Chapter 39 - Fiery Frost
Wrenora
He was broken. More broken than I thought possible.
An undefeatable warrior, crumbling in front of me.
He buried his hands in his hair and pulled, his shoulders heaving with each breath.
The visceral anguish in his eyes as he met mine caught the breath in my throat.
He’d singlehandedly taken his fortress back from the uprising, yet he’d lost the one person he’d returned to save.
And it hurt to see him like this. I couldn’t take this pain from him. I wasn’t even sure I could have helped him keep it from happening. Whatever Magdala’s reason for doing what she did was a mystery to me, and now was certainly not the time to ask.
He stepped closer, extending a hand toward my face, freezing inches away. “Are you...” He swallowed hard, forcing a calm expression over his face. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “You left me three elves to fight, and they were already in terrible shape.” I smirked, trying to lighten the mood.
He let his hand drop, and I selfishly wished he’d reach for me again.
That he’d take me into his arms. I wanted to shatter the distance that felt like a physical wall between us.
He was far too good at hiding his emotions, and I wanted to break down that shield.
I wanted to see the real Callan. The man I’d seen the night before instead of the broken version of him from a moment ago, but I would certainly take that over the shell of a person he was trying to be.
“Are you okay?”
Three simple words, and all the pain and sorrow that had clouded his eyes a moment ago washed back over him.
I witnessed the split second his heart cracked open again as the muscles in his neck tightened.
He squeezed his eyes closed, dropping his arms limp at his sides.
I’d seen his mother’s body. Her blood bright against her pale gray flesh. She looked reverent, even in death.
I couldn’t fix this for him. The best I could do was be here to comfort his loss.
“My mother didn’t deserve this,” he whispered, lost within himself. “It’s my fault.”
I reached for his hand, entwining our fingers as his eyes opened, finding me. “This is Magdala’s fault. She’s the one who wielded the knife, Callan. Not you.”
He shook his head. “I should have stood up to my father. I...I shouldn’t have let him dictate Magdala’s future. I should—”
“After one interaction with your father, I can confidently say you wouldn’t have made a difference.”
“I could have tried.” His voice cracked as he let his head dip in defeat. “I didn’t even try.”
I leaned into him, and without hesitation, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders and buried his face in my hair.
“Thank you.” His voice was an anguished whisper.
He tightened his grip, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He’d been betrayed by his most trusted advisor. He’d lost his mother forever. He’d likely lost his kingdom to a rebellion that had no idea he was no more their enemy than I was. I would let him grieve as long as he needed.
He took a few deep breaths, and the snow around us slowly tapered off.
I blinked hard a few times, a shiver writhing through me knowing how tightly the weather was tied to his magic and emotions.
The moment drew long until he pulled back, smoothing my hair where his face had just been.
He hid behind his stoic mask once again, as if nothing had happened. As if he could wash it all away.
Then, my fear crept in.
We could only stand here so long. More rebellion fighters would come for us. He couldn’t defeat an entire army on his own, even with Cassmira or myself to help him.
“What are we going to do?” I asked. It was more a means of thinking out loud than an actual question.
He walked over to the map still sprawled out on the floor, his hands on his hips. After glaring at it for several seconds, he stooped, folding the paper until it was the size of a small book. He then plucked the sapphires from his worktable and dropped them into a drawstring bag.
“You ask that question a lot, don't you?” The slightest smirk tugged at his lips.
I crossed my arms, but I couldn’t craft a fast enough pithy retort, because the next moment, he pulled his blood-stained shirt over his head.
I pressed my lips together as my eyes roamed over his muscular chest and abdomen.
He turned to gather a few things from one of the shelves, and I struggled to pry my eyes from his back.
Fucking Nine Hells, what was wrong with me?
There were bodies littering the fortress—likely people coming after us at that very moment—and all my mind could do was replay the memory of his strong legs stretched out.
His ruinous tongue. The way his firm body had felt pressed against mine in the cavern. The taste of his lips.
From the blanket piled on the other side of the sofa a stifled trill made me jump. Callan and I both turned in time to see Fynn’s gray ears peek out from the fabric.
“Fucking cat.” Callan wasted no time scooping the curious creature up. “Happy to see you kept yourself out of trouble, my friend.” He pressed his face into Fynn’s fur, taking a deep breath before he cradled him against his side and went back to gathering a few more things with his free hand.
“Do you at least know where we’ll go?” I asked, unable to keep the frustration from my voice this time.
He froze in place, turning slowly to look over at me with an empty expression.
“So, no. You don’t,” I answered for him.
He took two long strides in my direction, holding the cat out toward the sofa and releasing him.
“My father and mother are dead.” He took two more steps. “I should go to Dyga and take my place on the throne. It’s what’s expected of me.”
“We. We should go to Dyga.”
He glared at me with that same emotionless mask, making it impossible for me to gauge what he was thinking.
“I’m likely going to my death.”
“We are likely going to our deaths.”
This made him smirk, but he gazed down at his boots.
“I’m going with you, Callan. You have no choice.”
He smiled at me, but it was forced. “You should go home where you’ll be safe.” He stepped closer, taking my hands in his. “There’s nowhere I can go that will be safe for either of us.”
“I can’t let you go alone,” I said, pulling my hands free and folding my arms. “I tried that, and I came back to find you chained to your throne, remember?”
He chuckled, shaking his head.
We stared at one another for far too long until his eyes fell to my lips.
“The first moment I saw you...” He shook his head, a small motion I might not have noticed if I wasn’t looking for every tiny detail about him. The slight lavender tint to his lips. The way the twin scars on his cheek followed a parallel path. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Every time you showed up somewhere you weren’t supposed to be, it felt like...” His eyes snapped to mine. “Do you believe in fate?” he asked before he shook his head again, glancing down at his feet.
“If fate is real, I have some serious concerns about her judgement.”
He grinned and closed the distance between us, the thread that always yanked us closer relaxing as his arms encircled me. His hands slipped so naturally around my waist, like I was finally where I belonged.
“Fate would be a woman, wouldn’t she?”
I tipped my chin up, my eyes no longer able to leave his lips.
“I feel like I’m being pulled toward you,” he said. “Physically pulled. Like there’s a ribbon woven around our ribs that keeps cinching tighter and tighter.” He leaned closer, tipping my chin up to his with his fingers. “Until you’re in my arms.”
My breath hitched at his words. I knew that feeling. I’d first felt it the night I’d melted the frozen woman in his throne room. It had been like something guiding me, a rope being yanked from a great distance, ripping away all my good sense.
“I don’t believe in fate, but you...” He brushed his lips over mine, the touch sending heat plunging into my core, a fire igniting my stomach. “I feel like I’m physically tied to you.”
His words were like blooming flowers in my mind, melting the frost that covered my thoughts.
He hovered a breath away, as if he waited to be invited.
I pressed my lips to his. Fate or not, I wanted him more than I’d wanted anything in my entire life.
More than my freedom. More than warmth. For weeks, I’d pushed the thoughts of him away—told myself I hated elves, hated him, hated the cold.
But the truth was, I hated that I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
I hated that my eyes were always drawn to him.
I hated that right now, in this moment, nothing but his touch mattered.
He deepened the kiss, his tongue running along my teeth, begging to be let in.
So, I opened to him. I would always let him in.
He squeezed me tight against him, the heat of his bare chest making it hard to keep my hands from crawling over every line of his muscles.
So much strength beneath my fingertips. His hands were reverent sentinels, roaming over my curves as if memorizing them.
I was lost in the wintery scent of him, contrasting with the heat that burned through my veins and sank deep into my core.
But he’d deftly evaded the conversation with talk of Fate and sweet kisses. I pushed back hard, giving me the space to make firm eye contact.
“I’m going with you. You know that right?”
He leaned into me, stealing a kiss before I could push him away again.
“Callan.”
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before meeting my gaze again with silence.
I stepped back, his hands slipping from me as I slammed into the wall behind.
This was impossible. He was impossible. I refused to let him do this alone.
There had to be a way for the rebellion to understand he wasn’t the tyrant his father tried to make him into, and I feared that would take a human’s touch.
“Callan, please. Let me do this with you.”