“Arcus,” I said, still keeping one of his hands captive. “Someone told me that affairs between fire and frost never end well.” I didn’t say more, but he seemed to understand the question I wanted to ask. Would our end be as tragic as that of the Frost King who married a Fireblood queen?
He paused, and my heart stuttered. But then he sat back on the bed next to me, looking more thoughtful than concerned.
“I doubt our kind have been together often enough to answer that question. I’m convinced the throne had a hand in the death of the Fireblood queen. I don’t fear your heat and you don’t fear my frost. And besides…”
As he leaned in, I slid closer and lifted my chin. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss so blistering in intensity to my lips that his cold burned hotter than fire.
It didn’t hurt, but it did burn, and not in a way I minded. My blood woke up and my fever spiked and my mouth went bone-dry. Little shivers ran from my lips down to every part of my body.
He was gentle but unrestrained at the same time, as if he were showing me something, giving me something of himself. It made me feel raw and new and precious. I gave myself back, showing him with my lips and my hands on his cheeks and in his hair and on his beautiful scars that I needed him in ways I was no longer afraid to share with him.
When we were both breathless, he broke away and smiled. I smiled back. And then he put his lips gently back to mine, his fingertips under my chin.
“When it comes to you,” he whispered, “I like to be burned.”