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This time, he doesn’t run away. He wants me to see him. He smiles before pulling his hood lower and slowly disappearing back into the crowds.
This time, there is no question that it is Damian.
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach, and I want to be sick.
If he’s here, not one of us is safe. Not even the king of Jokith himself.
Chapter Thirty
Itry to collect myself, but I know Einar notices. He doesn't comment, though. The only words he has spoken to me since we met back up at the sleds, were to say thatthe girlcan sleep in the stables and is not permitted within the castle walls.
I don’t bother arguing. I know enough about him now to see that there is no getting through to him in this mood. At least Sarah Agnes will be safe until I can help her figure something else out.
Despite the stormy disposition of the man behind me and the appearance of Damian at the festival, it's hard not to lose myself in the feeling of the wind racing by as we take the dog sled back to the castle. The wolves pick up speed, catapulting me just a bit further back into his arms and his warmth for a fraction of a moment before he stiffens, backing away from the contact.
He dismounts the moment we are in front of the castle doors, and I follow suit, coaxing Khijha to my side. We stalk away from him without a backward glance, and he doesn't bother to follow.
Perfect. I try to tell myself how little it matters, how little I care in the grand scheme of things. I try to busy myself with one hundred other things, grateful that we have arrived well after dinner and I won't have to suffer his presence in the dining hall tonight.
But by the time I finally make it back to my rooms and fall into bed, I can’t lie to myself any longer. Khijhana is warm, but she is not the warmest thing I have slept next to lately. I hate how my bed feels stupidly empty without him next to me. But mostly what keeps me awake well into the night is that I have never been more furious with myself.
Finally, I fall into a sleep even more fitful than last night’s was.
By the time the king arrives for breakfast, I am awake and dressed, no sign of last night's lack of sleep marring my features. I am practiced in nothing if not putting on a face.
Since I have no plans of venturing outdoors today, I have dressed in a simpler outfit. Citrine stones at my nose and ear bring out the pale blue embroidery on my silver velvet gown, not that Einar seems to notice. I'm not sure why he has graced me with his presence this morning only to stare stone-faced ahead, nibbling at the breakfast Sigrid left with a decided lack of enthusiasm.
Finally, I lose whatever fragile hold on my patience I had to begin with, the façade breaking along with my desire to play coy.
"One might think that sharing an igloo with your wife was the worst thing to happen to you all year, dear husband." I don't look at him as I say the words, but my ire is clear, all the same.
He, however, sets his book to the side like it's the opening he has been waiting for. He looks straight at me before he responds.
"You talk in your sleep." He says the words like he is pronouncing a death sentence.
I will the blood to stay in my face, in my extremities, to not let him see how that pronouncement terrifies me. Racking my brain for the details of the dreams I had that night, I try to figure out what I could have given away.
“Is that what you’re so upset about?” I ask, mostly to give myself a moment to think. “Tell me, Your Majesty, is that an offense punishable by death, or shall the king grant me a pardon, just this once?”
If I expect to goad him into acknowledging his own ridiculousness, I am immensely disappointed. He glares at me as though he fails to see the humor in his complaint. Then, he narrows his eyes, studying me as though there’s something he can glean from his perusal before he speaks again.
"You spoke of a rose."
I blink, even my usual quick wit abandoning me as I realize I have absolutely nothing to say. His eyes squeeze shut in something like pain, and he shakes his head.
"So, you don't deny it, then?" he asks me.
"Deny what? That I talk in my sleep?" It would appear I have found my voice at last, though not to say anything particularly useful.
"How peculiar, what appears to be on your mind. A rose." He says the word again, enunciating each sound. His eyes burn with fury and accusation, and I know I have no choice but to give him the truth.
Or at leastatruth.
"Rose." I repeat his last word, but I say it like an argument.
His eyebrows lift, and I clarify further.
"Not a rose. Just Rose." I can't seem to make myself say anything else.
