12. Kienna
Kienna woke in her cozy cottage. She stood and looked around at the mismatched furniture, the soft quilt thrown over one chair, the light curtains fluttering from the warm breeze blowing from outside.
She moved to prepare tea. As she did so, she marveled over her familiarity with the space. But of course it was familiar. Her memories whispered through her slowly; she’d spent nearly every night here since coming to the Winter Court. This was a dream.
But even in her first dream, the cottage had felt familiar. As far as she could remember, she had never seen anything quite like it in the real world, but if she had to make a home for herself—outside of the one she shared with her family—this was the sort of home she would have chosen. It was perfect for quiet days alone, embroidering or reading, or entertaining a guest or two.
At that thought, a knock came at the door. She blinked and looked down at the tray in her hands.
Two steaming teacups sat on it. But hadn’t she just poured the water in the kettle? She gave her head a small shake and set the tray on the table to answer the door.
It was the silvery fae, of course. He’d come to visit once before. At least, she thought he had. Trying to recall her other dreams was a hazy effort. But he seemed familiar; surely she’d seen him before.
As he had last time, he looked unnaturally attractive, with his broad shoulders and long silver hair. He carried himself with a proud, regal air that somehow also felt deeply dangerous—not as if she was in danger from him, but that anything that threatened her would suffer greatly. He was a man who knew how to protect and to rule, a fact doubly evidenced by the small silver circlet that rested on his brow. He was dressed in the exact same exquisitely made, soft silver tunic he’d had on last time. She bit her lip at the thought. In her waking hours, she couldn’t remember what he looked like, save for the silver hair and blue eyes. How did she know that he wore the same clothes now?
“Won’t you let me in?” His voice rumbled over her skin, scattering her thoughts like dust on a breeze.
“Of... of course.” She stepped aside for him. He strode in and took a seat, not waiting for her to invite him to pick up one of the teacups. He held it to his nose and drew in a deep breath. When he glanced at her, his eyes were half-lidded in a way that sent a shiver through her body.
“I hope you like it.” She hurried to drop into the seat across from him. “If you’re going to keep up these visits, you should tell me what sorts of teas you prefer so that I can prepare those for you instead.”
Something glinted in his face at that—wary amusement, or perhaps surprised delight. “Why are you so kind to me?”
She paused, her own cup halfway to her mouth. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s just...” He shook his head. “I’m not used to being treated with any sort of tenderness.”
She took a sip of her tea to gather her thoughts. “In the waking world—” she began, but hesitated. Hadn’t he left when she started prodding before? He was clearly fae, like the beast and Zoya. So perhaps, like them, he had to take care with his words. There was something at work in the Winter Court, something even Zoya, in all her kindness toward Kienna, refused to speak of. She continued, picking through her words. “Do you also live at the Winter Castle?”
The look in his glowing blue eyes was unreadable. It felt like a victory when he gave her a small nod.
She smiled, but the smile melted into a frown. “I’ve been there for weeks. Here,” she corrected. Just because this place didn’t look like the Winter Court’s castle didn’t mean she had escaped. “How have I never seen you?”
His eyes tightened, and he looked away. His long silvery hair slid over his chest as he did so. Her fingers twitched toward him, aching to know if it felt as silky as it looked.
“What do you think of the Prince of Winter?” he asked, his mouth curling into a small sneer at the name.
Kienna searched for words again, this time because she wasn’t sure how to answer the question. “He hasn’t hurt me. He’s terrifying…” Admitting that to someone was like opening a window into her soul. A breath of fresh air, but the words made her guest’s shoulders tense. She hurried on. “But as terrifying as he is, he has kept his word. I do... I do feel safe, for the most part. Perhaps it won’t be so terrible, the rest of my year here. I only have to stay that long before I can return home to my family.” A weight grew on her chest at the mention of them.
His chin dipped down against his chest.
Kienna tilted her head and studied him. The posture was almost one of defeat. “What do you think of the beast?” Tension rippled through him, sparking concern in her. “Has he hurt you?”
His laugh was bitter. “The beast has hurt everyone in the Winter Court, and he will only continue to do so.”
She leaned back at the ferocity of his tone. “But your anger toward him seems personal,” she murmured. “He’s done something to you directly, hasn’t he?”
The silence stretched. The longer it did, the more it felt like confirmation of her words.
“Cinnamon,” he said abruptly. “I used to like cinnamon ginger tea.”
She blinked at the unexpected shift and then smiled as a warmth suffused her. Just as suddenly as he’d spoken, the fae man stood. He towered over her, his presence demanding every bit of her attention. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted from quiet uncertainty to something more urgent. “Remember my words from before.”
She stood too, a boldness lifting her hand to skim against the feathery ends of his hair; the back of her hand brushed against his tunic and the hard muscle beneath as the pads of her fingers curled in the silvery strands. If anything, it was softer than she had imagined. As silky and smooth as any of the wondrous fae fabrics in the waking world.
“Not to trust my eyes.” She dared to look up at him. “What, then, should I trust?”
He was frozen under her touch, his eyes wide, his nostrils flared. He looked terrified.
She started to draw her hand away. Had she broken some sort of fae custom?
But with reflexes faster than anything she had seen before coming to the fae realm, he captured it in his own. His hands were large, rough, calloused. The hands of a warrior. Warm in the best way.
Her mouth went dry. She cautiously looked back up at him. His expression was one of agony. He searched her eyes, though she couldn’t imagine what he was looking for. His grip on her tightened infinitesimally, and his eyes slid shut.
“Trust me.” His words slid out in a rough, whispered plea.
“But how do I find you in the waking world?”
She might as well have bitten him for how he jerked away from her. “It doesn’t matter.”
And then he was gone—the door swinging shut behind him, Kienna’s hand outstretched where he had left her. She pressed it into her stomach.
It did matter. She was absolutely certain of that. If she found him in the waking world, she suspected many of her questions about the Winter Court would be answered, because mysteries clung like a cloak to that man—that prince? He felt like a prince, with his regal air and subtle crown. He seemed like some sort of prisoner of the beast, given his reaction to him. Perhaps he was the rightful ruler of the Winter Court, and the beast had stolen the throne from him. It might explain the deplorable state of the Court.
Asking the beast about him would probably only make her task that much harder. No. She would keep her questions to herself and find the prince on her own.