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The crackling of the fire draws my attention back toward the hearth, and I watch as the flames lick the air around it. For a moment, I imagine I am one of the embers that dances away from the blaze, flying through the air to freedom.
Minutes pass by — or hours, I’m not sure which — while I imagine and dream of a different world, one where I have a say in my future.
The sound of the door latching shut pulls me from my pointless thoughts, and I stiffen. I am not ready for what comes next, no more than I was when he left.
But then, is anyone ever truly ready to hand over their body to a stranger?
Chapter Eight
Ifeel the king’s presence behind me, the warmth of his body overpowering that of the fire in front of me.
Slowly, I turn to face him.
With most men, I can immediately tell what they want from me, but I’m finding it difficult to read Einar. The rise and fall of his chest tells me that he’s breathing quickly, but his sharp features reveal nothing. He stands there immobile as a mountain range, looking down on me like he’s expecting something.
He’s too smart to expect me to run. And surely by now he knows I’m not the type of woman who simpers. So, what is it that he is so clearly anticipating?
The way he shakes his head is so subtle, I nearly miss it. He moves toward the sitting chair next to the bed and slowly, methodically unties the laces on his boots. He places them on the floor next to him and stares up at me.
I swallow hard, walking toward the one feature of the room I’ve been doing my best to ignore. I gulp down the remaining contents of my glass just before it slips from my hand, landing soundlessly on the rug beneath our feet.
“Are you drunk?” Einar asks as I sit down on the massive bed that looks as if it was carved from one of the enormous trees we passed on our way here.
The grooves in the wood resemble bark, and the branches at each corner stretch upward toward the ceiling. I run my fingers along the post, marveling at the craftsmanship.
Einar repeats his question.
I turn back too quickly, and the room begins to spin.
“I amneverintoxicated.” My eyebrows raise in offense, even as I teeter sideways. “I simply thought it would be less of a burden on both of us if we were more...relaxed. I left you some in the decanter. Help yourself.” I wave a hand toward the table.
He moves to examine the nearly empty container and crosses his arms. Then, he stares down at me like I am nothing more than a fascinating marionette, playing a part he’s not quite sure of while he towers over it all.
We both know what happens next. There is no use in delaying it any longer. I preempt any attempt he might make in removing my clothes and decide to do it myself. I wouldn’t want him to wonder at the carefully concealed weapons stitched into the fabric.
Pushing aside all the reservations that have no place in this moment, I begin by removing the long silken scarf, carefully disentangling it from my hair and letting it fall softly to the ground. I capture his icy blue gaze with my own, noting that it doesn’t waver from where it’s focused on my face. Only my face.
Next, I pull down my heavy beaded skirts, neatly stepping out of them. Again, his eyes don’t falter.
But when I place my hands on the short blouse that covers the only remaining part of me, I swear I hear a sharp intake of breath, though his expression is as resolute as ever.
I slip the top up over my head, shaking my hair out from the ornate beading before I reopen my eyes.
This time, he has let the smallest molecule of that stone façade slip. His gaze is heated, his lips parted, and his eyes find their way slowly down my body.
Content with whatever power I have managed to wrangle from this situation, I shoot him an arrogant smirk. He has his strengths, and I have mine.
What I don’t expect is the way he stalks toward me, closing the space between us until he has all but erased it.
Until I am close to being plastered against the freezing leather of his belt and the warm, rich furs of his cloak.
Until I forget, for the tiniest increment of a moment, that I’m not supposed to want to be here. To want any of this.
I lean toward him, in spite of myself and the way I have done nothing but dread this moment for days. Tilting my head up ever so slightly, my gaze travels from the chain at his neck and up to his lips, which are slowly parting.
“Stop.” The words are not mine, but his.
I pause briefly, any warmth I felt moments ago being once again stolen by this wintry castle and the people in it.
