Chapter 32 Greta
Greta
The darkness was speaking to Greta. It whispered her name and stroked her hair, gently coaxing her back to life.
But she was so comfortable here in the in-between, far from the clamour of battle and the metallic tang of blood.
Away from the dying howls of beasts and the horror of corpses rolling down the mountainside.
She remembered the war in fleeting bursts, the shrieking echo of that terrible horn pushing into the blackness of her mind.
Then there was the giant with violent eyes and steel teeth, and the hard slap of earth rising to meet her.
She groaned, trying to shove it all away.
That voice came again, soft against the shell of her ear. ‘It’s all right, wildling. I’ve got you.’
Strong arms cradled her against a warm chest. She turned her face into it, inhaling a lungful of woodsmoke and pine. The scent drew a languid sigh from her, lulling her back to sleep. To peace.
‘That’s it, Greta. Rest a while.’
Sometime later, she stirred at a howl of wind.
The world was rattling, her body jerking.
Dimly, she was aware that she was in a sled, riding fast and hard across the frozen earth.
Cold wind lashed her face while snowflakes gathered in her hair.
Her teeth began to chatter, and those strong arms shifted, covering her with a fur blanket.
The world dropped away again, taking the blizzard with it. But her protector remained, holding her tightly like he was afraid the wind might sweep her away.
Who was he? The answer floated at the edge of her mind, like a snowflake. She was too tired to catch it. Too tired to think at all …
Greta gave herself back to the darkness, only stirring to drink from the waterskin that was pressed to her lips every so often. As the hours wore on, she began to hear voices, ones she recognized but couldn’t place, and beyond them, the familiar keening of her beasts.
Home, she told herself.
I am going home.
But in the rippling dark, she couldn’t remember where home was.
After an eternity in the windswept wilderness, the cold died away, and a luxurious warmth settled over Greta.
As a rogue slant of dawn light danced across her face, she blinked herself awake, trying to clear the fog from her mind.
A high, corniced ceiling blurred in and out of focus, making her frown. Where was she?
Far from the Blackspires, and the sled that had whisked her away from there. The heavy silence told her she was no longer near the other soldiers, or her beloved beasts.
Although she sensed one nearby. Watching her.
She rolled her head around. She was lying on a pillow cased in silk. There were blankets tucked up to her chin, each one lined in fur and piled so high, she couldn’t see over them.
This was not her bedroom.
Something stirred at the foot of her bed. The soft padding of paws announced the arrival of a sleek silver wolf, who curled up next to her.
‘Hello, darling,’ she murmured. She tried to place the beautiful creature. She hadn’t trained her before, but she recognized those large golden eyes. They were wise and gentle, the relaxed hum of her spirit setting her at ease. ‘Have you been looking after me?’
‘I’d call it more of a joint effort.’ Greta stared at the wolf, her mind so addled she wondered if it really was talking to her. But no, she knew that voice …
‘Alarik?’ she croaked, uncertainly.
‘Over here, wrangler.’
Swiftly tumbling back to her senses, Greta shoved the blankets away and sat up to find herself in the fanciest room she’d ever seen.
‘This isn’t my bed.’
‘I know.’ The king of Gevra was standing, arms folded, at the foot of it. ‘It’s mine.’
Greta let out a strangled cry of alarm as the world shifted into sharp, searing focus.
She looked down at herself, expecting to see her scuffed uniform and stained battle armour, but she was instead wearing a pale blue nightgown finer than everything she owned, and a pair of socks that felt like warm, woolly clouds.
She looked up at the king in dawning horror. He was dressed casually in low-slung trousers and a plain black vest. His hair was damp, and his feet were bare, as though he had just finished bathing. There was a fresh cut along his jaw, and a nasty bruise marring his left cheek.
‘Nanna dressed you,’ he said, before she spiralled into panic. ‘You were in bad shape.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I combed through your hair in the sled. And I cleaned your face up.’ His lips twisted, his pale eyes darkening. ‘There was so much blood. I couldn’t stand to leave you like that.’
Greta frowned, trying to piece together the last few days, but she couldn’t recall anything beyond the cold, howling wind, and her strong-armed protector holding her close. Did that mean …?
‘I rode back in your sled?’
‘Yes.’
Holy snow.
‘Just the two of us?’
He nodded. ‘Do you remember what happened on the mountain?’
She flinched at the memory. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I heard you call my name. You came for me.’ Again, he nodded. ‘You saved my life.’
He gave a half-smile. ‘Your beloved wolves helped.’
Her heart swelled. ‘You mean your wolves,’ she said, softly.
‘Our wolves,’ he said, softer still.
Greta clutched at the swirling heat in her belly. If he didn’t stop talking to her like this, low and gentle as a lover, she was going to burst into flames.
‘And now I’m in your bed,’ she said, trying to puzzle out the rest.
‘I’m afraid Luna insisted.’ He gestured towards the wolf. ‘She said it was the best place to put you.’
Greta chewed on her smile. ‘Did she indeed?’
He dipped his chin. ‘She’s very bossy.’
‘Then you two must get along famously,’ said Greta, scratching behind the wolf’s ears, before pressing a kiss to her snout. ‘You really are a beauty.’
She could feel the king’s eyes on her. ‘She didn’t trust anyone else to watch over you,’ he said, quietly.
The tenderness in his words sent a bolt of longing through her. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. So, she poured all her devotion and relief into his wolf, furiously blinking her tears away. ‘Thank you for watching over me,’ she said, in a cracked whisper. ‘Thank you for saving my life.’
He rounded the bed, his presence enveloping her like a warm breeze as he perched at her side. ‘I could no more cede my wrangler to Queen Regna than I could my kingdom.’
She sniffled as she turned towards him, resisting the urge to skim her fingers across the bruises on his face. ‘The battle, Alarik …’ She was almost too afraid to ask. ‘Did we win?’
‘Well, I’m not dead, so that should be a clue.’ His face remained grave. ‘But our losses … there were many. Hundreds.’ He bit back a curse. ‘And twice as many injured. It was a bloodbath.’
One they had barely survived.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. It ached in her, the swell of such a loss.
She thought of all those families mired in grief.
And hundreds more soldiers now battling towards recovery.
Then there were the stricken beasts to mourn.
More pain. More loss. ‘They were so brave, your soldiers. Your beasts. The way they fought. How they rallied, even when they had barely any strength left. I’ve never seen anything like it. ’
He nodded, distantly, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face. ‘Gevran, to the bone.’
There was a hint of pride in his voice, but the sadness there was greater, deeper.
She dropped her gaze to his ruined hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
‘It could have been worse.’ He was looking at her now. She could feel his quiet conviction like a ripple of heat between them. ‘So much worse.’
‘Is it over?’ she dared to ask.
‘Regna and her forces have retreated. For now.’ His voice hardened.
‘It won’t be over until she meets the point of my sword.
’ At her grimace, he leaned in, his voice low.
‘I’d be a lot more creative with the wording of that threat, but I know violent talk of vengeful bloody murder makes you uncomfortable. ’
A weak laugh bubbled out of her, causing pain to spiderweb through her skull. She winced.
He frowned as he looked her over. ‘How do you feel, Greta?’
She blinked in surprise. ‘You called me Greta.’
He canted his head. ‘Do you like that?’
A lot more than she should have. It felt closer, intimate somehow.
She nodded.
‘Then drink this, Greta.’ He grabbed a glass of water from the bedside locker and handed it to her. ‘My physician says you’re dehydrated.’
Her fingers trembled as she took the glass. He blanketed them with his own, steadying her hand as she drank. She watched him over the rim, neither one of them looking away.
She finished the water, feeling marginally better already. He set the glass aside and returned his attention to her injuries, gently cupping her jaw to move it side to side, grimacing at the patchwork of bruises he no doubt saw there.
‘Is it really that bad?’ she asked.
‘What I wouldn’t give to kill him all over again,’ he muttered. ‘Nice and slow and brutal.’
‘Please don’t ruin the moment.’
He arched a brow. ‘What moment?’
‘You. Being caring.’
‘I care very much for you, Greta,’ he murmured, his hand rising to stroke the scars on her cheek. ‘Can’t you feel it?’
She swallowed hard. There was so much she wanted to say to him, but she was afraid if she opened her mouth, every wayward, wanton feeling would come tumbling out, and she would scare him away.
Ruin the moment and worse, destroy the bond they had come to share, a thing so rare and precious and lovely, she treasured it above everything else.
But it was killing her, this growing whirlpool of need. Desire overwhelmed her, and gripped in its heavy fog, she turned her face into the warmth of his palm and pressed a kiss there.
He stilled. ‘What was that for?’
‘Just a thank you,’ she whispered against his skin. ‘Thank you, Alarik.’
Her heart lurched as his hand slipped from her cheek, finding hers. He raised it to his lips, his gaze burning as he returned her kiss, brushing his lips against her knuckles. ‘You’re welcome, Greta.’
Her throat tightened, painfully. She was all too aware of every aching thud of her heart.
She wanted to rip it out of her chest and give it to him.
She turned away before she did something even more reckless, her gaze finding the book on his bedside table.
It was a collection of poems about love and war.
‘You read poetry?’ she said, with some surprise.
‘Only when I want to bore myself to sleep.’ A smile ghosted across his lips. ‘My brother Ansel loved poetry. He used to say that it nurtured the heart.’
‘Does it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I think mine has to thaw first.’
‘Will you read some to me?’ The words flew from her lips before she could stop them.
He slanted his head. ‘Does your heart need soothing, wildling?’
‘I don’t know,’ she lied. ‘But my aching head could do with some tender words.’
He reached for the book, and she saw then that it was well-thumbed. ‘All right,’ he said, swinging his legs on to the bed, where they brushed against hers. ‘Your wish is my command.’
Greta lay back, his arm coming around her as she rested her head against his shoulder. She closed her eyes and smiled as the king read poem after poem to her, with the kind of skill and reverence that told her he knew every single one of them by heart.
RAP, RAP, RAP!
Hours later, they jumped apart at a knock on the door.
Alarik stifled a curse as he rolled to his feet. ‘What is it?’ he barked.
Johan ducked his head around the door. ‘Pardon the interruption, Your Majesty. Uh, Lief is looking for you. There’s a problem with the string quartet. It seems Nova has chewed through one of the—’
‘Musicians?’ said Alarik, hopefully.
‘Uh, cellos,’ said Johan. ‘Now the others are refusing to practise the wedding march.’
Alarik groaned, slamming the book shut. ‘I’ll be right down.’
Greta winced, weathering the cold, hard slap of reality.
The spell between them had shattered. The truth was as searing as the sunlight slipping through the drapes.
She was a wrangler, and he was the king of Gevra.
He was promised to a beautiful princess with a kingdom and Greta belonged to the wild.
Nothing in the Blackspires had changed that. Nothing ever could.
Alarik set the book back on his bedside table, and she pulled the blankets up to her chin, wishing she could disappear entirely.
‘Stay here and rest,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
She nodded, closing her eyes until he left. Once the patter of his footsteps had faded, she threw off the covers, stumbled out of bed and bolted from the king’s bedroom. One flight of stairs followed another, and another, as she spiralled down, down, down into the underbelly of the palace.
Back to reality, and back to her bedroom.
Back to her place.