Page 13 of Jilted By Jack Frost

She clicks her tongue. “I mean this with as much disrespect as I can possibly muster, Mr. Jack Frost. You can fuck right off with that tone. Don’t talk to me like I’m an illiterate child. Do not condescend to me just because you see me as beneath you.”

“Then perhaps you should listen.” My tone is terse.

“Perhaps you should ponder what you’d look like with your eyebrows shaved off and your castle melted to the ground before you treat me like a child.”

I look up in time to catch her venomously sweet smile as she winks at me. “Just a suggestion.”

It takes everything in me to swallow my words, to keep my tone halfway civil. “Your help, while the offer is appreciated, Violet Jones, is not needed. And if it’s honesty you’re looking for, it’s not particularly wanted, either. I intend no disrespect with my words, but I am far more effective when operating alone. Is that clear?”

She tilts her head to the side, thinking. After a moment, she sighs. “We’re being honest with each other?”

I shrug. “It would seem.”

“Alright.” She nods. “Then, honestly, you should know that nothing you might say will get me to walk outof this room and never return. You should know that I will be helping you look for a way out of this mess—this and your silly little kingdom warming issue. Whether it’s with your permission, or with you glaring at me from across the room, I will be here.”

I swallow thickly now. “Gabriel told you about the changes we’ve been having in temperature.”

“He mentioned it.”

I shake my head, palms flattened against the table beneath me as I look up at Violet. “Yet another thing he had no right sharing with you.”

“You can figure out how to punish him for his insubordination later, Lord Frost. For now, I’d really like it if you pointed me to your nearest shelf of unreads.”

I clench my jaw, fighting back the instinctive urge to freeze her in place. Violet stands before me with that infuriating smirk, acting as if she owns my realm already.

Her audacity both enrages and entices me.

“My personal library isn’t for mortal entertainment,” I say, keeping my voice level despite my rising irritation. “You’ve already invaded my home. Must you also demand access to my private collections?”

“Oh, come on, Frosty. What else am I supposed to do while stuck here? Count icicles?” She takes a step closer, and I catch the scent of her—warm vanilla and something uniquelyherthat makes my cock twitch traitorously. “Besides, I promise to be gentle with your precious books.”

I step away before she can see how her proximity affects me.

Gods-damned prophecy, I think bitterly.Why did it have to be her?

I stare at Violet Jones for a long quiet moment. I know without a doubt in my mind that she will not be giving this up. Wanted or not, Violet will not walk out of this room without having scoured countless tomes, same as me.

I get the sense that making an enemy of Violet Jones would be disastrous—especially if she’s connected to the warming crisis, as I suspect. The ancient texts speak of a woman whose magic burns brighter than the sun itself, whose very presence threatens to melt the eternal frost.

Every time she’s near, I feel my powers strain and buckle, like ice giving way to spring’s first thaw. The prophecy warned of this: a mortal whose fire could destroy everything I’ve built over centuries.

Now here she sits, defiant and determined, completely unaware that her mere existence poses an existential threat to my realm. I cannot afford to push her away, but keeping her close might prove just as dangerous.

So, I sigh and jerk my chin to one of the large carved dark oak shelves pressed against the wall, crammed with various books about various things. “Start there. Touch nothing but the books on the outer shelves.”

“See? Was that so hard, blue eyes?” Her footsteps echo as she practically skips towards the shelves. The sound of her footsteps echoes through the library, a rhythmic reminder of her presence that sets my teeth on edge.

But as I watch her bounce away, my eyes are drawn to the sway of her hips despite my best efforts to remain stoic. My fingers clench at my sides as I fight the urge to follow her, to ensure she doesn’t get into trouble. Or worse—to pin her against those shelves and claim what my body insists belongs to me.

No. She is not mine to take.

The prophecy looms in my mind, a constant shadow over any wayward thoughts I might entertain about her. Yet the pull remains, growing stronger with each passing moment she spends in my realm.

I turn away from where she disappeared, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand rather than the lingering scent of her perfume in the air.

Distance. I must maintain distance.

But even as I think it, I know it will become harder with each passing day.

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