Page 26 of Fated to the Frost King

But that would just be a waste of good wine.

The king saved me the trouble of responding.

“Lady Thessara” his voice whipped through the air, silencing every last echo of amusement. “Whose background were you curious about?”

She swallowed, going visibly pale. “Your wi—the queen’s, Your Majesty.”

“And yet, you failed to address her as so.” His tone was deceptively casual, as it had been in the throne room.

Just before he executed the heiress.

The courtiers next to her looked on with scarcely concealed glee, happily willing to sacrifice one of their own for the noble cause of entertaining themselves.

Lady Thessara dipped her head as far as it would go. “My apologies, Your Majesty—Your Majesties,” she corrected. “It seems I have forgotten my own upbringing.”

She didn’t lift her head. Every eye in the room rested on the precarious scene.

My chest was tight, and even my tiny bat had gone completely still.

But King Draven only nodded, a single sharp dip of his chin. “Indeed.”

Silence saturated the room for several stilted heartbeats before a brave soul at the end of the table dared to pick up conversation again. It didn’t quite reach the volume it had before, but soon a steady hum of voices filled the room once more.

No one else dared to direct a comment at me, and the king had turned his attention to the male seated across from me.

The skathryn and I finally exhaled at the same time. I reached for the offending goblet again just as a figure to my left leaned in.

“I did the same thing my first night here,” the male murmured, low enough that only I could hear. “They’re quick to pounce. Slower to help. The Winter Court likes their prey easy.”

I turned slightly to glance at him.

He had been one of the few in attendance who hadn’t made a game of ignoring me so much as he had been steeped in a conversation with the fae lord at his left.

Now he lounged in his chair like the court was an elaborate game he’d already won. His raven hair was pulled back in a careless knot, a few loose strands falling against the nape of his neck with the kind of effortless disarray that was definitely not accidental.

He was not from Winter, clearly.

His skin was sun-warmed, his features all sharp lines and smirking elegance. But it was his eyes that did me in. Amber flames flickered with every shade of gold, angular and framed by thick, dark lashes. They brought to mind Autumn leaves and living campfires.

Shard Mother help me… he was handsome. The kind of handsome that made your survival instincts start whispering prayers. The kind that looked like temptation wrapped in trouble and tied with a smirk.

I didn’t trust pretty things. I especially didn’t trust pretty things that smiled like they knew all your secrets and were just waiting to name their price.

Still, I was grateful. He hadn’t needed to step in, but, here he was, tossing me a rope in a room full of ice-dragons and daring me to accept his assistance.

“It would be unfortunate then, if any of them mistook me for something resembling prey,” I said with a grin, infusing my words with all of the confidence I didn’t feel.

He raised his glass in a silent toast, his smirk growing wider.

A flicker of warmth curled low in my chest, something almost like comfort, only to be stolen when the wind howled even louder than before. King Draven’s glare bore into the side of my face, pointed enough that I sensed it even before I looked at him to confirm.

He sipped from his crystal goblet like he had all the time in the world to assess whatever moment he had just witnessed. A line cut between his brows, subtle but telling.

Like he was taking my measure.

I straightened in my seat, bracing myself for whatever judgment he would pass, but was saved by the loud groan of a door. The air in the room shifted yet again.

Conversation halted as a steward rushed forward, his focus locked in on the king. The male bent low to murmur quietlyenough that even the nosy courtiers couldn’t hear. I strained my ears, just as the male across from me pointedly cleared his throat. Though he was directing his scowl at the rest of the table, it effectively covered the sound of the steward’s words.

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