Chapter Four #3
And wasn’t that the truth? William was delaying the inevitable, and the delicately garnished fish on its golden, buttery bed looked rather appetizing. Beside him, Charlotte was devouring her food, animatedly talking with Ailenor. Oh, well.
He picked up his fork and knife and cut off a piece, bringing it to his lips.
It smelled delicious, rich, and well seasoned.
With an internal shrug, he popped it into his mouth.
It was delectable—creamy and salty, the crispiness of the flaky pastry blending perfectly with the silkiness of the fish.
He chewed and swallowed the goodness and didn’t feel any different.
Peering to his side, he caught how the corners of Iver’s lips curved upward. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
William felt the childish need to tell him to shut up, but he didn’t. It wouldn’t improve Iver’s opinion of him. Not that he cared about that.
The Duchess of Winterbourne and other guests had received dishes of human food, prepared from the castle’s remaining stocks. There was enough to last for the feast and an opulent breakfast in the morning before they departed. Afterward, there’d only be faerie food.
Once everyone had finished, the attendants cleared away the plates, and more speeches were given.
The duchess congratulated William and Iver and spoke from experience when she praised how happy marriages between humans and fae were.
She kept turning to her husband, smiling blissfully, squeezing his hand.
Perhaps marrying Iver hadn’t been William’s worst decision.
Throughout the main course, William kept sipping his wine, feeling Iver’s eyes on him. What? It wasn’t like a couple of glasses would get him drunk. William had a high tolerance.
There was faerie wine, too, which an eager fae server kept offering to him. Iver declined on his behalf every time. It was grating. Faerie wine was a known aphrodisiac—to humans. It did nothing to fae except fill their stomachs.
When Iver sent the server away for the third time, William had had enough. He turned to Iver and forced himself to keep the outward appearance of a happy, newlywed couple. The guests shouldn’t see the cracks in their alliance on day one.
“I can speak for myself,” William whispered through gritted teeth.
“I’m well aware. But it’s bad enough you’re getting drunk at our reception,” Iver said, throwing William’s glass a displeased look. “If you’re having faerie wine on top of that, you’ll turn into something no better than a bitch in heat.”
William, in the greatest display of self-control of his life, managed not to stab Iver with his knife.
He pinched his lips into a thin line, all semblance of pleasant conversation lost. Hopefully, his guests were too busy eating to notice.
“I’m not drunk,” William snarled. “And isn’t that what you’d love me to be—your bitch in heat? ”
Iver looked genuinely taken aback, but he quickly schooled his features into a neutral expression. “No. And I’m not fucking you tonight.”
“Excuse me?”
He couldn’t be serious. Iver was walking around like that, all enticing and scandalous, his robe gaping, and he’d deny William his conjugal rights on their wedding night? But that was just like him, wasn’t it? What an arrogant, selfish prick.
“You heard me,” Iver said, annoyingly calm. “Tradition demands we don’t sleep with each other before the court witnesses our carnal union. Wait for tomorrow, when I take you in the ring.”
“I might wrestle you down.”
Iver looked at him like one might look at a child who’d stormed into the room waving a wooden sword, announcing they’d go slay imps in the woods.
“You might,” Iver said, but his amused expression said something else.
Under the table, he took William’s hand and squeezed it.
“Don’t worry. You’ll enjoy it.” He let go, and William hated himself for grieving the loss of his cold touch.
“When will I receive the winter faerie fruit?” William asked impatiently.
“Leave room after dessert.”
William managed not to roll his eyes.
It was late when the feast concluded and the guests retired to their chambers.
As the festivities wound down, Iver and Ailenor exchanged a few hushed words, and she handed him a small silk pouch before she, too, went to bed.
William had assigned her chambers next to Charlotte’s apartment, and Ailenor followed her out the grand double doors, disappearing in the sparsely lit corridor.
“The apple?” William asked, inclining his head toward the pouch in Iver’s hand.
Iver gave him an infuriatingly patient smile. “Yes, you can finally have it.”
“Not here,” William said, looking at the dozen servants who were cleaning the great hall, wiping tables and sweeping the floor. He had plans.
William only realized what he’d done when Iver’s hand was in his and he was leading him out of the hall and toward the stairwell.
Iver followed without complaint, and together, they climbed the spiral staircase to the top floor.
This part of the castle was deserted at night, the occasional lamp illuminating the otherwise dark hallways.
William pushed the heavy doors to the ballroom under the roof open, the old wood groaning.
Up here, it was freezing. Wan moonlight fell through the tall windows revealing a vast space.
Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, icicles forming on the crystals.
Along one side of the hall, a frosted-up gallery overlooked the dance floor.
“This is good,” William said, nodding. “I’ll have the apple now. Please.”
Iver pulled it from the silken pouch, his fingertips brushing William as he handed it to him. Finally!
The apple was cool to the touch and of a strange, cobalt blue color. William eyed the fruit suspiciously. Was this really something he could eat?
“It’s not poisoned,” Iver said drily. “I need you alive to produce an heir, remember?”
William snorted.
“Light?” Iver asked, gesturing at the chandeliers.
“Please.”
The candles flared to life, dipping the ballroom into a golden glow, flames reflecting off crystals and icicles.
“I knew having a fae husband would have its advantages.”
William walked backward, putting space between them. With his gaze glued to Iver’s steel blue eyes, he bit into the winter faerie fruit.
It tasted like water. Juicy, but oddly bland. And cold. He took another bite, the experience reminding him of eating snow as a child.
William devoured the apple, but nothing happened. Had Iver duped him? William tried to remember the details of their agreement, wondering if anything had been worded ambiguously, but he didn’t think so. He’d had enough good sense to be precise when making a deal with a dark fae.
William swallowed the last bite, about to accuse Iver of deceiving him, when a freezing cold ripped at his insides.
He sucked in air, clutching at his abdomen.
Icy pain shredded him, a thousand blades cutting into his stomach.
Coughing, he doubled over. Blood rushed in his ears as he clawed at himself.
“You said…” William rasped, “…no poison.” He felt the color drain from his face.
Iver tilted his head. “You know I can’t lie.”
William’s teeth chattered as ice sluiced into his veins. “Then what…” Another cough interrupted him. The cold and the slicing pain intensified. He was freezing from the inside out.
“It’s just the effects of the apple,” Iver said.
William must’ve given him a wary look because he added, “Of the winter faerie fruit, you suspicious human.” He closed the distance between them, walking deliberately slowly as if William was a startled doe.
“It won’t harm you. There. Does that satisfy your concern?
” Iver stopped a foot from him, regarding him intently.
The cold spread through William. It ate through his stomach; it crept into his chest and legs, reaching for his toes and fingers. Despite Iver’s reassuring words, panic edged into William. Iver couldn’t lie, but he could be wrong.
Whatever was happening, it terrified William.
He was freezing solid. Iver pulled him into his arms, and he sank against him, taking comfort.
That fresh scent of wood and snow enveloped him, the silk of Iver’s robe pleasuring his fingertips.
A sense of belonging overcame him, a response to finding support after the surge of fear.
The ice reached into William’s every fiber, breaking him apart. Remaking him.
As quickly as the cold and pain had come, they fell off him, and with them the fatigue after a long day of official proceedings. His wariness faded, all weakness draining away.
William frowned—his body felt different.
He pulled away from Iver, ignoring the part of him that protested, and tried to look at himself.
His thick ermine cloak was in the way. Keeping his eyes on Iver, he unclasped the golden brooch and let the garment fall to the floor.
And indeed—his arms, chest and thighs stretched the fabric of his clothing. Around his middle, it was looser.
“You like the changes?” Iver asked.
William pulled at the buttons of his doublet, forcing them undone.
He stripped off the jacket and then the linen shirt underneath, and—by the Lady and her holy shield—he’d grown muscles.
His chest, formerly unremarkable and flat, had developed distinct pecs.
His soft stomach had turned hard and defined, his arms thick and muscled.
William had never deviated from the average.
He’d neither been too thin nor too thick.
Now, he had the body of a young god. He turned and twisted, regarding his new form as well as he could without a mirror.
“The legends don’t lie about the winter faerie fruit building strength,” William said. “Though I hadn’t expected to look the part.”
He glanced at Iver, whose gaze was on William’s body, the line of his jaw hard with tension.
“Is something the matter?” William asked.