Chapter 19
HELENA
Then show me, darling human. Show me just how much you hate me.
The taunting, darkly seductive words echo in my head. How could this be happening? How could I be so tempted by the cruel Winter King who conquered Braemar, and on Tribute Day of all days? Surely it means I’m broken inside. Surely it means I’m the worst kind of traitor to my people.
His cold breath tickles my ear, a teasing caress that causes me to shiver anew. Goosebumps ripple along my arms, and heat continues to quake steadily between my thighs. He’s still leaning over me, holding me against the bed, his hardness pressing firmly into my stomach.
I start to think of the very first vision I had, the one where I saw him naked. But I quickly push the thought from my mind, not wanting him to know about the strange visions.
His hand remains wrapped around my throat, firm but not tight. He doesn’t squeeze. Not even for a moment. And somehow that restraint makes me want him more. My pulse thrums wildly beneath his fingers, and I know he’s aware of every tremor that passes through me.
He knows how fervently I’m aching for him. Even if he couldn’t hear my thoughts, he can apparently smell my desire. I flush at the realization and press my thighs tightly together.
It’s difficult enough for me to contend with my unwanted attraction to him, the relentless, pulsating heat in my core, but knowing that he’ll always, always, be able to sense my need is deeply unsettling.
He leans back and meets my gaze, a challenging glint in his eyes.
Show me just how much you hate me.
I become acutely aware of his mouth, so close to mine that my breath stutters. His lips are full and inviting, dangerously so. If I tilt my head even a fraction, he could so easily kiss me. We could so easily cross a line that could never be uncrossed.
This is madness.
This is weakness.
I feel myself melting into him before I can stop it. I angle my mouth closer to his and part my lips. “I do hate you,” I whisper, though the words sound thin, unconvincing even to my own ears.
His brow arches slightly, as if daring me to prove it.
He won’t kiss me first, I realize, sensing his thoughts.
He’s waiting. Waiting for me.
Because of his promise. His promise not to force himself on me.
Bastard that he is, he’ll lead me to the moment, he’ll tease me mercilessly until I’m frantically aching for him, only to wait for me to make the first move. What I wouldn’t give to push him off the balcony right now.
His chuckle echoes in my mind. I can fly, darling human, he says down the tether.
Get out of my head! I reply, heat burning my face.
He smirks, and damn if that doesn’t make his mouth look more inviting.
Before I can lose my nerve, I surge forward, pressing my lips to his.
And that’s all it takes, just one moment against his mouth, one moment of pressure, and he becomes a ravenous participant. His fingers delve into my hair, holding my head in place, driving his tongue into mine with a savage, frantic growl.
The kiss is not gentle. It’s fueled by frustration and fury, longing and desperation.
His lips are cold at first, a shock against mine, hard as ice.
But as the kiss deepens, passion flares between us, dangerous and full of promise, and he becomes warmer.
It takes my breath away. I find myself grasping at his shirt just because I need something to hold onto, something to anchor me in place during this unequivocally reckless act.
His tongue sweeps against mine, and his hands tighten in my hair.
He tastes like peppermint and cinnamon with a hint of whiskey.
His lusty growls vibrate through me, and I whimper into his mouth.
Dizziness assails me. If he weren’t pressing me to the bed, I would sway to the floor.
In all my life, my knees have never felt so weak, my entire body trembling with need.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are darker, more intense than I’ve ever seen.
“That,” he murmurs softly, “was not hatred.”
Before I can formulate a response, a horn blares in the distance, and a moment later, bootsteps pound down the corridor. King Theron tenses and his eyes flash with annoyance.
“What is it?” I ask.
He tilts his head, giving me an appraising look, and his eyes keep drifting to my mouth. “That’s a fae battle horn,” he says. “It would seem someone is attacking my soldiers.” He loosens his grip on my hair, then finally steps back.
Fear and worry spread through me. A fae battle horn.
My pulse thumps in my ears, and I start to grow cold.
Who would be foolish enough to attack the fae?
Particularly in the aftermath of Tribute Day?
The people of Braemar have already lost so much, and my heart hurts at the prospect of them losing more. I swallow hard and take a shaky breath.
“Please,” I say in an imploring tone. “Whatever’s happened, please don’t hold all of Braemar responsible for the actions of a few.”
Smoke reaches me, and my fear deepens. Please don’t let the city be on fire.
Dark memories swirl in my mind. The day Mama became trapped in a burning house.
Knowing she was scheduled to visit the affluent area of the city where the house was aflame, I’d rushed to the scene, only to learn that it was too late.
Neighbors tried to rescue all those trapped inside, but no one emerged alive.
The king’s eyes flare wide, and I sense his presence in my mind.
He knows. He just saw my thoughts.
He knows exactly what happened to my mother.
Though his expression softens somewhat, he remains tense as the battle horn continues to blare, a reminder that surely he must leave my side soon.
He runs a hand through my hair and leans his forehead against mine.
It feels like a sweet goodbye even though it shouldn’t.
He’s probably going to visit his wrath on whoever dared to attack his soldiers.
I will do what I must to protect my people, he sends down the tether that connects us.
I don’t respond, and he eventually starts to pull away from me. He lifts my hand to his lips and places a soft kiss on the back of it. Then he releases me, turns toward the door, and departs his bedchamber in a rush of winter wind.
As soon as the door closes, I exhale a long breath and circle my arms around my center. My legs wobble, but I make it to a chair before I can collapse. So much has happened, and it’s difficult to wrap my mind around recent events and make sense of it all.
King Theron can hear my thoughts, just as I can hear his. It seems we can sense one another’s emotions too. Also… those visions. I’ve had two visions that are frightening indeed, particularly the last one, the one with the bonfire in the Winter Court forest.
I think of the darkness in the king’s past. Elssandra’s betrayal.
His fated mate. She’s gone. Dead. Though he didn’t come out and say it, or think it, I suspect he killed her.
I suspect he chased her down in a rage-induced frenzy and slaughtered her in the dark, snowy mountains that stretch beyond the Northern Isles.
She’d plotted to kill him. Because of her cousin.
Her cousin.
The chills rushing through me deepen until my teeth chatter. I shift closer to the fire as I continue trying to piece the clues together.
I’d had a brief thought about my visions earlier, while King Theron was inside my head, but it was so fleeting, and he was so surprised that I could read his thoughts too, that he seemed to miss the detail entirely.
Thank the gods.
Upon his return, if he asks about the visions, I’m not sure what I’ll say. I’ll have to try to block him out. Or lie to him, if that’s even possible.
The scent of smoke becomes stronger, and it’s definitely not coming from the hearth. Dread curls inside me as I glance at the balcony doors. I force myself to my feet and approach the doors, then slip outside into the cold, starry night.
Snow flurries drift down to land on my nose.
Wait. Not snow flurries.
Ashes.
I suck in a quick breath, and my eyes search the nighttime landscape of Braemar. I’m relieved when I don’t spot any buildings on fire within the city, but my unease deepens when I notice a glow in the distance beyond the gates and the parapet.
The tents, I realize with a gasp. Most of the Winter Court army is residing in large white tents that were erected outside the city.
Though I can’t see the actual flames from my current position, I can see the glow of the fire, and the smoke is burning my throat. Ashes keep drifting down from the sky.
My gaze flicks up when I glimpse dozens of highborn fae in the air above, flying toward the fire.
Their massive forms cut across the starry night and obscure the moon.
The rapid flapping of wings reaches me, a thunderous echo that joins with the terrifying chorus of distant screams. Do the screams belong to humans or to the fae foot soldiers who were sleeping in the tents?
More highborn fae zoom through the sky, too many to count, perhaps even hundreds of them.
I vaguely recall hearing that the Winter Court army has over four hundred highborn fae in its ranks.
Whoever attacked the faefolk in the tents was foolish indeed.
Surely it was a group of humans bent on revenge.
I pray that only the guilty are slaughtered.
To my surprise, I also find myself hoping that none of the faefolk were injured.
Not for the first time, I feel like a traitor to my people. The Winter Court army conquered Braemar and killed thousands of humans. Shouldn’t I want as many fae as possible to meet a fiery end?
Suddenly, there’s a cold wind.
Colder than I’ve ever felt before.
It pierces straight to my bones. Then, snow. Lots of it. Thick, whirling snow with an edge of brutal violence. It descends from the sky rapidly, blocking out my view of the distant glow of the fire and the highborn fae in the sky.