Chapter 22 Greta
Greta
Greta froze under the icy spotlight of the king’s gaze.
How long had he been standing there, listening to her sing?
And why did he look like he had been run through with a sword?
The agony on his face was so startling that she dropped her gaze, silently fretting as she scanned him for injuries.
There was no blood, only ash, marring his ivory frock coat.
Two of the buttons had snapped off, and the collar was ripped.
His pristine hair was unkempt, falling in messy strands across his forehead.
‘Don’t stop,’ he said, a rasp in his voice.
Greta’s heart galloped. Was he asking her to sing for him? She couldn’t think of anything more nerve-wracking than serenading the king of Gevra in the ashes of a forest fire. Her voice was scratchy from the smoke, and she could barely hold a note thanks to the chattering in her teeth.
She shook her head. ‘It was only a lullaby,’ she said, running her hand over the cubs on her lap. ‘The little ones were frightened. I was trying to soothe them.’
He nodded slowly. ‘I thought you were dead.’
She blinked in surprise. ‘Oh.’ Was that why he had looked so pained just now? Was he afraid the fires had gotten to her, or was he aggrieved at the prospect of having to find another wrangler?
‘Well … I’m not.’
He gave a dry chuckle. ‘So I have deduced.’
She glanced down at herself, wincing at her ruined dress.
‘Although I am a bit dirty.’ A severe understatement.
She had completely destroyed her gown, and Saga had made quick work of her slipper, both articles of clothing that had been generously loaned to her by the palace. ‘I’m sorry about the dress.’
He threaded his arms through the slats, watching her in that unnerving way of his. ‘If it’s any consolation, I think it looks better this way.’
She bit back her smile. ‘I was about to say the same thing about that lovely frock coat of yours.’
He snorted, dusting ash off one of his sleeves. ‘Now, it really brings out my blackened soul.’
Greta didn’t know whether to laugh or not.
She had witnessed enough of the king’s quick temper and uncompromising brutality to fear him, but ever since coming to Grinstad, she had found his kindness most surprising of all.
It wasn’t the warm and effusive kindness of her sisters, but a quieter sort, dealt in careful smiles and bracing words.
She found it in their shared enthusiasm for his beasts, and in his fierce protectiveness of her as his wrangler.
It was the king’s unseen kindness that made her feel safe here, like she was not quite as far from home as she once thought.
He opened his mouth to say something else, then paused at a faraway chorus of shouts. Soldiers were trawling through the forest to assess the damage now that the last of the fires had gone out.
The king grimaced. ‘I think you have the right idea, Iversen.’
‘What idea is that?’
‘Hiding.’ He unlatched the gate and slipped inside the pen. He sank to the ground beside her, pulling one leg up to his chest and anchoring it there with his arm. With the other, he reached out to absently stroke Saga’s back. The leopard snuffled in appreciation.
‘See?’ he said, his teeth winking in the moonlit dark. ‘We’re best friends again.’
‘It’s a shame you don’t have a lamb strip in your pocket. Then you’d have her for life.’
‘I’d like to tell you I’m above bribery, but it’s actually the cornerstone of my reign.’
She laughed and he joined in. She lost herself in the music of it.
‘Fickle creatures, beasts,’ she said, ruffling the cubs on her lap. ‘Would you like to hold one?’
‘No.’
‘Too late.’ She plopped one in his lap. ‘You can name him if you like.’
He frowned at the cub, even as he held it with a gentleness that surprised her. ‘My father always warned me not to name the beasts,’ he said, as he combed his fingers through its fur. ‘It makes it harder when they die in war.’
‘I think it’s hard either way,’ said Greta, tickling the cub’s chin. ‘At least with a name, they can be remembered. It’s a matter of honour, I think.’
He turned to face her. ‘I never thought of it like that.’
‘Well, you’re not a wrangler.’
‘Just a vicious king.’
She smirked at the cub in his arms. ‘Not so vicious now.’
He arched a brow. ‘Stop trying to humanize me, Iversen.’
‘I won’t tell a soul,’ she whispered.
‘In that case …’ He sighed, lifting the cub, and inspecting him at great length. ‘How about Slasher?’
She pulled a face. ‘Slasher?’
‘Well, Skull-crusher is too long. It doesn’t quite roll off the tongue the same way.’
‘Skull-crusher is even worse!’ she cried. ‘It’s so violent.’
He levelled her with a hard look. ‘What is it that you think we do here?’
‘We are not naming him Slasher,’ she said, sternly. ‘I refuse to call him that.’
‘Fine.’ He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. ‘How about Hatchet?’
‘Give me back the cub.’
‘No.’ He curled his body around the creature, burying his jaw in its scruff. She reached for the cub, and he lightly swatted her away, sending a delicious jolt up her arm. ‘I am the king.’
‘Well, I’m the wrangler, and I get final say.’
When he didn’t budge, she pretended to snatch at him, and this time, he caught her hand. His grip was warm and tight, and she felt it thrumming in every part of her.
‘You are very bossy,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
She knew it wasn’t a compliment, but he was still holding her hand and staring at her just a little too long. He blinked, as if remembering himself, and let her hand fall.
He gestured to the cub on her lap. ‘What have you named that one? Enlighten me as to your creative genius.’
Greta beamed. ‘Boo.’
‘Boo?’ He nearly choked on the name. ‘Why?’
‘Because he’s bootiful,’ she said, earning an elaborate eye-roll. ‘Oh, come on, he’s adorable!’
‘He won’t always be adorable.’
‘All beasts are adorable in their own way,’ said Greta, in a tone that dared him to argue with her.
‘You’re very strange,’ he relented.
‘Thank you.’
That one felt like a compliment.
He hummed as he returned his attention to the cub. ‘Dash,’ he said, after a moment of intense consideration. ‘Will that do?’
Greta turned the name over. ‘Is it because he’s dashing?’
‘Just like his king.’
She snorted but gave no argument. He was right.
Even in his filthy frock coat, with messy hair and scuffed boots, he was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.
She preferred him here in the dirt with a beast on his lap than in that opulent ballroom with all the noblefolk of Halgard eating out of his palm.
There was something unrestrained about Alarik Felsing out here, something that felt truer than all the pomp and glamour that came with his title. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Dash, it is.’
‘Very well.’
He fell silent then, a furrow appearing between his brows. Greta got the sense that he was working up to something. She could feel his stress, taut as a bowstring between them, and she wondered if it had been there all along, simmering underneath their conversation.
‘The weaver elk are dead.’
She sucked in a breath, feeling like she had been punched in the gut. She clutched Boo tighter, her words coming in a squeak. ‘All of them?’
The king nodded, his gaze locked on the distant moon. ‘Regna’s gliders found their mark.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, placing a hand on her chest to soothe the ache there. ‘Those poor creatures.’
He kept his gaze on the sky. ‘If it’s any consolation, they didn’t suffer.’
She could tell it was a lie. He was trying to shield her from the gruesome reality of it, and perhaps, by looking at the moon, he was shielding himself from the horror on her face. She sat up straighter, trying to get a hold of herself.
This is war, Greta. And war is ugly.
It will only get worse.
‘My beasts would have met the same gruesome fate if it hadn’t been for you,’ he went on. ‘Thank you.’
‘Of course,’ she said, quietly.
‘You’re brave, Iversen.’
‘It’s what anyone would have done.’
‘No, it’s not,’ he said, at last turning to face her. His eyes glittered, the blue inside threaded with silver. ‘It’s what you did. You alone.’
Her cheeks warmed at the hardness of his praise, as though he was daring her to refute it.
‘Have you always been like this?’ he pressed.
‘What, easily embarrassed?’
‘Fearless,’ he said. And then once more. ‘Utterly fearless.’
She almost laughed, but it was an honest question, and how was he to know the quivering little girl she had once been? The one she still sometimes felt like when she was alone at night in the cold, cloying dark?
‘No,’ she said, truthfully. Her mind flitted back to that day in the low forest with her father, when his blood had painted the snow crimson and she thought she was going to lose him forever.
For years afterwards, she had endured the most awful nightmares and debilitating panic attacks.
Even now, whenever she felt overwhelmed, she had to catch her breath and centre her mind before it ran away from her.
‘I was very scared, for a very long time.’
‘Why?’ he said, quietly.
‘My father was attacked when I was seven. It was the most terrified I’ve ever been. I don’t think that terror ever fully wore off.’ Her hand went instinctively to the scars on her cheek. She tugged her hair free to cover it.
He leaned over and brushed it back, his fingers leaving a trail of heat along her skin. ‘What happened?’ he said, as though he hadn’t just lit every one of her nerve endings on fire, as though he wasn’t gazing at those three silver scars like they were a mark of honour.