Chapter 21
Three days later…
HELENA
The bakery is deserted. I peer around the first floor of the once-bustling establishment, my heart in my throat. Isabel is usually standing behind the counter, and the seating area is usually filled with customers. But not today.
King Theron stands against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches me carefully. I can’t hear his thoughts, but he looks worried, and I don’t think he wants to be here.
I haven’t heard his thoughts or sensed his emotions in several days, and I don’t think he’s been able to hear mine either. Maybe it’s over. Maybe it’ll never happen again. I can only hope.
I won’t lie. It’s a relief for the connection to be severed.
And yet… the absence of his voice in my head is a lonely, silent echo.
I miss him. I shouldn’t, but I do.
“Hello!” I call out, even though I know Isabel and her father aren’t on the premises.
As expected, there’s no answer. All that can be heard is the wind rattling the loose shutters.
Worry spreads through me, along with a sharp wave of anguish. My throat burns. The idea of losing the Sinclairs so soon after Mama and Harry is almost too much. I can’t fathom any more loss.
King Theron pushes away from the wall, approaches me slowly, and places his hands gently on my shoulders. The comforting look he gives me only makes my throat burn harder.
“Commander Ashvale is a good tracker. I am certain he’ll find your friends. He promised to send another messenger bird soon with an update, regardless of whether he’s found them.”
I nod and blink back tears. “Thank you. It’s a comfort to know you have your most trusted commander searching for my friends. I just hope nothing bad has happened to them. We’re so close to orc lands and…” My voice fades as I think about poor Isabel. Please let her be okay.
Two days ago, a messenger bird from Commander Ashvale arrived carrying startling news: several people witnessed Isabel and her father escaping the walls of Braemar early in the morning on Tribute Day.
But they haven’t been seen since. It’s my understanding that the commander is scouring the surrounding forest for any signs of them. I pray he finds them soon.
I sigh. “I can’t believe they ran. I never imagined Mr. Sinclair would take such a risk with his daughter.”
The king leans down and places a kiss on my forehead, and my breath catches in my throat.
It’s a tender action, one that makes me feel closer to him.
I’ve been trying so hard to push him away during the last few days, ever since that ill-fated kiss and the attack on the fae foot soldiers’ tents, yet with that one sweet gesture, my icy resolve to shut him out starts to melt.
Part of me wants to keep pushing him away. But another part of me wants to tear down the walls I’ve erected around my heart, and my mind, and stoke the passion and intimacy that had led to our first and only kiss.
“I am sorry your friends ran, darling human. I’m sorry you are so worried about them, but if anyone can find them, it’s Commander Ashvale. And if he fails to turn up any evidence of their whereabouts, I will ask Lord Blackthorne, my most valued aerial scout, to join the commander in the search.”
I nod again. “All right. Thank you. I suppose I should go upstairs and collect my things.”
He grasps my hand, brings it to his lips, and gently brushes his lips against my fingers. His eyes don’t leave mine as he places the soft, slow kisses on my flesh. Goosebumps instantly rise on my arms, and the back of my neck prickles with delicious awareness.
Yes, I think it’s safe to say that the intimacy is starting to return. Perhaps there’s no stopping it. Perhaps even if I try to keep the walls around my heart intact, he’ll just break them down. Maybe that’s exactly what I want. Maybe I want him to tear past my defenses.
Still holding my hand, he guides me toward the steps.
He’s so large we can’t walk up side by side.
He goes up first, just in case there’s an intruder.
As I follow, I find myself staring directly at his butt, a perfectly sculpted, firm, muscular butt, the tight leather pants leaving nothing to the imagination.
My breath falters, and I don’t think it’s from climbing the stairs.
Once we reach the top, he pauses and tilts his head, listening. He opens the storage room door, peeks inside, then closes it.
I nod at the other door. “That’s my room,” I say, and my throat constricts again.
I’m not sure why being back at the bakery unsettles me so deeply, but my chest feels tight as I stand here.
The silence presses in from all sides, heavier than it did downstairs, made worse by the knowledge that the Sinclairs are gone, vanished into the wild forest that’s probably teeming with deadly fae creatures, their fate unknown.
Yet it isn’t only the quiet that unnerves me. It’s the fact that I’m about to open the door to the one place that was truly mine.
This small room above the bakery was my refuge. It’s where I cried for Mama and Harry when no one could see me. It’s where I learned how to keep breathing after my world ended.
And now King Theron stands beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth, and the thought of letting him see this side of me, the fragile, broken pieces of my soul, makes my hands tremble.
I reach for the latch, then hesitate.
Theron notices immediately.
“You do not have to show me,” he says. “If this place is sacred to you, I will wait below.”
The compassion in his voice nearly undoes me.
I shake my head. “No. I want… I think I want you to see it.”
And so, I open the door.
The room is just as I left it: a narrow bed pushed into a corner, a single chair by the window, the faint lingering scent of potpourri and old wood.
The shawl Mama made for my eighteenth birthday still hangs from the bedpost, the edges embroidered with an intricate floral design.
A chipped vase sits on the bedside table, empty, but I’d hoped to buy flowers from the greenhouse the next time I had a little extra money.
Theron steps inside slowly, as though afraid to disturb the air. His gaze moves over everything with quiet observation and a hint of curiosity. When his eyes return to me, his expression softens with understanding.
“This is where you lived,” he says, not as a question.
I nod. Where I survived. I don’t say it out loud, and even though I don’t think he’s able to hear my thoughts right now, I think he understands. This tiny room was my refuge during the darkest time in my life.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then, gently, he reaches out, not to touch me, but to brush his fingers along the edge of the table, the wall, the bedpost. As if he’s trying to understand me through the space I once occupied.
His actions are intimate, and in a way, I feel like he’s inspecting me, learning my secrets.
I stand very still, watching as he takes in all the details of my little room.
Slowly, he turns to me. He walks closer and cups my cheek in one large hand. His touch is warm, and grounding. I don’t understand how his palm can feel so warm when he’s the Winter King, but I’m starting to think that sometimes, with great effort, he pushes away the coldness just for me.
His thumb brushes beneath my eye, wiping away a tear I didn’t realize had fallen.
“Let’s pack your things, darling human.”
I swallow hard. “All right. There’s a big rucksack in the closet,” I say.
He nods, places a kiss on my forehead, then finds the bag in the closet.
My hands tremble as I fold the few dresses I’d brought with me from the cottage, only what I could pack quickly on that cold, dark, winter night when I fled before Peter could call the constable.
I open drawers, finding extra stockings, chemises, and undergarments, which I quickly shove into the rucksack so King Theron doesn’t glimpse the intimate attire.
“Did you leave a great many things behind when you fled the house you shared with your husband?” he asks quietly, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes.
“Yes, though I brought the most important belongings with me. I-I think my brother-in-law threw out everything I left behind. In fact, I think he burned it. An old neighbor witnessed him tossing dresses and books into a bonfire not long after I left.”
King Theron stiffens and his nostrils flare.
“Once again, I find myself regretting that I wasn’t the one to kill your brother-in-law.
I would’ve spent days torturing him before finally granting him the release of death.
” He retrieves the embroidered shawl from the bedpost, folds it with great care, and hands it to me.
“Would you like to return to your old house, the house you shared with your late husband, to check for any belongings that might’ve survived? ”
I consider it for a moment but soon shake my head. “No. I appreciate the offer, but I suspect Peter didn’t take care of the house, and I don’t want to see it in poor repair. It was beautiful and well-kept when I left it, a perfect, tidy home, and that’s how I want to remember it.”
“I understand.” He gestures at the rucksack. “Are you all packed?”
“Yes. That’s everything.” How sad that all my belongings fit into one bag.
But at least I have the dresses back, dresses Mama made for me.
And the shawl. I don’t have much to remember her by, but at least I have those treasured items. As I turn, I catch glimmers of silver on the windowsill and I pause.
Our wedding rings. Mine and Harry’s.
I exhale slowly as I approach the window and pick up the rings.
I hold them in the palm of my hand as memories crash over me.
I recall the tears in Harry’s eyes as we exchanged marriage vows.
It seems like ages ago, yet it truly hasn’t been that long.
I feel like I’ve transformed into a completely different person since that day, a shadow of my former self, a woman who was suddenly thrust into survival mode.
I lift my hand, showing the rings to King Theron. “After Harry died, I got his old mail route, but I was afraid to traverse the streets while wearing any type of jewelry, especially a silver ring. So, I placed the rings on the windowsill where I would see them every day.”
Memories continue to rush over me.
I recall the shocked numbness I experienced as the constable returned Harry’s stolen moneybag along with his wedding ring to me, the very evening after his murder.
I close my hand around the rings, overcome by the sudden urge to throw them at the wall.
It’s not fair. Why did he have to die? Why did Mama have to die?
Why did the godsdamn Winter Court army have to conquer Braemar?
Why did thousands of my people have to die or go missing?
What happened to the Sinclairs?
I don’t throw the rings at the wall. Instead, I shove them into the pocket of my cloak, then I burst into tears. I cover my face and turn away from King Theron. I feel too raw. Too vulnerable.
Strong arms abruptly wrap around me, and I’m pulled against a hard, muscular chest. The familiar scent of pine, smoky wood, peppermint, and fresh-fallen snow surrounds me, each breath a reminder that I’m in the arms of the Winter King. My captor. My tormentor.
And yet, he is the one holding me together right now.
He doesn’t speak. He simply hugs me as though I might shatter if he loosens his hold, one broad hand moving slowly up and down my back, steady and patient. Every so often, he presses his face into my hair, kissing the crown of my head with a tenderness that makes my heart ache.
Why do his arms feel like the sweetest refuge?
I should want to push him away. I should remember everything he represents, everything he’s taken from my people, from my city.
And I should judge him for it. I should hate him for it.
But instead, I cling to him as though my life depends upon it.
I lace my arms around his waist, holding onto him as though he’s my only hope, my only chance at ever feeling whole again.
Eventually, my sobs fade to soft sniffles.
I blink, draw back slightly, and cast a shy, nervous glance at him.
I can’t believe I just broke down sobbing in front of King Theron, the cruel fae king who was supposed to like my tears.
The cruel fae king I was once so certain would torture me and eventually kill me.
Instead, my tears seem to disturb him. I can’t read his thoughts, not at this moment, but his ice-blue eyes betray a flash of worry and compassion.
He reaches into the pocket of his leather pants, pulls out a clean, white handkerchief, and dabs it to my face, cleaning away my tears with a quiet gentleness that speaks volumes.
Once he’s finished, he tucks the soiled handkerchief away and reaches for the rucksack. He places a hand to my lower back and guides me to the door.
“Come, darling human. Let’s return to the castle.”