Page 102 of The Prince and the Ice King

Time drifted like a lazy river, until at last, Reardon sprang awake fully to find himself in his own bed.

“Jack,” he exhaled, wishing so desperately to see him.

Had he dreamed it all? But no, he wore only loose trousers with his chest bare, and there were bandages about his waist where the dagger had pierced him. It was after dark now, and only a lone candle flickered on his nightstand.

“You fool,” the king answered, echoing his words from before, but his voice was different now—human.

Human and in Reardon’s room.

A rush of air came at Reardon, upsetting the candle and casting overlapping shadows and light over the face of a man, right there above him, with firm hands planted on either side of Reardon’s shoulders upon the bed.

“Why do you keep putting yourself in danger to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved?”

Reardon stared. The wolf? The bandit? But no, he knew the truth. Because he could finallyseehim—the man who didn’t want to be saved.

“Jack…,” Reardon whispered with trembling hands reaching up to cup that elusive face.

The scars felt the same beneath Reardon’s palms as when he was blindfolded, and the eyes, oh, those eyes could belong to no one else. Now the rest of the picture was painted before Reardon in candlelight.

Jack tried to pull away, eyes darting to the sheets as if he wished he could hide, having allowed this without meaning to, it seemed, but Reardon held firm.

His features were perfectly symmetrical—straight nose, high cheekbones, firm jaw—with wavy locks of snow-white falling into his eyes, even with white eyebrows, like a lasting part of the curse clinging to him even at night, same with the scars that covered so much of him.

Reardon had been prepared from what he felt, but now he could see them—over Jack’s lips, his eyebrows, everywhere. No battle-hardened warrior knight could compete with all that damage.

But to Reardon, he was beautiful. The scar tissue, the despair in his eyes that he didn’t deserve to feel, none of that mattered. Reardon took in everything before him and loved it all. He would wipe that despair away and prove to Jack that he was right.

“I loved you before I knew anything more than the wonder of your eyes. Now I can say without falter,Jack… that I love you,allof you, and I will never stop trying to save you.” Reardon stroked his thumbsover Jack’s cheeks and pulled him down, forcing Jack’s eyes to meet his. “Thank you. For saving me, and for giving me this.” He kissed him, closing his eyes only for a moment, and then drew away to look at Jack again.

Maybe Reardon was blinded by love. Maybe loving someone made them beautiful regardless. Either way, though Reardon knew he could never understand the grief Jack felt or why he’d hid for so long, that wasn’t his duty. His duty was simply to love Jack and to show him that love however he could.

“Please, my king, believe me this time when I say—I love you.”

Jack

Jack hadn’t thought, hadn’t paused even for a moment to consider what he was allowing, until it was too late. Reardon had seen him now, but he’d done nothing more than smile and kiss Jack in the aftermath.

No one else had seen Jack. Others had come for Reardon at the tree line, carried him and cared for him until his wound was closed. Only after it was deemed safe to leave Reardon in his bed did Jack tell everyone to stay away so that, once the sun set, he could enter Reardon’s room as himself.

He’d wanted to berate him, to end this once and for all, to scream at Reardon all the reasons why this would never turn out the way he wanted. But now Reardon was looking into his eyes while holding his face—hishumanface, scarred with all the wrongs he’d committed during life, and Reardon still said the same words.

“I love you.”

How could he see Jack and still say that?

“Don’t push me away. Don’t tell me to go home. Let me show you that this curse can be broken if only you’d let me melt the ice caging your heart.” Reardon’s hold on Jack’s face became gentler, loose enough that Jack could have pulled away if he’d truly tried, but then Reardon slid one hand to the back of Jack’s neck and drew him down again.

His lips were always soft and warm. Jack had feared, with so many scars covering him, that knowing someone’s touch again would be the real curse, because he wouldn’t be able to feel it through the numbness. But he could feel Reardon, every nerve igniting at the barest brush of skin.

Jack clamored up onto the bed to get closer, falling deeper into the kiss. The covers had fallen to Reardon’s waist, and Jack climbedatop him in the mere trousers and shirt he’d snatched from his chambers before diving back into the tunnels to get here. Reardon was in trousers only, but Jack’s hands sliding from the mattress to his chest and lean stomach reminded him of the bandages where he’d been stabbed.

“You’re hurt,” Jack panted between delves of their tongues.

“Then you… will be gentle,” Reardon panted back and dug his fingers into Jack’s hair to bring him down again.

Jack had to be gentle. He could be gentle. Reardon was strong and could usually handle however Jack might flip him or roughly pin him to the bed, but no matter how effective the healing potion Caitlin had given him, Jack had to be gentle now, unless he was willing to walk away, and he… he couldn’t.

He should. He should retreat and end this, but the thought of that hurt more than any jagged pierces of ice entering into his skin when morning came.

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