Page 2 of Heart of the Summer Queen

The clicking of the door’s lock jolts me from the murkiness of fragmented sleep. I know it’s him without having to look: the way the door opens, how it yields to his immeasurable power, the steadiness of his unforgiving footsteps.

“Adara,” he says in that rich, velvety voice of his. It commands so much authority the room trembles. I hate the sound of my name on his tongue.

I lie there, facing away, eyes squeezed shut.

“Adara,” he tries again, taking a step forward. Then another.

So he doesn’t need to come closer, I roll onto my side and open my eyes. The sunlight radiating into my room is so fierce it blinds me, and I have to close them again at once.

Though my eyes are open for just a second, the king notices. He takes in a sharp breath.

I’m surprised he has come here this morning. I thought it would take much longer for him to punish me.

Perhaps if I examine his face, I might manage to determine his intentions, but what use is there in knowing when I’m unable to defend myself?

There’s a clink of metal. As he unsheathes his sword?

No. I’ve never seen him wield a blade of steel. Just frost.

He continues forth—

Wait. That’s wrong. His footsteps are moving away.

I can’t help my eyes from snapping open, desperate to confirm whether my suspicions are true.

They are. He’s by the door.

His eyes are so much colder than last night. When I struck him, they were blazing with fury, and before that, they were burning with desire.

I loathe how the memory stimulates my selfish mortal body. To my flesh, the line between lust and hate blurs, mistaking one fire for another.

How can a person feel alive but so numb?

That single moment, with our eyes burning into each other, seems to play on for years, both of us reliving a maelstrom of emotions.

Then his expression hardens, and he looks at the door rather than me. “Your maids will arrive shortly to attend to you.”

He raises his hand and shatters the barrier blocking the door to his chamber. The broken shards fall to the floor, dissolving until no evidence is left.

Every muscle in my body tightens at the reminder of his incomprehensible power. I wait for him to turn his magic on me, to destroy me.

But then he shoves open the doors, not looking back as he leaves. They shudder shut, and the lock clicks.

With him gone, I force myself to sit upright, though my limbs protest. My attention trails across my room, catching on a metallic object on the floor.

A bowl.

The Winter King brought me food.

From what I can glimpse, it seems to be porridge. Perfect for a prisoner, not a queen. But it doesn’t matter, since I’m not at all hungry. Quite the opposite. Even its presence makes me nauseous.

I suck in a shaky breath. The king didn’t need to bring me something to eat, and it isn’t at all what I expected to transpire during the first meeting after our wedding night. I thought he would bring me death, not food.

Why bother bringing me breakfast? Why not let me waste away, locked inside this room?

It seems he wishes to keep me alive. Even a murderous bride who possesses immunity to his power is useful to him.

It must be this, because I can’t bear the opposite. That all his tender touches last night were no act, but came from the true depths of his heart.

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