The contradiction is maddening.
“You shouldn’t have been out in that weather,” I say instead, letting ice creep into my voice. “What were you thinking?”
Her chin lifts, that stubborn gesture I’m beginning to know too well. “I was thinking about twenty days. About running out of time to figure out what this is between us.”
“And you thought risking your life was the solution?”
“I thought finding you was.” She shifts on the furs, and I glimpse bare thigh that makes my mouth go dry. “You can’t keep running from this, Aelin. From me.”
She’s right, and we both know it. The storm has trapped us here together, in my most private sanctuary, with nowhere to run and no excuses left between us. The fire crackles in the silence, and I can feel the weight of her gaze like a physical touch.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, desperate to break the tension before I do something we’ll both regret. “I have food. Tea.”
“I could eat,” she admits, and I use the excuse to escape to the kitchen, needing space to gather my fractured control.
My lodge is built for comfort as much as solitude—carved wooden beams, thick rugs, furniture sized for my larger frame. The kitchen is well-stocked despite my infrequent visits, spelled to keep provisions fresh indefinitely. I prepare simple fare—bread, cheese, dried fruit—and brew tea from herbs that grow only in the deepest parts of the winter realm.
When I return, she’s wrapped the largest fur around herself like a robe, exploring the main room with curious eyes. She moves through my space as if she belongs here, running reverent fingers over the carved mantelpiece, the leather-bound books, the collection of crystals that store captured starlight.
“This is beautiful,” she breathes, pausing before a tapestry that depicts the first winter, when my ancestors claimed dominion over snow and ice. “Did you make this?”
“My grandmother did. She wove the history of our people into her work.” I set the tray on the low table before the fire, trying not to watch the way the fur clings to her curves. “She would have liked you.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and she turns to look at me with something soft and wondering in her eyes.
“Would she?”
“She believed in the bonds that tie us to our true mates. Said they were gifts, not curses.” I pour tea into two mugs, the ritual giving my hands something to do. “I always thought her naïve.”
“And now?”
Now I think she might have been the wisest woman who ever lived. But I can’t say that, can’t give voice to the hope that’s growing in my chest like spring after endless winter.
“Now, I think some gifts are too dangerous to accept,” I say instead.
She settles onto the furs across from me, close enough that I can smell her scent mixing with the smoke from the fire. The tea warms her hands, and I watch her inhale the fragrant steam with obvious pleasure.
“What’s in this?” she asks after her first sip. “It’s incredible.”
“Winter herbs. They grow in the realm's heart, where the old magic is strongest.” I take my mug, grateful for the barrier it provides between us. “They’re said to warm more than just the body.”
She takes another sip, her eyes closing in bliss, and I have to shift uncomfortably as blood rushes south. Everything she does affects me—the soft sound of appreciation, the way her lips curve around the rim of the mug, the flush that’s returning to her cheeks.
“Why do you live alone out here?” she asks, breaking the dangerous silence. “You’re a king. Shouldn’t you have a palace full of subjects and courtiers?”
“I have a palace. I spend most of my time there, fulfilling the duties of rulership.” I gesture around the lodge, this space that suddenly feels too intimate with her in it. “This is where I come when I need to remember who I am beneath the crown.”
“And who is that?”
The question hangs between us, simple and devastating. Who am I, stripped of titles and responsibilities? I’ve spent so long being the King of the Northwood that I’ve forgotten there might be anything else.
“I don’t know anymore,” I admit, the words scraped raw. “It’s been three centuries since I was anything but what my people needed me to be.”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” Her voice is soft, full of a compassion that makes my chest tight. “Everyoneshould have something that’s just theirs. A self that exists independently of what others expect.”
“And what about you?” I ask, deflecting before her pity can undo me completely. “Who is Jessa Rowan when she’s not saving wounded animals?”
She’s quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. “Someone who’s been alone for a very long time. Someone who chose solitude because it felt safer than risking connection with the wrong person.”
