suffer like this. Feeling his anguish unsettles me in ways I don’t yet understand. His pain presses against my chest, heavy and raw, and I hate that it affects me so deeply.
“You don’t need to know the rest,” he says aloud.
In an instant, the tether goes quiet. Eerily so. His thoughts vanish from my mind, the connection severed so abruptly that it leaves me reeling.
He’s blocking me.
Or maybe he’s buried the truth so deeply within himself that even our shared bond can’t reach it.
My skin prickles with goosebumps as a chill slides down my spine. Whatever happened beyond the Starlit Region, whatever he did or was forced to do, has carved scars into his psyche. He is haunted by it. Wounded. And beneath the regret, beneath the grief, there still burns a volatile, untamed rage.
The kind of rage only a fae male could harbor after being betrayed by the very soul that he should’ve been able to trust above all others.
My heart breaks for him. His mate, a female named Elssandra, tried to have him killed just so her cousin could take the throne. How utterly tragic.
Her cousin… her cousin.
The chill sliding down my spine becomes glacial. Oh, my gods. I think of my most recent vision, the bonfire in the middle of a Winter Court forest. The dozens of fae standing around the fire. The tall fae male sitting next to me, placing his hand on my shoulder, and calling me Cousin.
I press my eyes shut and somehow, with great effort, push the vision from my mind.
Then I open my eyes and study King Theron for any sign that he heard my most recent thoughts.
Thankfully, his expression hasn’t changed.
It remains unguarded and vulnerable in a way that steals my breath.
Though I don’t like seeing him so haunted by the past, so wounded, I’m grateful that his own sorrow has kept him from hearing my thoughts.
Later, I tell myself, in a secret, closed-off part of my mind.
Later, when I’m alone, I’ll think about the visions and whether they relate to King Theron’s past. There’s no denying the strange clues that I might have a connection to the Winter King, a long-forgotten connection that defies logic.
My excitement whenever it snows, my resilience to cold temperatures, and the flashes of familiarity I sometimes feel in King Theron’s presence.
My mother’s stories…
I don’t know who my father is…
I shove all my suspicions into that dark, secure space in my mind.
The king’s expression turns affectionate as he stares at me, and I can’t help but flush under his assessing gaze. He strokes my cheeks with his thumbs, and to my utter shock, leans forward and places a lingering kiss on my forehead.
A whimper leaves my throat, and a heated flush envelops my entire body.
“I would never hurt you, Helena,” he says. “Even if I became angry with you. I swear it, darling human. Please do not fear me. I want you to feel safe with me. Always.”
Tears suddenly burn in my eyes. His words are a balm to my lonely heart. Longing courses through me, and I find myself shifting closer to him, drawn by his earnest tone and the honesty that’s gleaming in his winter-blue eyes.
But then I go tense as I remember the images he sent me, the vision that showed him slaughtering Elssandra’s huge, extended family.
Blood, snow, and screams. A violent storm of death.
I think of Peter and his blood pooling in the snow, spreading fast, his face slack.
Fae males can be vicious and unpredictable.
Am I a fool if I allow myself to feel safe in King Theron’s presence?
Am I a fool if I derive comfort from his arms?
I think of Mama’s stories, all her warnings, all the promises she made me keep.
Does my attraction to the Winter King make me a traitor to my people? Does it make me a traitor to my own mother?
King Theron straightens a bit and gives me a questioning look.
“Your mother was from the north?” he asks.
I feel the blood drain from my face. Well. It would seem I’m no longer doing a good job of keeping my thoughts hidden in that dark, quiet space in my mind. I exhale a shaky breath.
“Yes,” I finally say. “My mother was from Hersinna. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“Of course. It’s the northernmost human city in the realm, and it’s rather close to the Northern Isles. It’s the very first city my people conquered after ussha began spreading.”
Ussha. The lifeforce that powers his people’s magic. Of course. I’ve heard about it, and I suppose that explains the stories the traveling merchants have shared about glimmering vegetation and strange creatures recently entering human and orc territories.
“Who is your father?” King Theron’s eyes flicker with suspicion.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “My mother always told me that my father died before she even realized she was carrying me.”
“Where is your mother now?”
“She’s gone. Dead.” My throat burns.
“I am sorry, Helena. Truly, I am.” His expression softens, and I sense his compassion, such an unexpected emotion to detect from a highborn fae male.
“Thank you,” I murmur. My thoughts go back to the tether that links our minds, the strange connection that allows us to hear each other’s thoughts.
“I still don’t know the answer to your question,” he says gently.
He leans in and places another lingering kiss on my forehead.
“I don’t know why our minds are linked. All I know is that I was drawn to you from the very first moment I laid eyes on you.
Even before that. When I heard your soft, pleading voice as my brother carried you into the hall…
something about your voice moved me. I-I cannot explain it.
But I might know someone who can. After we depart Braemar in a week or so, I will take you to visit a priestess with whom I’m acquainted, an old friend of my father’s.
If anyone can explain our connection, it is her. ”
Leaving. We’re leaving Braemar soon.
My heart plummets to the floor.
“I know you don’t wish to leave your home city, but you don’t have a choice.
” He strokes my hair. “I won’t apologize for it, because the truth is, I’m not sorry.
I’m not sorry that you belong to me, even though it means you no longer have your freedom.
Even though you’re desperate to escape. You’re mine. My beautiful captive. My gift.”