Chapter 9 Elise
ELISE
I've learned that words have power here.
Day twenty-four, I need more firewood. My pile is running low and the temperature has dropped—even for this perpetual winter, it's colder than usual.
The cold has a different quality now, sharper somehow, like it's testing me.
My breath fogs in the air even inside my chambers, and despite the thick quilts, I wake up shivering.
I find Aratus in the library, reading something ancient and leather-bound.
He's settled in a chair near the fireplace, the flames casting golden light across his pale features.
There's something almost beautiful about him like this—relaxed, absorbed in his reading, the harsh lines of his face softened by firelight.
The thought appears unbidden and I push it away immediately.
"I need firewood," I announce from the doorway.
He doesn't look up from his book. Doesn't even acknowledge I've spoken. The only sound is the soft whisper of page turning and the crackle of logs in the grate.
"Did you hear me?" Frustration creeps into my voice, along with something that feels dangerously close to hurt. After yesterday's strange kindness with the bath, I'd expected... what? That he'd suddenly become attentive to my every word? "I need wood for the fire or I'll freeze tonight."
"Will you?" He turns a page, utterly absorbed in his reading.
I stand there for a full minute, waiting for him to respond properly.
To tell me where the wood is stored, or offer to help, or at least pretend to care that I'm about to spend the night shivering.
My heart pounds with a mixture of anger and something else—something that feels like abandonment, though I don't understand why.
Nothing.
The silence stretches between us like a physical thing. I can hear my own breathing, can see the frost patterns forming on the windows in response to... what? My frustration? His indifference? The magic in this place responds to emotions I'm only beginning to understand.
"Fine," I snap. "Where do you keep the firewood?"
Still nothing. He might as well be carved from ice himself for all the attention he's paying me. The book commands his focus completely, as if I'm nothing more than background noise in his perfectly ordered world.
The memory of yesterday's spanking is still fresh—my ass only stopped being tender this morning. The way his hand felt against my skin, firm and controlling. The way I'd grown wet despite the humiliation, despite my anger. I don't want another punishment. But I also don't want to freeze.
More than that, I don't want to be ignored. The realization hits me like a slap. When did his attention become something I needed?
"May I..." The words stick in my throat. I've spent twenty years demanding, not asking. Twenty years of having servants jump at my every word, of never needing to beg for anything. "May I please have some firewood?"
Finally, he looks up. Those frozen-lake eyes assess me for a long moment, and I feel like he's looking straight through to my soul. There's something in his gaze that makes my skin tingle—approval, maybe, or satisfaction. Like I've finally said the magic words he was waiting for.
"Much better." He sets down his book and stands, unfolding from the chair with predatory grace. Every movement is controlled, purposeful. "Wood is stored in the courtyard shed, east wing. Take only what you can carry yourself."
Relief floods through me, warm and surprising in its intensity. Such a simple thing—his approval—but it settles something anxious in my chest that I hadn't even realized was there.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." The warmth in his voice makes something flutter in my chest, low and unfamiliar. "Remember this feeling, princess. Remember how much easier things are when you ask properly."
I do remember. All the way to the shed and back, arms full of split logs that smell of cedar and pine. I remember the way his approval sounded—like honey and winter wind, like safety in the storm. The way it made me feel warm despite the cold, wanted despite being captive.
The way I want to hear it again.
But it's more than just the approval. It's the attention itself.
When I demanded, he ignored me completely—as if I didn't exist. When I asked properly, he looked at me.
Really looked at me, with those pale eyes that seem to see everything.
The difference between being dismissed and being acknowledged feels vast, crucial.
Back in my chambers, I build the fire carefully, remembering his lessons about laying kindling properly.
The flames catch immediately, filling the room with warmth and dancing light.
As I watch the fire grow, I catch myself replaying the moment he said "much better" over and over again.
The way his voice softened. The way he seemed pleased with me.
Why does his pleasure matter so much?
---
Day twenty-five, I test the boundaries.
The hunger gnaws at my stomach as I search the palace for him.
I slept poorly, tossing and turning as the fire died down to embers.
My dreams were strange—filled with ice and darkness and a voice that sounded like winter itself calling my name.
I woke aching and restless, my skin too sensitive, my mouth dry.
I find him in the great hall, sitting at the massive dining table with what appears to be correspondence. Official-looking papers spread before him, seals and signatures marking them as important. Court business, probably. Decisions that affect kingdoms while I worry about soap.
"Give me more soap," I demand when I reach his side.
He doesn't even look up from his letters. Just sits there reading, his pale fingers tracing lines of text, completely absorbed in whatever political matter requires his attention.
I wait. And wait. The silence stretches between us until I can't stand it anymore. My skin feels tight, itchy under my clothes. The need for his acknowledgment is almost painful now—a physical ache that settles in my chest and refuses to leave.
"Please," I say quietly, hating how small my voice sounds. "May I please have more soap? The rose soap is running low."
"Of course." This time he does look at me, and there's that warmth again—like sunshine breaking through winter clouds. "I'll have some delivered to your chambers tonight."
The relief is immediate and overwhelming. Not just because I'll have soap, but because he looked at me when he answered. Because his voice held that tone that makes me feel seen, valued, worthy of care.
"Thank you," I breathe, and his smile in response makes my pulse quicken.
"You're very welcome."
The soap appears on my pillow before dinner—three bars wrapped in silk, smelling of roses and summer gardens that exist nowhere in this frozen realm. Each bar is perfect, luxurious, clearly expensive. But it's not the gift that makes me smile as I unwrap them with careful fingers.
It's the memory of his voice saying "of course" like my request was perfectly reasonable. Like I deserve nice things when I ask for them properly. Like caring for me is something he wants to do.
That night, I hold one of the soap bars to my nose, breathing in the scent of roses and trying to understand what's happening to me. When did his approval become more important than the gift itself? When did the way he looks at me start mattering more than what he gives me?
I set the soap aside and catch my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. My face is flushed, my eyes bright with something that looks disturbingly like happiness. This is what contentment looks like, I realize. This warm glow in my chest when he's pleased with me.
I should be horrified. Instead, I find myself planning what to ask for next.
---
Day twenty-six, I start asking for things I don't actually need.
"May I please have a book to read?" I request after dinner.
We're in his study, and I've been watching him handle correspondence for the past hour.
Not because I was ordered to, but because.
.. I wanted to be near him. The admission makes my cheeks burn, but I can't deny it anymore.
His presence has become a comfort, his attention a drug I'm rapidly becoming addicted to.
"What kind of book?" He sets down his pen and gives me his full attention. The weight of his gaze makes my skin tingle.
"Something with a story. Fiction, maybe. I'm tired of sitting alone with nothing to do."
The excuse sounds weak even to my own ears. I have plenty to do—cooking, cleaning, the endless small tasks that fill my days. But none of those things earn me the focused attention I'm craving. None of them make him look at me the way he's looking at me now.
He studies my face, and I wonder if he can see through the excuse. Wonder if he knows I'm really just addicted to the way he says "yes" when I ask nicely. The way his approval makes the hollow ache in my chest ease just a little.
"I'll select something appropriate," he says finally. "Something romantic. I think you'll enjoy it."
His choice of genre makes something flutter in my stomach. Something romantic. Does he think I need romance? Does he think I'm the type of woman who loses herself in love stories?
The book is waiting on my bedside table that night—a leather-bound romance about a pirate captain and the lady he kidnaps.
I read until dawn, losing myself in a story that feels uncomfortably familiar.
A proud woman brought low. A powerful man who breaks her down and builds her back up.
A heroine who discovers that surrender isn't defeat but transformation.
The parallels are impossible to ignore. But unlike the story, I can't see how mine ends.
---
Day twenty-seven, I can't stop myself.
"May I please have different tea?" I ask at breakfast. "Something sweeter?"
"May I please have a warmer cloak for walking in the courtyard?"
"May I please learn to cook something besides porridge?"
Each request earns the same response—that warm approval in his voice, that sense of being cared for and valued. The way his attention focuses on me completely, like I'm the only thing in the world that matters. By evening, I've asked for a dozen small things, and he's granted every single one.
The palace notices too. The hallways stay warm when I walk through them now, the stone floors no longer leaching heat from my bare feet.
The windows show beautiful views of snow-covered gardens instead of endless gray sky.
Crystalline formations bloom across the glass—not random patterns, but deliberate artistry.
Flowers made of frost, trees that bend and sway in impossible breezes.
Even the ice sculptures in the courtyard seem to dance when I pass, putting on little performances just for me. A frozen ballerina spins on her crystal pedestal. A pair of swans made of living ice chase each other around a fountain that somehow flows despite the cold.
Everything responds to my improved behavior. Everything celebrates my growing obedience.
It should horrify me. Should make me want to rebel, to resist, to prove that I haven't been broken down into some domesticated pet who performs for treats.
Instead, it makes me glow with satisfaction.
I'm being good. I'm being exactly what he wants me to be. And the reward isn't just material things—it's his attention, his approval, his warmth in a palace built from eternal winter. It's the way he looks at me when I ask properly, like I'm precious. Like I matter.
The hollow ache that's lived in my chest my entire life is finally, finally starting to fill. Not with things or tantrums or the temporary high of destroying something beautiful.
With his attention. His approval. His careful cultivation of the woman he wants me to become.
That night, I catch myself practicing in the mirror.
"May I please have—" I stop mid-sentence, staring at my reflection in horror.
This is what he's done to me. Turned me into someone who rehearses how to ask for things properly. Someone who craves his approval more than her next breath. My reflection stares back—face flushed, eyes bright with something that looks disturbingly like happiness.
When did I start looking forward to his presence? When did his voice become the sound I most want to hear?
I should be angry. Should be planning my escape, or my revenge, or at least my resistance.
Instead, I find myself wondering what else I could ask for tomorrow. What other small requests might earn that tone of voice that makes me feel special and wanted and worthy of care.
The truth hits me like a physical blow: I'm not just learning to ask properly. I'm learning to need his permission for everything. Learning to see myself through his eyes instead of my own.
Learning to be his.
And the most terrifying part? I don't want to stop.
Because for the first time in my life, I feel like I belong somewhere. Like I have a purpose beyond my own selfish desires. When he looks at me with approval, when his voice goes warm and approving, I feel complete in a way I never have before.
Even if that purpose is simply to be exactly what he wants, exactly when he wants it.
Even if I'm losing myself to become his perfect omega.
The word appears in my mind unbidden, and I freeze. Omega. Where did that come from? I'm not... I can't be...
But the word feels right in a way that terrifies me. Like a key sliding into a lock I didn't know existed.
I touch my neck absently, remembering the way his fingers traced along my throat during yesterday's bath.
The skin there still feels sensitive, still tingles at the memory of his touch.
Sometimes I catch myself touching it without thinking, like my body is trying to hold onto the ghost of his attention.
Maybe that's not such a terrible thing after all.
Maybe becoming his perfect omega is exactly what I'm meant to be.
The thought should horrify me. Instead, it settles into my chest like a warm coal, chasing away the last of the cold that's lived there for twenty years.
Tomorrow, I'll ask for something else. Something that will make him look at me with those pale eyes and smile. Something that will earn me another dose of the approval I'm learning to crave more than air.
Tomorrow, I'll be his good girl again.
And maybe, if I'm very good, he'll touch me again. Run those long fingers through my hair, trace the line of my jaw, press his lips to my forehead like he did after my punishment.
The memory makes my skin flush with heat that has nothing to do with the fire crackling in the grate.
I'm becoming addicted to being his good girl. And I'm not sure I have the strength to fight that addiction anymore.
Not sure I want to.