“A single flower would melt in an hour or two,” he said, his voice huskier than usual.
I quirked a brow teasingly. “You think it would last a whole hour in my hands?”
His teeth flashed before he stole another quick kiss, his arms tightening around my waist. “I know you need to escape the palace sometimes, and I wanted you to remember that frost is not just harsh and unforgiving. It can be delicate and welcoming. It can bend. It can learn the shape of things and melt and freeze again in a different form.”
Warmth filled my chest at his caring perception. He was right that I often wanted to escape the Frostblood Court. The courtiers stared and sneered and talked about me openly whenever their new king wasn’t present, questioning his judgment in letting a “wild Fireblood” peasant live in the castle. I feared I was becoming a liability in his struggle to unite the new additions to the court who had supported Arcus in the rebellion with the entrenched members of the court who had been close to King Rasmus. Their new king not only tolerating but showing favor to—possibly even courting—a Fireblood was apparently one step too far.
But Arcus’s words reminded me that he wasn’t his court, that he would adapt when I needed him to, that he accepted me as I was, even if no one else did. It touched me more than I could say. I wished I could find the words to tell him, but lately that seemed impossible.
Feeling came easily. Putting those feelings into words was increasingly difficult.
As Arcus watched my face, he grinned at whatever he saw there, his masculine beauty kick-starting my heart. His smiles turned his face from austere to radiant. My hands wound around his neck, my fingers diving into the hair at his nape. He pulled me snugly against him and his lips brushed my cheek, then moved down to find the pulse point at the side of my neck.
A loud cough broke the silence. I pulled back, but Arcus’s lips followed me, staying glued to the column of my neck, breaking away only when I pushed against his chest. He branded my cheek with a final kiss and turned leisurely, his arms still locked around my waist.
“Lord Ustathius, you have the most unfortunate timing of anyone I’ve ever met. Whatever you wish to discuss, I’m sure it can wait.”
He started to turn back to me, but the sour-faced advisor coughed again, somehow injecting the sound with both apology and censure. “I’m afraid it can’t, Your Majesty. There’s an urgent matter.”
Arcus gave a frustrated sigh, his eyes hooding. “How many urgent matters can there be?”
“A great many,” said Lord Ustathius, his gray eyes as serious as a thunderhead, ample warning that he was about to launch into one of his familiar lectures. “When you are simultaneously bringing armies home, establishing diplomatic talks with neighboring countries, and trying to win the hearts of your people, there will be no end to the demands on your person. Commitment. Sacrifice. Selflessness. These are all required if your ambitious plans are to have—”
“Any reasonable hope of success,” Arcus completed. “Yes, my lord advisor, you have drilled that concept so thoroughly into my head that I hear the words in my sleep. However, I must have a breath of air now and then or I will go mad. Surely you don’t begrudge me exercise.”
“Is that what you call it, Your Majesty?”
My cheeks grew hotter.
Arcus squeezed my hands comfortingly. “What is the crisis this time?”
“A messenger from Safra has arrived and he insists on taking a reply from your hand only. Also, I have called an emergency meeting of the council to discuss caring for the wounded who are returning from the wars. The flood of refugees arriving in Forsia is increasing daily, and we need to address their needs for healing and shelter.”
Every word seemed to add a weight to Arcus’s shoulders. He sighed heavily as he looked back at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
I shook my head. “You’re needed. I’m lucky to see you at all.”
His mouth tightened, puckering the scar on his top lip. “I wish it weren’t so difficult. Meet me here at dawn again tomorrow?”
“Only if you can manage it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He looked at me carefully. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Of course. No more visions.”
He returned my smile, but tension had gathered in his eyes. With a final squeeze of my hand, he turned and strode toward the castle. Lord Ustathius started to follow him, then stopped and turned back to me.
“What is it?” I asked. I still felt vulnerable, unguarded—both from the vivid memory of the Minax escaping from the throne and from Arcus’s kisses. I took a calming breath, hoping to find some control over my heat, which had risen, as it always did, with strong emotions.
Despite his distrust of me, Lord Ustathius’s tone was steady. “You do him no favors by taking his attention from his duties as king.”
“I don’t force him to spend time with me.”
“But you encourage it. Perhaps you should think about what he is trying to achieve. It would be better for him, and for the kingdom, if you weren’t here to complicate matters.”
His candor silenced me for a moment before I found my voice. “You think I should leave? For the good of Tempesia?”
“And for the good of the king. He has a new life now and his attachment to you wins him no esteem with the court.”
It was as if he’d seen the vulnerable place in my heart and he’d aimed an arrow right for it. “I’m well aware of the court’s lack of esteem.”
Lord Ustathius’s expression softened into something like sympathy, which somehow felt more deadly than his censure. “Let him look to the future. Let him choose what is best for him as he grows into the king he is meant to be.”
“And by ‘choosing what’s best,’ I suppose you mean your daughter?”
He lifted his chin slightly. “You cannot fail to see Lady Marella’s virtues and accomplishments. Any man would be fortunate to have her hand in marriage, particularly a king who needs strong allies in the court.”
I looked down, struggling against the jealousy that tightened my chest. The worst part was that I knew he was right. Marella was a Frostblood noblewoman—poised, intelligent, charming—a perfect helpmate who would smooth Arcus’s path as king in countless ways. I was a Fireblood peasant from nowhere, with a heart full of flames and the distrust of the entire Tempesian population. I couldn’t be more ill-matched to the Frost King if I’d been created as his opposite by a mischievous god.
“I don’t say this to hurt you,” Lord Ustathius continued. “But I know you must see it, too. It does no good to deny the truth.”
“The truth,” I countered, “is that I don’t make my decisions based on what the court wants. I’ll stay here as long as King Arkanus wants me to.” I lifted my chin and forced myself to hold his cold, burning gaze.
“Then best of luck to you, Miss Otrera,” he said finally, his tone conveying clearly that he viewed me as a foolish child. “I fear you are climbing much higher than you were meant to. Like Pragera, who tried to climb Mount Tempus to reach the home of the gods and was doomed to plummet eternally as punishment for his hubris.”
“In the Fireblood version,” I said, “Cirrus takes pity on him and gives him wings as he falls.”
“Then let us hope your version is the correct one. You are closer to the edge than you think.”
“Another court dinner, my lady?” Doreena asked as she fastened the buttons at the back of my gown—a fussy, high-waisted affair made of ocher silk.
“Imagine my excitement,” I grumbled, trying not to fidget. “Arcus seems to think that rubbing me in the court’s noses will endear me to them. In the same way, I suppose, that stepping in horse droppings increases one’s appreciation of horses.”
Doreena laughed in her quiet way. “Such sarcasm. Have you been taking lessons from Lady Marella?”