Page 61 of The Prince and the Ice King

Jack’s real chambers, his private rooms that he never entered during the day, saving them from his horrible ice trail and frigid touch, sprawled beyond his frozen throne and the main entrance into the hidden passageways. No one else was allowed there, ever, but especially at night, when his earned isolation was absolute.

He couldn’t bear to see his own face, his own form, so no one else could either. While the rest of the court looked as they once had when night fell, Jack, just as his curse was different during the day, doomed toleave an icy residue and stomp upon the ground like a plague, wasn’t the same when he was human either.

He washuman, but the damage….

Sitting beside his bath as it filled with heated water, he hated what little of his skin he could see, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

His rooms were warm, as warm as he could make them, but he still started most nights with a soak. He never seemed to get warm enough, no matter how hot the water or how many layers he wore or blankets he piled on his bed. He rarely slept anyway, since the need was gone with the clutch of the curse. He dreamt though—daydreams of what might have been if he hadn’t been such a fool all those years ago.

The washroom had steps up to the large bath and many wardrobes around it, and continued farther on to his bedroom, where Jack’s large bed sported four ceiling-high posts and heavy bedcurtains. Closer to the door was his antechamber and study. Josie loved her gold, but Jack had always preferred silver, even if it was less kingly. His rooms were the same, covered in those colors, in stone and cool woodgrains and varying shades of blue.

The rug that adorned his study led beneath several bookcases and his desk. Behind the desk wasn’t a normal chair but his original throne, which had once been in the other room where the frozen throne now stood. Jack had moved it here as a reminder, closeting away what he hadn’t been able to live up to.

The throne wasn’t wood but polished white stone painted in gold and silver. It was too grand to sit behind a desk and as tall as Jack’s ceiling, blocking much of the view toward the bedroom and bath. Jack preferred it that way, to be blocked off from everything.

He ran his fingers through the warm water, deeming it high enough to turn off the pump, and tried not to cringe at the sight of his ruined skin.

Closing his eyes, he attempted to think of anything else, something good, something sweet—and wondered if Reardon had discovered the book yet.

“Majesty?”

Jack’s eyes flew open.

Reardon

The door wasn’t locked.Why bother, Reardon supposed, since no one would dare do what he was doing now—ignoring the very serious mandate to never disturb the court at night.

Well, once someone was trusted, the court wasn’t off-limits, Reardon knew now. But the king never allowed anyone in, and he was encroaching on the king’s privacy anyway, untidy without his doublet and clutching an old leather book.

“Majesty, I know you’re here,” Reardon called again, softly shutting the door behind him.

This was a king’s chambers indeed, the grandest Reardon had seen tonight. The rooms seemed to go on forever beyond the antechamber, with an overlarge throne behind an ornate desk. And it was so warm, the coziest room in the castle, contrasting starkly against the chill on the other side of the door. Only the door itself and a bit of the floor right in front of it remained wet and cold, where the king must stand as his form changed.

“Please, Majesty, I didn’t mean to discover your secret. I only went to speak with Barclay and found….” Reardon trailed off, nervous amidst the silence that greeted him. Still, he crept forward toward the desk with its elegant throne. “I saw Josie. I’ve seen everyone. All that remains is you.”

Even as Reardon came around the desk, he heard no sound. Maybe the king hadn’t returned yet. He’d been in Reardon’s room. He might have gone somewhere else. But then the barest peek toward the washroom showed that the bath was filled with steaming water, ready for someone to sink into it.

“Don’t be angry. You can’t leave me this gift and not expect that I’d want to say thank you. There is so much I want to say to you.” Without any rustle of noise or answering voice, Reardon sighed and turned to the desk, his back to the washroom as he moved beside the throne and set the book down, peering over the desk’s contents.

In the center was a crumpled piece of paper smoothed out, like the king had thrown it away and then changed his mind. Reardon picked it up.

The noble prince went on his quest—

The air was knocked from him as a body slammed up against him from behind, arms wrapping around his own to pin them to his body and cause the rumpled paper to drop.

“You come into my room and rifle through my things?”

The king, his voice unmistakable—withhis armswrapped around Reardon.

Reardon didn’t dare move but couldn’t help leaning subtly against the warm body pressed to him, not some large, hulking figure, but a man,about his own height, with tan arms, much of the skin visible, as the sleeves of a simple shirt were rolled up.

“Forgive me,” Reardon said, holding still and forgetting the parchment as he made to turn his head.

“Don’t. You will not look. You will not see me. If you do, I swear I will throw you from the window you first climbed through.”

The words were cold, but the body was warm as he held Reardon. HeheldReardon, touching him, which had to be the first time he had touched anyone since—

The king squeezed so tight, Reardon gasped for reprieve.

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