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“I should just kill her and be done with it. This sussing through things is only delaying the inevitable. It’s either Eirah or Frosteria. One light isn’t more important than the kingdom.”
Still, his visions never lied. They bore the truth, and while the future changed depending on the decisions made, the outcome never strayed too far from what he saw. So, why did the little bird weep for him and utter his name in a way that cracked the ice surrounding his bloody heart? The same mortal he swore could breathe fire if she so willed it. He’d seen a spot of tenderness in her while she painted her dolls and spoke of why she did it, but toward him? It wasn’t as if he deserved it.
Morozko’s eyes snapped open when his name was uttered. It echoed until it was like a knife driving into his skull.Morozko. Morozko. Morozko. Without a word, he strode away from Xezu. The sharp staccato of his boots falling on the floor bounced off the walls, sounding more like running than walking. He gritted his teeth against the gnawing of his name rolling around in his head, but it was pulling him along to Eirah’s room. He approached Eirah’s door and threw it open, bolting inside, but she wasn’t in her bed nor on the balcony. His muscles coiled as his icy heart pounded.
The smell of juniper soap lingered in the air, and his eyes widened. He charged toward the bathing chamber and rushed to the tub, where the water swirled within its depths. His limbs moved before he could process the fact she wasn’t thrashing. Morozko scooped Eirah up, holding her like one would a child.
Her head rested against his bicep at an unnatural angle, her entire body limp and lifeless, cooling against him quickly.
Not like this, Eirah. Not like this!
“You will not die like this, Eirah of Vinti!” His voice took on a shrill note as he carried her out of the bathing chamber and to her bed. He laid her down, assessing her quickly. Her chest didn’t rise, and her skin was gray and cold to the touch. How long had she been like this? The bath water was still warm.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “Come on, Eirah.” He cupped her cheeks, his brows furrowing. Morozko would’ve preferred to see the scowl on her face over the look of death she wore at the moment. But that was who he was. The bringer of death.
He hissed, torn between what he must do and what should be done. Without another thought, he brought his lips to Eirah’s. Her mouth was slack, but this wasn’t about a kiss or tasting the hint of cinnamon lingering on her lips. It was about not letting her die. His terms. Her death was supposed to be onhisterms.
With one exhale, a chilled breath passed from him and into her. He drew to her side and whispered an incantation into her ear, commanding death’s grip to cease and for his blood to work with hers. Not against her.
He peeled himself away from Eirah long enough to fetch a towel to dry her, then he pulled the covers back to slip her beneath them. By the time she was under the furred blankets, her back arched. Her eyes, normally dark and luminous, opened to reveal an icy blue to rival his. She sucked in a greedy breath, and he did the same.
Morozko brushed the dark strands of hair from her face. “Do not forget you are a fighter, Eirah. So, fight your way back,” he whispered.
Eirah’s hand darted up as if she were reaching for something. Morozko dragged his palm down her forearm, and an electric pulse met him. He shivered at the foreign feeling brushing his own power. Both heady and alarming.
“Eirah, wake up!” he bellowed, and when her eyes opened, their usual deep brown locked on him for a moment. She choked once, twice, and he aided her to her side, where she spewed a mouthful of water.
Morozko pounded her back until the fits ceased. He frowned and drew back, assessing her again. Red painted her cheeks from the force of vomiting, and her brows pinched together as she looked at him, clearly dazed.
“Why do you look so ruffled?” she croaked, grimacing after.
Did he look ruffled? There was no mirror for him to glance at to confirm or deny her accusation, but judging by the ordeal they’d both faced, he wouldn’t be surprised if it were true.
He chuckled, looking her over once more, and turned to the door. It hadn’t been long since he’d entered the room and made a fuss, but Xezu and Kusav gaped at him—them. “Xezu, go have Ulva make some fresh tea for Eirah and perhaps some broth, too,” Morozko instructed.
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Xezu, wide-eyed, bowed and fled the room briskly.
“As for you, Kusav, go back to your post and shut the door. This isn’t a public showing, am I clear?” Morozko shot the guard a pointed look.
Kusav pounded his fist against his chest. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He clicked his heels together and returned to his position outside the room, but not before closing the door behind him.
With the other males gone, Morozko turned his attention to Eirah, who pulled herself into a sitting position. The blanket cascaded down her skin, pooling at her waist. He couldn’t stop his eyes from following the motion, and as he dragged his gaze upward, he paused on the gentle slope of her breasts—her nipples hardened from the brush of cool air against them.
Eirah’s senses seemed to crash down on her because she yanked the blankets up and scowled at him. “What did you do?”
Morozko snorted and brushed his hair out of his face. “Me?” Morozko stood, crossing the room to fetch her robe. He spun on his heel and pinned her with a hard look. “I saved your life, is what I did.”
“What?” Her lips twisted as a look of confusion passed over her face.
He sauntered forward and laid her robe across the bed. “Let me refresh your memory. The bath and the inability to draw water into your lungs…” Morozko watched as the realization dawned on her, and he wasn’t certain if she was more horrified by the notion she nearly drowned or that he had handled her while she was bare.
“I’ll spare you the lecture on why you shouldn’t have been bathing without a servant’s help because I think you understand how foolish that was.” He lifted a brow, waiting for some sign she realized just that. A rush of color painted her cheeks, perhaps from frustration or embarrassment. Either way, it was pleasing to see life blossoming in her face once again.
He crossed his arms and turned around, waiting for her to don the robe. Fabric rustled, and when it ceased, Morozko faced Eirah, then a knock on the door cut through the moment.
“Come in,” Morozko ordered.
The door opened, revealing Ulva with a tray. On it was a bowl of steaming broth and a crystal pot. At once, the salty fragrance of broth tickled Morozko’s nose, accompanied by the minty scent of winterberry tea. Ulva bustled toward the bedside and set down the tray, then went about pouring a cup for Eirah. The woman paused for a moment as if she were on the verge of saying something, but Morozko sent her a sharp look that sent her fleeing toward the threshold.
