Page 97 of The Prince and the Ice King

Morning.

The surge of joy Reardon had begun to feel receded, replacing the warmth of the king with increasing cold.

“Majesty!” Reardon cried, realizing what was about to happen and struggling to get away and rouse the king before—

“Hm?”

—the sun finished rising outside the castle walls, with Reardon left scrambling to escape, blind and desperate and feeling the worst pain of his life crack like whips across his back, so cold itburned.

Reardon screamed.

Chapter 10

Jack

No!Jack thought as he snapped awake—awake, because he’d allowed himself to sleep beside Reardon in an unthinking act of carelessness, and now it was morning!

He cringed, an extra spike of pain shooting through his body at his futile attempt to stave off the change, being twisted and hunched and covered in stinging cold as the ice took him. He was still on the bed, for the first time in all the decades since the curse was cast, causing him to freeze a part of his one human sanctuary, destroying the sheets, and then the bedpost that he reached for to get up and away as fast as he could.

It was too late, though, he knew, because he’d been wrapped around Reardon when the curse took hold, and he’d heard the prince scream.

Transformed and frosting everything around him in his distress, Jack stood, unable to move farther at first save the tremors wracking his limbs, knowing what had to be on the other side of the bed where Reardon had fallen.

The young prince might be in pieces after his own futile scrambling, if he’d turned to ice before he landed. Even if he was whole, Jack had most certainly killed him, creating a new statue, all for one selfish act of wanting something he didn’t deserve.

Clenching his icy claws, Jack forced himself to stomp around the bed. He had to see. He had to accept what he’d allowed to happen and look at Reardon—

Who was whole and not made of ice!

Jack surged forward but stopped before he got too close. Reardon was still flesh and blood, but his naked back was an angry swath of frozen skin like the worst frostbite. He was unconscious, likely from the pain, but still breathing.

“Zephyr!”

Reardon

Reardon remembered pain—so much pain. He could still feel it as an awful ache across his back beneath a warm numbness as he tried to rouse and focus.

His blindfold was gone, but he was still naked, covered only by a sheet, lying facedown on a bed far smaller than the king’s. There were voices around him, but not the king himself.

Zephyr, who’d found him.

Oliver, whose strong arms had carried him to wherever they were now.

Caitlin, barking orders, with the occasional caress of her delicate fingers rubbing something soothing over Reardon’s half-sore, half-numb skin.

And others, Nigel maybe and others with elven blood, offering a healing touch.

Through the din and constant shift between feeling content, nothingness, and pain, Reardon remembered what had happened. All he could think was that the king had to be so worried, while also blaming himself, which was why his voice wasn’t among the rest.

“That should stabilize him,” Caitlin’s voice came more clearly, Reardon finally picking up on real words, as he turned toward the sound and blinked with blurred vision. “Reardon,” she said, her face swimming into view, “you’re going to be fine, but the damage to your skin… it might never completely heal. How do you feel?”

“F-foggy.” Reardon struggled to move his mouth.

“That’s normal with everything we gave you to help the pain. Once it wears off, you shouldn’t need more, the wounds are no longer open or necrotic, but….”

“Scars don’t bother me.” Reardon curved his mouth into a smile—or as much of one as he could manage with a heavy head. “The king? Is he…?”

“He’s in his throne room,” Oliver said from nearby, but Reardon couldn’t lift his head to look.

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