Chapter 20
THERON
Residual bloodlust hums in my veins, though the echoes of violence fade the longer I hold Helena.
I keep an arm wrapped around her as we sit before the fire, letting the warmth of the flames seep into us both.
It takes great effort, far more than it should, but I push back my natural coldness, caring only for her comfort.
Something troubles her. I cannot hear her thoughts or sense her emotions, not now, but there’s no mistaking the worry that shadows her eyes. She is guarded, withdrawn, and quiet.
Is she thinking of how many humans I killed tonight?
If she asks, I will not lie. I’ll tell her every brutal detail. If we’re to remain together, and I have no intention of releasing her, she must grow accustomed to the truth of what I am. She must understand that I cannot change my nature.
I am the Winter King, descended from a line of vicious Unseelie warriors.
I will do whatever I must to remain on the Winter Court throne, just as I will do whatever I must to protect my people from murderous humans and orcs who wish to prevent our migration into their lands.
If I must slaughter a thousand humans every day for the rest of my life, then that is what I will do.
I will keep going, keep killing. I will keep using my deadly winter magic and brute strength to protect my people.
Helena shifts in my arms, moving slightly away from me, tensing as though she means to make a sudden escape. I tighten my hold on her, bringing her more firmly against my bare chest.
Mine. My female.
Her long, wavy hair tickles my flesh. She casts a nervous glance at me, her breath faltering.
I inhale her familiar scent, frost flowers and something sweeter, and it feels like home.
I wish she could feel the same sense of peace I’m experiencing now as I hold her.
Instead, it seems she is eager to escape my arms. If I were a well-mannered male, the kind of man her husband probably was, I would let her go.
I would give her space. I might even release her from captivity.
But I’m possessive. And jealous. So much that I won’t let her go, not even if she gets on her knees and begs. The possibility that she might’ve loved her husband and misses him still riles me to no end, a chilled ripple beneath my skin that feels like the beginning of another storm.
Though I used winter magic to clean the remnants of battle off myself before entering the bedchamber, I suspect the scent of smoke and blood clings to me still, faint but unmistakable. Human blood. Does she smell it? Does she know the level of rage I felt as I killed her people?
“You’re frightened,” I say at last, my voice low. A statement, not a question.
She stiffens and peers down at her trembling hands. That alone is answer enough.
I tilt my head, studying her profile, the purposeful way she avoids my gaze. She fears me now in a way she did not before. Not because I am fae. Not because I am her captor.
But because today, more than once, she has been reminded that I am a king and that I rule through violence rather than mercy. First, Tribute Day. Then, the swift justice I meted out to the humans who attacked my people.
“They attacked my soldiers,” I say, even though she hasn’t asked. “They set fire to dozens of tents. A few of my people sustained serious burns.”
“Did any of your people die?” she asks in a whisper.
“No. Our best healers are tending to them now. All are expected to live.”
“How many…” Her voice trails off and a shudder passes through her. Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. I feel her breathing change, shallow and uneven. “How many of my people did you kill tonight?”
“Nineteen. All adult human males. They were captured outside the gates of Braemar trying to sneak back into the city through a concealed entrance in the wall.”
She turns in my arms and peers into my eyes. “Did you kill anyone else after that? Any innocents from the city?”
I almost scoff at her question, but then I consider her viewpoint.
During the battle to capture Braemar, my people slaughtered most humans we encountered in the streets, only sparing children, whether they were soldiers or regular citizens who’d had nothing to do with the attack on the settlement of faefolk.
I lean closer to her and comb my fingers through her hair. I can’t help but notice that her gaze occasionally drifts to my bare chest. A flush blooms across her face.
“I didn’t personally kill anyone else after that,” I eventually tell her. “But I cannot promise that the fae soldiers patrolling the streets of Braemar won’t be especially cruel tonight and in the days that follow.”
“You could leave Braemar,” she says quietly. “You could take your entire army and leave tonight. No more killing. I doubt anyone from Braemar would dare to bother your people again, especially since all our soldiers are dead.”
“No.” I tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear, then wrap my hand around her throat, just as I did before we kissed earlier. And just like earlier in the night, I don’t squeeze. I just… feel the rapid flutter of her pulse against my fingers.
“Must you truly occupy every human city you conquer indefinitely?” Her voice is sad, distant. Resigned. She already knows that I won’t change my mind.
“Yes, we must. I have already appointed a warden to rule over Braemar. When the majority of the Winter Court army departs your city in a few days, one hundred soldiers will stay behind to help keep order.”
A soft, mournful whimper leaves her, and her look of sorrow deepens.
I long to comfort her, but I cannot do as she’s asking. I cannot give her what she wants. All it would take is one angry human to rile his comrades up enough to lead an attack on another fae settlement. It’s a risk I cannot take.
Besides, if I showed her people even the tiniest bit of mercy, the soldiers who follow me would doubt my ability to lead the army and sit on the Winter Court throne.
I think back to the last time I was challenged, a few years after Rumarc tried to kill me.
My second in command, General Davadd, secretly plotted to take my crown just because I didn’t torture a group of orcs that trespassed into our lands before killing them.
His skull adorns the main banquet hall at the Winter Court, of course, taking a place of honor next to Rumarc’s.
Ever since then, I haven’t appointed another general to help lead the army.
Instead, the two dozen commanders in the army report directly to me.
When I must put my trust in just one of them, I usually choose Commander Ashvale.
The point being, when it comes to the safety of my people and the preservation of my place on the Winter Court throne, I will never take risks.
Showing even the tiniest bit of mercy can result in grave consequences.
Not only is cruelty safer, but it’s part of me.
I savor the screams of my enemies during battle, just as I relish the scent of their blood.
I don’t believe Helena realizes just how unnatural it was for me to promise to help her friends, Isabel and Mr. Sinclair.
I attempt to listen to her thoughts, but it’s like hitting a wall of ice. Is she blocking me on purpose? If so, how long will it be before she lets me back in? The sudden loss of intimacy is jarring. What if I never hear her thoughts again? What if she never hears mine?
What a cruel twist of fate it would be to dangle the promise of companionship between us both only for it to be ripped away without explanation.
“It’s been a long day, darling human,” I murmur into her ear. “It’s time for bed.”
She glances toward the bathroom. “All right. I-I’ll go get changed.” She slips from my arms, rushes into the bathroom, and closes the door.
Though I long for a bath, I’m eager to hold Helena in my arms beneath the bedcovers, so I strip my leather pants off and don a pair of soft trousers, so as not to offend her delicate senses.
Normally, I sleep naked, but I don’t want to frighten her needlessly, so I’ve been wearing trousers, fucking trousers, to bed each night.
After using my winter magic to rid myself of any remaining carnage from the battle, as well as to clean my teeth, I stand in the center of the room, waiting for Helena to emerge from the bathroom.
She steps out wearing the robe and slippers I gave her on our first night together.
Her hair spills over her shoulders in a cascade of darkness.
Unseelie hair, pitch black. Not that those with mostly Seelie blood cannot have dark hair, but more often than not, such blackness marks a stronger strain of dark fae in the blood.
I remember my plan to ask her more questions about her past tonight, but I start to second-guess myself. Her expression remains distant, a sad, weary look lingering in her eyes. Fucking fires, I don’t like it.
I want to see her furious again. I want her to scream that she hates me just before kissing me.
But as I watch her move slowly toward the bed, I know she won’t be amenable to kissing me again anytime soon, not while she’s so actively mourning her people, her old life, and the freedom that was stolen from her.
Her gaze flicks over my bare chest, just for a moment, and color blooms across her cheeks. She quickly looks away and slips past me, climbing into the bed. By the time I move to follow, she has already stacked several pillows between us.
The distance unsettles me, too much space, both physical and otherwise, and I can’t stop the growl that tears from my chest, a feral sound that reverberates through the vast room. She gasps softly, then hurriedly pulls the covers up and turns onto her side, going utterly still.
I remain standing there, staring down at her, weighing my next move. I want to grab her. Shake her. But I don’t. Gods, her despondency affects me more than I would care to admit.
With an inward sigh, I climb beneath the covers and lean back against the padded headboard, my gaze still fixed on Helena. Agitation coils through me. I had sound reasons for what I did today, for honoring Tribute Day as my people have always done, for the nineteen human males I killed.
And yet none of that quiets the unease in my chest.
I’m about to growl again when her thoughts suddenly reach me.
I don’t want to leave Braemar. Mama always warned that something terrible would happen if I left the protective stone walls of the city. I’m starting to think she was right. No good will come from me leaving. If only I could stay.
My dear friends. Isabel. Mr. Sinclair. Oh, please let them be all right.
Gods, I hope no more humans from Braemar try to attack the fae.
Please let the killing stop.
As I keep listening to her private thoughts, my chest becomes tight, and each breath is painful and heavy. I long to comfort her, but I don’t dare make a move to touch her.
Not yet.
I sense she needs a little more time to sort her thoughts out, perhaps to calm herself down a bit, and I don’t want to interrupt.
And I’m not proud to admit it, but I want to hear as many of her secret thoughts as possible before she blocks me again.
But the next thoughts that cross her mind are so shocking, I don’t know how to react.
Please don’t let King Theron find out about my visions.
Please help me keep blocking him from my mind.
Oh, I really hope we don’t visit the fae priestess he mentioned. Hopefully something will happen to prevent the visit. What if the priestess somehow senses my visions and informs King Theron? That might not go very well for me.
Visions? What visions? I try to sift through her thoughts more deeply, but I’m unable to sense any firm details.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her what visions she’s worried about, but at the last moment, I press my lips together, deciding on silence.
Yes, perhaps it’s better to stay quiet; I might learn more if she doesn’t realize I can hear her.
As she finally drifts to sleep, one idea keeps repeating in her mind:
I just want to be free. Please. I must escape the king. My very life might depend upon it. I just want to be free…