Page 40 of A Bride for the Winter King
I cup my partner’s neck and hold her to me. My other hand slips below the hem of her shirt to the small of her back, her skin as smooth as a cloak of snow under a bright moon. A low rumble of victory quakes me. She’s at my mercy, now.
Small and perfect in my arms.
All I can think about is not letting this woman—this feeling—slip through my fingers. I dig a hand into her frosty locks and tug, jerking her head back to make space for my hungry mouth. I kiss her with so much abandon that I forget about the Spring seeds, the kissing booth—even the spectators. I’m no longer performing for Sara and the cameras, and the rhythm of our lips and tongues creates a beautiful sheet of music. Whoever she is, I never want to let go.
Magic claws its way through me, scratching fiery lines into my frozen heart and dipping down to my navel before slithering lower. It’s not cold as the ice in my veins or bittersweet as the light I have forsaken. This magic is new to me, yet so ancient I can’t fathom where it comes from. A fuse that lied in wait for this moment. For this kiss.
Our tongues battle for dominance, and the delicious tug-of-war triggers a primeval trap laid by the gods themselves, if the flavor of the magic is any indication.
A kiss that never should have been.
A verse that can’t be unwritten.
I’m a beast, drinking her in. I want to sink my claws in her and drag her to my lair without looking back.
A gasp rushes up my neck, full of warmth. Too warm for a Winter seed.
A Red seed, then? How interesting.Reds usually taste of blood and tears—a leftover sting from their dark, forsaken gods.
“Elio,” Sara warns.
My partner wriggles in my grip, fighting to break free.Oh no, you don’t…I catch her jaw and hold her close, my other arm ensnared around her small waist, but she pushes on my chest with impressive zeal.
Some part of my brain stirs to life, and I let go of my temptress. The pressure of her hands on my chest relents, and her heat leaves me. My soul howls at the loss as I tear off the blindfold.
The clear gray eyes and trembling chin of Iris’s doppelgänger fill me with dread, but a tiny part of my soul is not surprised in the least. It had to be her.
Only a ghost could ever feel so perfect. So…mine.
The beast nestled in my ribcage snarls, roaring at me to act.
Fight. Take back what’s mine. Claim her now, and kill everyone who might interfere.
The beast is strong, but I’m still its master and rule it with all my might. If the Winter crown taught me one thing, it’s that all human urges can be denied. No matter the height of the flames, our strongest, most vibrant desires can always be snuffed out. Whether by duty, grief, or despair, and at the end, by death.
No matter what, fire always runs out of fuel. In matters of flesh, blood, and bones, only ice remains unyielding.
“By the spindle… I think we have a winner.” Paul’s voice shatters the bubble we were suspended in, and Lori runs off the stage as though she wants to taunt my beast out to play.
“There’s nothing that could beat that,” Paul adds on a low whistle.
Sara is speechless, and the buzz of the cameras is the only sound audible as we watch Lori run across the town square. The crowd parts to let her pass, and I force myself to stay rooted on stage and not immediately give chase. I can’t storm out of yet another part of this contest without an explanation. Whatever twisted magic is at work—my body is wired to respond to this copycat, and I bend down to retrieve the red piece of silk that should have kept my beast in check.
“I must not have tied it right,” Sara says on a frown, but I shake my head.
“You tied it just fine.” The knot and bow in the red scarf is still perfectly shaped, and a smirk tugs on my lips. “It was sliced through.”
The two leftover candidates observe me with wide eyes, and I offer them an apologetic shrug. “Tough luck, ladies.” I peck both of them on the lips, my beast rattling inside its cage. “Shut it down, Sara.”
While the cameras fly back to Paul, I close my eyes and hone in on my prey. Her magic leaves delicious breadcrumbs of darkness in her wake. Even blind, I could find her now, my powers completely attuned to hers. The glaring difference between her and Iris is almost too obvious.
She’s no Spring seed, after all.
No light Fae could ever taste so good. No weed could ever ensnare me so tight.
She’s a darkling—an absolutely perfect shadow thing. Not a rose, but a spider. It’s laughable to think I could ever taste her lips without figuring it out, and a hot sense of relief washes over me. She doesn’t belong here—which means I won’t have to endure her presence any longer. I could throw her in a dungeon for illegally entering the pageant, or ban her from Faerie forever, and no one would dare to protest.
I wait for the crowd to disperse and search the carnival grounds. My gaze immediately lands on the industrial wagon behind the ferris wheel.There she is.
