Page 107 of Fated to the Frost King

I fought down a shiver, plastering my body against his, my face buried in the crook of his neck. Slowly, the storm around us eased. The wind died down. The temperature rose to something approaching normal.

I worked on making my breathing even, ignoring the charge that raced along my skin and the frost and juniper that invaded every one of my senses. But I was still not prepared for him to stir.

Especially not when his arms wrapped around my back, pulling me against him in a single rough movement.

“This is a different kind of torment, Shard Mother.” His growl was in my ear, his breath caressing my skin and infusing me with all the warmth he had stolen from me.

My heartbeat raced in my chest, thundering through my veins like the storm he had calmed only moments ago. All I could think of was the dream, his deep growl and his hands on my skin and the wordsMorta Mealurking behind it all.

It took me entirely too long to find my voice, and when I did, it was breathier than I meant for it to be.

“I am not the Shard Mother, but…far be it from me to judge your bedroom proclivities.”

Well.

That had been one way to break the tension, even if I couldn’t help but consider those proclivities now.

His arms fell away in one fluid movement, and suddenly I was deposited on a blanket softer than sin, several feet from my panting husband.

“Everly?” A fire flared to light in the hearth, lower than mine, but enough to illuminate the sharp lines of his features. And also his chest.

“Does someone else usually come into your bed in the middle of the night?” I said it as a joke, but as soon as the words were out, an unreasonable surge of fury shot through my veins.

One that felt a lot like jealousy.

He ran a hand over his face, before mussing his pale-blond strands of hair.

“No, I can’t say I’ve made a habit of having females crawl into my bed and accuse me of fantasizing about the Shard Mother lately.” His voice was still ragged, his breaths still uneven under his wry remark. “I am rather attached to having all of my fingers.”

So he had known about the rings. Of course he had.

Where it had been freezing mere moments ago, now my entire body was engulfed in flames, burning from the inside out with a mix of humiliation and something far more dangerous.

“Then again, you don’t usually make a habit of it either,” he pointed out.

It was as close as he would come to asking me why I was here. Or mocking me for my mouth, or both.

“Yes, well, I’m attached to my extremities also, and they were in danger of being lost to frostbite.”

It wasn’t true, of course. My room had been chilly, but nothing like the veritable ice storm that was in his. He pursed his lips, staring into the flames.

But he didn’t ask me to leave. And I wasn’t sure I could, not when I could still hear the echo of his guttural scream, Nevara’s warning.

More than that, I could feel the agony when he looked down at his empty hands.

I never thought I would want to hear the story of that day—never thought I would care to hear his version or be able to stomach it if I did. But his nightmares were so at odds with everything I had been taught.

Nightmares weren’t always memories, though. It could have just been a delayed onset of remorse, conveniently only after the bodies were cold.

I didn’t quite believe that, though.

Shards knew he didn’t look the part of a monster, lying in his bed like a fallen deity, with a silver-blond lock of hair falling onto his brow and his hands clenched from the nightmare that refused to let him go.

Whatever pieces of me that were tethered to him burned with the need to know.

“What happened that day?” My voice pierced into the silence like a serrated blade tearing into flesh. “On the battlefield.”

Draven glanced at me sharply, eyes glowing frosted green in the shadows, full lips parting before they closed again. It was the closest to uncertain I had ever seen him look.

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