8. Let’s just blame it on the cold
LET’S JUST BLAME IT ON THE COLD
ENORA
Time passed in the worst of ways in the dungeons of Grimm’s Keep. I didn’t know if my method of tracking a sliver of moonlight across the cragged stone wall was trustworthy timekeeping, but it was all I had to go off.
My keeper, Gallan, skirted around every question I had about the time or the date, but maybe that was for the best.
And while I was retching up my non-existent stomach contents and sweating away the rest of the moisture in my body, that sliver of moonlight would move across the wall with urgency.
But when I’d finally slip into a bit of inarguable, exhaustion-driven sleep and found myself plagued with fitful images of raging fires and my dead squad mates, I’d open my eyes to find the light had barely budged.
All fucking night.
Hours of sickness. Minutes of sleep.
Never mind having to contend with the weight of the decision that Grimmoria’s king had left me with—my body was going to do me in before those three days were over.
At some point, Maksym’s enigmatic mage, Jasper, came to relieve Gallan of his duties for the night, though I never heard him arrive.
I must’ve been too tied up in trying to ease my persistent dizziness to hear the miserable cellblock door, even though I didn’t miss it when Gallan left and took my only measure of distraction with him.
He’d tried to make brief conversation with me while I warred with my body, even though I was a terrible conversation partner. Fuck, the man even tried joking with me and only reaffirmed vomiting was a thousand times worse when you were fighting a bout of laughter.
But once Jasper arrived, the silence beyond my cell was agonizing.
Sure, if I asked for more water, he brought it, and he left me with a whole loaf of bread. Conversation was off-limits, though, because my few hoarse trial questions fell to one-word responses.
Apparently, the mage did not find me worthy of knowing what the weather was like in Grimmoria. Or what day it was. Or if they celebrated the turning of seasons like we did in Odessa. Or if dark fae women were as hauntingly beautiful as the men.
I was possibly delirious when I asked that question.
My mental state improved little by the time the stream of silver moonlight disappeared. Its absence bathed my cell in darkness, save for the dull glow of blue nytefire that faded the longer the mage was my keeper.
Only minutes seemed to pass again when I was startled awake by the screech of that damned door, but the warm, russet shades of sunrise had lit my cell at last.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever been so happy to see it.
The tone of Gallan’s voice was familiar now as he traded a couple of hushed words with the mage, plus a beat of laughter, before he strode over to the barred door of my cell.
“Sleep much?” he asked with an appraising glance around my cell.
I shook my head before letting it roll back against the stone wall I was pressed against.
The only silver lining to the cool, cragged stone was that it felt fucking amazing on my flushed skin, seeing as my shirt was so threadbare, I may as well not have been wearing one.
“Shame.” He pursed his lips and took a glance back down the cellblock, toward where I had glimpsed their modest guard station.
I couldn’t fathom what he might be looking for, but it took a solid moment for him to turn his attention back to me.
“Need anything? Water? More mediocre bread?” he asked. When I shook my head again, he added, “You sure? Might be a while before you get anything else. Maksym is on his way for you.”
That sent a band of tension snapping up my spine.
“Already?” I croaked. “Why?”
Gallan shrugged. “Beats me. If there’s one thing I’d suggest you learn sooner rather than later about our king, it’s that he drums to a completely different tune than the rest of the troops, if you know what I mean.”
Maybe if I hadn’t been sleep-deprived, sicker than I’d ever been, and imprisoned in fucking Grimmoria, I might have known what Gallan meant by that.
My flicker of confusion must have been clear, because Gallan chuckled and added, “Maksym’s actions…well, they don’t always make sense in the moment, but he rarely does anything without profound purpose. He’s yet to do us wrong, even if he doesn’t always remember to tell us first.”
Was this my jailer’s way of trying to paint the offer his king made me in a different light?
It seemed like that was what he was getting at, and I was surprised it had taken anyone this long to try persuading me, as if the offers of immediate death, drawn-out death, or death to my soul could be painted in any light other than what they really were—poorly veiled coercion.
After all, I’d come to Grimmoria to get married, hadn’t I?
Why wouldn’t I just take the simple way out of my alleged trespassing and high forgery, seeing as I accepted my shitty hand of fate ages ago?
Why wouldn’t I want to marry the dark fae king who claimed to know nothing of me, who made the offer of servitude like it were as simple as a dinner invitation?
And who couldn’t or hadn’t been bothered to find a wife amongst his own bloody people.
For a man with such ethereal beauty, that painted a worrying picture of his genuine person.
“Just food for thought for ya,” Gallan added with a shrug before his attention flitted upward and trailed along the stone ceiling. He was silent for a few moments before he sighed. “Well, that’s the end of that. Best of luck today, Miss Wynn.”
More than a little confused, I glanced up at the ceiling, squinting, then back at Gallan, but he was already walking away.
“What do you mean?” Silence. “Gallan! Wait, come back. That’s the end of what?”
The creak of a chair, a sigh, and the cracks of new logs yielding to flame were my response.
“Asshole,” I muttered as I tugged my damp, worthless blanket tighter around me.
Just as I’d gotten comfortable again, nestled back in the corner, quietly praying that another wave of nausea wasn’t about to sneak up on me, the cellblock door gave its screech of protest again. Someone needed to put the damned thing out of its misery already.
“Morning, my liege,” Gallan called out from wherever he’d made himself comfortable as Maksym strode in.
He looked much as he had the day before, with his lengthy dark hair half-pulled back. His clothing was far more befitting a lesser member of court than its damned king: a simple black vest over his white tunic, with sleeves rolled up his toned and tattooed forearms.
He was carrying something too, but I couldn’t make it out through the bars of my cell.
When I’d stood beside him in the cellar the night before, I’d thought how the air had a strange habit of shifting in his presence, like it was desperate to give him space, was a figment of my weary imagination.
Now, there was no denying it, just as there was no point in trying to fight being engrossed by his amber-black eyes.
Clearly, my observation was not discreet, because Maksym rolled those eyes and unlocked my cell door with a sigh. He dropped his parcel at the foot of my cot.
I realized then it was clothing, one piece of which seemed to have a fucking ruffle, and my eyebrows climbed. Fuck, there was even a pair of short boots.
“Get dressed,” he said. “We’re going for a walk, Miss Wynn.”
My eyebrows may very well have vanished into my hair.
“A walk?” I gasped in mockery. “How benevolent of you.”
Whatever sliver of tolerance—or indifference—the king had for me the previous night was no longer in the room with us.
Maksym exhaled sharply through his nose, like I’d offended his ancestors, as he rifled through the pile, spreading each article of clothing out and retrieving a slim vial tucked in it all.
“Take this.” He jutted the glass towards me between two of his slim, pale gray fingers, and its silvery contents sloshed inside. “My benevolence will not extend to you painting the halls of my Keep with your sick.”
I gave it a long stare before taking it from him with caution, but I almost dropped the fucking thing when he grasped my hand so damned fast, my bones ached.
He leaned in a little closer as he added, “And trust me, Miss Wynn, if I wanted to poison you, I would’ve just had Gallan do it the first time he gave you curatives without your knowing. So don’t even go there.”
I swallowed and nodded. “Very fair.”
He released me, and I uncorked the glass, giving its contents a cursory sniff. It smelled like nothing, and I wasn’t sure if that was reassuring or not.
Maksym watched intently from my periphery as I said fuck it and shot the entire thing back in one gulp that burned a little as it slid down in a slimy lump. I suppressed the overwhelming urge to gag as I replaced the cork and tossed the vial onto my bed.
“Happy?” I asked, and Maksym just scoffed, his arms folded across his chest.
“Get up and get dressed.”
I rose on legs that were a little uneasy and mirrored his stance, jutting my hip out for good measure. “Are you planning on watching me do that too, or does your benevolence extend to a measure of privacy for your prisoners?”
Goddess above, if looks could kill, I’d be in ribbons on the floor, mixed in with all the detritus.
“That you’ve made it this far with that mouth is astounding,” he muttered as he gave me his back but did not move to leave my cell.
If the dark fae king thought he was in any position to intimidate me with his presence, he was sorely mistaken.
A true princess may have balked at the concept of a strange man in her remote vicinity as she dressed, but I wore my cavalry soldier's mantle with pride.
Nudity was something I had learned to have little shame over, not after living in barracks housing and command posts for months at a time, or sharing tents and bathing in rivers with my squadmates.
The slimy tonic the king had given me was working, because I felt as ready as ever to go toe to toe with him. I trusted the rest of my body would get the memo soon too.