Chapter 19 #2
Father already has the kettle warming over the hearth. He rummages through our small cupboard and pulls out a plate of sweet cake, the kind he bakes himself and indulges in far more often than he admits. He gestures proudly toward the chair in the corner.
Our best chair.
The arms are worn thin, the cushion sagging from years of use, but it’s always been comfortable enough.
Luceran hesitates, taking in the smallness of the room, the low ceiling, the bowing walls, the worn furnishings, as if it has only just occurred to him that this is how most humans live. Then, with careful politeness, he nods and lowers himself into the chair.
It groans alarmingly in protest.
His knees draw up far too close to his chest, long limbs folding awkwardly into a space never meant for someone like him. He looks out of place, far too large and pretty and Fae for our humble home, and the laugh I intend to keep under my breath betrays me.
Luceran looks up sharply and scowls.
“Are you hungry, my lord?” Father asks, but before Luceran can respond, he sets the plate of sweet cakes down with a hopeful smile. “I’ll have a cup of tea ready for you in a jiffy.”
Luceran glances at the cakes, then at the kettle, then finally at me, as if taking it all in with a child’s wonder. It might be adorable if he were not so completely infuriating.
“What an honor it is, my lord,” Father says, his voice earnest as he gestures between us, “not only to have you in my home, but to escort Neve here safely. It’s become unsafe of late.” He hesitates, then adds, “Have you heard of the bandits troubling the forest?”
His gaze flicks to the plate of sweet cake, hopeful, encouraging.
Luceran’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly as he reaches for one of the crumbling yellow squares. He turns it over once between his fingers, then lifts it to his nose, inspecting it as though it might bite back.
“Yes,” he says at last. “I am aware of them.” His eyes lift. “They will be dealt with.”
Father exhales in visible relief. “Thank you, my lord.”
The kettle shrieks, cutting through the moment, and Luceran jolts in his chair. The sweet cake leaps from his hand, and the lord clumsily catches it on the way down, but not before it crumbles in his grip, most of it slipping through his fingers and scattering across the floorboards.
Luceran frowns, but my father raises a gentle hand, smiling. “Do not worry about it, my lord. Now, how about that tea?”
Father turns toward the kettle, but I intercept him, tapping his hand lightly and stepping in before he can protest. “I have it,” I murmur.
He gives a thankful nod, and settles into our second-best chair—the only other one we have—while I arrange the chipped cups, add the leaves and pour the hot water, the steam fogging the air.
“My lord,” he begins, and as he clears his throat, unease coils low in my chest. “I know I owe a debt. I know a bargain was struck. But Neve is a young woman. The mine is no place for her. A beautiful girl her age should be studying, or exploring, or even taking a husband and having a family, if she so chooses.”
I do not look at Luceran, but I can feel his gaze on my back as I finish pouring the tea.
“Surely, my lord,” Father says softly. “Can we not come to another arrangement? Any other arrangement that would see my Neve set free.”
Luceran does not bristle.
That, more than anything, unsettles me.
“The debt has not yet been repaid,” he says evenly. “And while I understand your concern, you should be grateful for the terms as they stand. Neve lives within the safety of Castle Frostwyn. She is fed. Housed. She does not work the mines.”
Father stiffens. “She lives in the castle… with you?”
I step in before Father can linger on that thought, or before Luceran says something that sends him straight into a heart attack.
“Father,” I say gently. “I am safe. Truly. I will be home for good soon enough. This is just for now.” I force a smile. “We should enjoy the time we have, not spend it worrying over what comes next.”
Father takes my hands in his, his shoulders caving inward as the sobs he has been holding back finally break free.
“My Neve,” he whispers. “This is all my fault. I am so sorry.”
His head falls against my shoulder, and I wrap my arms around him. When I look up, Luceran is watching us. His gaze meets mine, and the look we share is sharp with anger and regret and a tension drawn so tight I almost crave the snap. I think he does too.
Suddenly he stands, and I gulp, turning my attention back to my father as he weeps in my arms.
“I will give you this night,” Luceran says. “You have been separated long enough.” He pauses at the door. “I will stay in the barn.”
Father looks startled, sniffing back his tears. “My lord, you do not have to do that. What about your tea?”
“I am not thirsty,” Luceran replies, already opening the door. “But thank you for your hospitality. Good night.”
Cold air rushes in with him as he steps outside, the door closing softly behind his broad frame.
Father wipes his eyes on his sleeves and I kiss his cheek, then guide him to his chair. I put a hot cup of tea in his hands, and the heat stops them from shaking. As he sips, I move without thinking, drifting to the window.
Moonlight spills across the yard, cutting through the snow that falls in a slanted curtain. I watch Luceran cross it alone, his coat pulled tight against the cold, ivory hair catching the light with each step before he disappears into the barn.
Only then do I exhale, the breath leaving me in a shudder that runs deep through my chest.
Father watches me from his chair.
“Neve,” he says slowly. “I have never seen him act like that. Not once. And the way you look at each other.” He hesitates. “Is something going on between you and the Winter Lord?”
Heat floods my face. “No.”
The word comes too fast.
He studies me carefully. “He is not forcing you into anything, is he? You would tell me if he was.”
“I promise,” I say, and this time it is the truth. “Nothing is happening.”
He nods, offering a small, uncertain smile, but I know he does not believe me. I cannot blame him.
“Come,” he says softly. “Sit with me. Eat some cake before it goes dry.”
I set what remains of the sweet cake on the small table in front of him, then lift my cup of tea, noticing Luceran’s untouched cup cooling on the bench.
I perch on the arm of Father’s chair, and together we nibble at the cake while the fire crackles low.
As the hour grows late, Father’s cough returns, rougher now, deeper, and without hesitation I fetch one of the tonics I prepared earlier.
He drinks it with a grimace.
Within moments, the cough eases.
He looks at me in wonder. “That is remarkable. I feel like a young man again.”
I frown. “It is not an elixir of life, but it should make breathing easier and ease the pain in your chest. As long as I am at Castle Frostwyn, I can get as much as you need.”
He shakes his head. “You have already sacrificed so much for me, Neve. But you cannot stay there. Not with him. Not with that monster.”
I nod gently and offer a small smile. “It is getting late. We can talk more in the morning.”
He nods, a yawn slipping free, and I help him to bed, tucking the blankets around his thin shoulders. I tidy the dishes, straighten the furniture, sweep the snow from the threshold and off the porch, then stoke the fire until it settles into a low, steady burn.
When everything is done, when the house is warm and quiet and the embers smolder in the hearth, I retreat to my old room, pausing only to take my book from the desk in the corner. It still sits exactly as I left it.
The bed creaks the same way it always has as I climb in. My gaze lingers on the wardrobe across the room, thoughts drifting to my mother and the shape of her absence, but I do not let them settle. I open the book and balance it on my chest instead. I never did find out how this one ends.
I lose myself between the pages, time slipping past unnoticed. I do not know how late it is when I reach the ballroom scene.
In the book, the ballroom glows with candlelight and music, silk skirts brushing polished floors as couples turn in slow, intimate circles. The hero draws the heroine close, his hand firm at the small of her back, guiding her with a familiarity that feels almost indecent in such a public place.
Their fingers lace as they spin, palms sliding, lingering a moment too long.
Each step pulls them closer, until the space between them is nothing at all, her breath caught against his collar, his mouth near her ear as he murmurs something meant for her alone.
The crowd fades. The music softens. All that remains is the press of bodies, the heat of skin through layers of finery, the unspoken promise carried in every slow turn of the dance.
The unwelcome sensation curls low in my stomach. I shift beneath the blankets, heat flushing through me. I close the book with more force than necessary, but the scene lingers anyway. The slow turn of the dance. The press of bodies. Hands placed with too much intention to be innocent.
And then, inevitably, my thoughts shift.
To Luceran.
To the inn.
To the carriage.
To the way he held me as though he had every right.
To the way he makes me feel wanted. Needed.
To the impossible, inexplicable pull that keeps drawing me toward him, no matter how firmly I tell myself to resist it.
I cannot lie still with it any longer. I push the blankets aside and sit up, my pulse already quickening as though my body has made the decision ahead of my mind.
Barefoot, I slip quietly from the house and into the cold night. The air bites at my skin, but it does nothing to cool the heat coiling low inside me.
Without allowing myself the chance to reconsider, I turn toward the barn.