Chapter Two #2
Once a date was set, William grew restless.
Should he wear a rowan twig to the meeting?
The plant was sacred to the fae, and if myth was to be believed, a fae would hesitate to harm a human wearing it.
Or should he go for a four-leaf clover? Those were said to repel fae.
But would either work on Iver? William doubted it.
More likely, such protective measures would cause an affront, and William didn’t want to get on Iver’s bad side.
If they were to marry, he couldn’t stride around the castle carrying bouquets of rowan and clover.
He might as well get used to meeting fae without the usual protections.
William ensured he and the small entourage he rode with carried no iron. The metal burned fae upon touch. Bringing iron into a fae household would be an insult to the Duchess of Winterbourne and her husband and render all chances of a union with Iver void.
William arrived at the duchess’s castle unprotected. The handful of knights he’d brought deterred common waylayers but were no match for a high fae, let alone the Winter King.
The duchess’s old fort sat on a mound at the center of Winterbourne, overlooking the hustle and bustle of the town square.
Down in the city, smoke rose from chimneys, and merchants hurried through crowded alleyways.
Snow dusted the roofs, dripping icicles sparkling in the afternoon sun.
It wasn’t customary for meetings to be held so late in the day, but William couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten out of bed before noon.
He had deliberately scheduled a time at which he was unlikely to run late.
The gates closed behind him and his escort, and the noise of the city faded. The high walls of Winterbourne Castle surrounded them, the towers casting shadows onto the courtyard.
With a low groan, the double doors to the castle swung open, and the duchess strode out, lifting the long, flared skirt of her dress off the ground. Her gray hair was curled in an elegant crown braid adorned with silver leaf pins. When she spotted William, she gifted him a wide smile and bowed.
He greeted her, and she lowered further, stopped in her descent when he embraced her to kiss her cheeks.
“Thank you for hosting us,” William said.
The duchess took William’s hands in hers. “It’s a pleasure, Your Majesty. The Winter King has already arrived. I’ve prepared the war room for the two of you.”
She led him into the castle and down a series of corridors, servants bowing as they passed.
“I’m throwing another ball,” William said to fill the silence.
“Oh?”
“On the fourth day of Twelvetide. This close to the winter solstice, it’ll be very festive. I’m going to send you and your husband a formal invitation when we get closer, but I thought I’d let you know while I’m here.”
“Your Majesty is generous,” the duchess said.
“We’d be delighted to attend. Last time, I danced until midnight.
” She chuckled, and her eyes sparked with joy.
The duchess was in her fifties, her body showing signs of age, but she possessed the spirit of a young girl.
It was fitting that she’d married a fae who looked twenty years her junior but was a hundred years her senior.
“There we are,” she said, stopping in front of a heavy oak door.
William stared at the ominously looming entrance to the aptly named war room. He’d never met the Winter King and wasn’t sure what to expect.
“My servants will be outside the door should you need anything.” The duchess inclined her head toward two young men standing in an alcove like pieces of abandoned furniture. One of them stepped forward and opened the door for William. A chill rushed onto him. Had some halfwit left the window open?
“I’ll leave you to it,” the duchess said. She was around the corner before William could thank her.
Clammy mist hung low above the floor as he stepped over the threshold.
His breath fogged the air. Frost was crawling up the walls and onto battle scene paintings while icicles hung from the dark, coffered ceiling.
A sturdy ebony table stretched across the length of the room, and at its far end, a man stood. The door shut with a decisive thud.
Cold, blue eyes pierced William, staring into his soul, scrutinizing him.
William fought not to squirm under the unyielding gaze.
Iver’s assessing stare was framed by dark brows and high, sculpted cheekbones.
A long, straight nose gave his features an aristocratic quality.
He was wrapped in an air of arrogance that William immediately disliked.
His silver blond mane fell over his broad shoulders in waves that came to rest on the lush, white fur of his cloak.
Underneath, he wore skintight leather armor that revealed a muscular chest, his torso tapering to a taut stomach and narrow hips.
William’s eyes dropped to the impressive bulge between his legs, and he gulped.
Fighting for control, he dragged his gaze up, catching Iver’s lips twisting into a sneer. He knew exactly what William had been ogling.
“William,” Iver said, his accent sharp enough to cut glass. The frost thickened around him, congealing to ice on his side of the table. It crept across the windows, dimming the room. William shivered.
He’d met other sovereigns, but he’d never met someone so powerful. Iver studied him like a painting he considered purchasing, weighing William’s value against the price he’d have to pay.
“Iver,” William said, managing to produce the two syllables without his voice breaking.
A knock on the door tore through the tension in the room.
Iver barked a clipped “Come in,” and a pale, shaking youth carried in a tray with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
“Your Majesties,” the boy whispered, keeping his eyes down.
He set the tray on the table and poured the wine, his nervous hands spilling a couple of drops. He bowed backward out of the room.
The moment the door shut, William picked up a glass. He forced himself to take no more than one slow sip. The wine’s fruity flavor slid over his tongue. That mouthful wasn’t anywhere near enough to take the edge off.
He looked up, catching disdain flashing in Iver’s gaze.
“You don’t drink?” William asked.
“No.” The word was a needle prick. Iver rounded the table, advancing on William. “I’m going to search you now.”
“Search me?” William put down the wine.
“For iron.”
“For iron?” William huffed with indignation. “I wouldn’t insult you, much less the duchess and her husband, by bringing iron. I know better than that.”
“You’re human,” Iver said, unbothered. “You could be lying.”
He came toe to toe with William. The temperature dropped further, and the hairs on William’s neck stood up.
He and Iver were the same height, but he’d never felt smaller.
Iver stood too close. Did he have no concept of personal space?
William’s heart pounded as Iver produced a pair of suede gloves and pulled them over his long fingers.
“It won’t hurt,” Iver said with a taunting smile.
William’s breath caught as Iver put his hands on him and gripped the clasp holding his fur cloak in place.
Even through his leather cuirass and the shirt underneath, William felt the cold of Iver’s fingers.
The clasp came undone, and Iver leaned in, speaking softly.
“If I find iron, I will kill you.” His icy breath brushed the shell of William’s ear.
Bolts of electricity raced down William’s back. “There’s no iron,” he pressed out.
Amusement drifted into Iver’s tone. “Good.”
The cloak fell off William’s shoulders. Iver caught it and draped it over the back of a chair, then turned to work loose the buckles of William’s cuirass, embossed with Vale’s golden lion.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” William set his jaw, eyes narrowing.
“Be grateful that I’m doing this. In private. A dozen of my knights are waiting two doors down. I could’ve had them search you, perhaps in front of the duchess and her servants, because that would amuse me. Instead, I’m sparing you the indignity.”
“I’m a king,” William spat, hands balling into fists as anger blazed through him.
“So am I.”
Nobody should be searching him, in private or otherwise. He didn’t care if Iver was royalty.
William vibrated with tension. Anger fueling his courage, he was about to forcefully push Iver off, but one cool glance was enough to pin him in place.
The buckle on his left shoulder came undone.
Before he could protest, Iver proceeded with the one on his right.
It came free, and the cuirass popped open at William’s shoulders.
But it was still buckled at his back, securely held in place.
He half expected Iver to force him face-first against the wall to finish his fiendish work, but again, Iver surprised him.
Closing the final inches between them, Iver pressed against him, arms sliding around his middle.
A wave of heat crashed into William. He forgot about Iver’s cold aura, about the deft fingers undoing buckle after buckle at his back.
Iver’s hair, impossibly silky, brushed William’s skin, and the scent of crisp snow and fresh pine needles assaulted him.
Something inside him snapped, and a pitiful sound escaped his lips.
William’s cheeks burned, but Iver didn’t react. With unperturbed calm, he undid the last buckle, peeling William out of his armor.
With the cuirass gone, William felt exposed in more than one way.
Iver stepped away, leaving him strangely bereft. He dropped the cuirass onto the table, studs and clasps clanging against wood. When he returned to William, there was no protective armor between them. Nothing but William’s thin linen shirt and a pair of dark gloves separated skin from skin.
Firm hands wrapped around his biceps and slid down his arms. Had William hidden anything in his sleeves, Iver would’ve found it.