The Winter King
Page 38
“No, he didn’t hurt me.” Khamsin reached into the water pail to retrieve the now-cooled brush and dried it off before brushing her hair into some semblance of order.
He’d worried that he’d wounded her. He’d set her on fire, showered her with gift after selfless gift of pleasure, shattered and remade her time and time again in a crucible of devastating ecstasy—and he worried that he’d been too rough. She’d deceived him—was deceiving him still—and he, the supposedly heartless ice man from the north, had come to make sure he had neither harmed nor disappointed her on their wedding night.
She lowered her eyes to hide the vulnerability and guilt that one simple gesture of kindness made her feel. Oh, Khamsin, why must everything you touch get so wrong-headed?
She rolled the length of her hair into a knot and pinned it to the back of her head, wincing a little as the gesture pulled the still-tender new skin on her back. Several more hours of sunlamps and herbs had provided enough healing that she could at least dress without needing drugs to keep her standing. She’d eaten earlier, her belongings were packed, now all she needed to do was don her veils, and she would be ready to go.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Was she different? She felt different. Her face was wan beneath its rich, Summerlander brown. She pinched her cheeks to add color and touched the raised ridges on her cheekbone where her father’s heated signet had burned her, branding her with the Summer Rose. Tildy had wanted to heal that, but Kham hadn’t let her. She wore it as a badge—a reminder of her home, and of the Summer King who despised her.
What would Wynter do when he learned the truth of their deception? Would he kill her? Freeze her on the spot with that deadly Gaze of his? Or would the devastating passion they’d shared last night stay his hand?
She tossed the remaining few personal items from her room in a small satchel and pinned the heavy veils in place over her hair. “It’s time,” she said. This continued deception was a farce, but one she was committed to carrying out. If she could just make it to the carriage without being unmasked, then she would have some hope of making it past the city gate before she was discovered. And if she could make it past the city gate, she had a chance of reaching the first posting stop without being discovered. The farther they got from Summerlea before Wynter realized how he’d been tricked, the less likely he was to kill her on the spot and return for a different princess.
Or so she told herself.
“Storm,” Autumn murmured. Tears welled in her eyes. “It should have been me. I should have told father I would be the Winter King’s bride. I was the one his eye settled on first.”
“Don’t torment yourself. This was my choice.” Khamsin forced a smile, trying for brightness, hoping that at least she’d avoided terrified. “You know how I’ve always dreamed of the ancient heroes who saved Summerlea. Well, this my chance to play Roland Triumphant.”
“Roland died, Storm.”
The bright smile faltered. “Yes . . . well . . . maybe Roland isn’t the right example.” She drew the veils down over her face, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
Downstairs, the court had gathered. Spring and Summer were waiting at the top of the stairs, and they took up flanking positions at Khamsin’s sides as she grew near, threading their arms supportively through hers. Together, they descended the palace steps.
The Summer King was there, too, looking pale and pained. Too much drink, Kham thought, then remembered how Wynter had forced him to share the wedding cup. Ah, that explained it. But judging from the worn, unhappy look about him, he’d not spent his arras hours gorging on shattering pleasure as she had.
There was no remorse in his eyes, only fierce loathing, which he tried to hide with a false paternal smile for the benefit of his court. “Daughter,” he murmured, and stepped forward to embrace her. “Enjoy your life,” he taunted on a hiss meant for her ears only. “What’s left of it.”
She stood stiff and suffered the peck to her veiled cheek. She wanted to taunt him back, to sneer and inform him she had survived the worst he could dish out and would survive Wynter as well. But that had yet to be seen.
Metal clanked against stone. A cold, harsh wind swept into the palace, sending Summerlander skirts and doublets swirling. Several ladies cried out and clutched at fashionable curls tossed into disarray.
Outfitted once more in full plate mail with Gunterfys strapped to his side, Wynter strode into the marbled greeting hall. Temper snapped around him like crackling frost. He caught sight of Khamsin, and his mouth flattened to a grim, bloodless line.
“Veils again, my queen?” he sneered. He approached her with such scarcely contained force, she was surprised his boots did not strike sparks against the ground. His gaze flickered down to her hands. The sight of the large blue-white diamond glittering on her left hand made the line of his mouth soften slightly. “So, you can follow directions. That’s something, at least.” He caught her hand in his, and the now-familiar flash of energy leapt between them at the point of contact. His pale brows drew together, the golden brown skin furrowing, winter blue eyes narrowing.
Oh no.
Her fingers curled, and she gave her hand a tug, trying to free it from his grip. He would not allow it. He lifted her hand, examining the ring of faint bruises and the even fainter abrasions from where he’d pinned her hands to the headboard in one of their more passionate moments last night. His thumb brushed across the Summerlea Rose burning on her inner wrist. He splayed her hand against his, threading his fingers through hers as if measuring how her hand fit in his.
He’d worried that he’d wounded her. He’d set her on fire, showered her with gift after selfless gift of pleasure, shattered and remade her time and time again in a crucible of devastating ecstasy—and he worried that he’d been too rough. She’d deceived him—was deceiving him still—and he, the supposedly heartless ice man from the north, had come to make sure he had neither harmed nor disappointed her on their wedding night.
She lowered her eyes to hide the vulnerability and guilt that one simple gesture of kindness made her feel. Oh, Khamsin, why must everything you touch get so wrong-headed?
She rolled the length of her hair into a knot and pinned it to the back of her head, wincing a little as the gesture pulled the still-tender new skin on her back. Several more hours of sunlamps and herbs had provided enough healing that she could at least dress without needing drugs to keep her standing. She’d eaten earlier, her belongings were packed, now all she needed to do was don her veils, and she would be ready to go.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Was she different? She felt different. Her face was wan beneath its rich, Summerlander brown. She pinched her cheeks to add color and touched the raised ridges on her cheekbone where her father’s heated signet had burned her, branding her with the Summer Rose. Tildy had wanted to heal that, but Kham hadn’t let her. She wore it as a badge—a reminder of her home, and of the Summer King who despised her.
What would Wynter do when he learned the truth of their deception? Would he kill her? Freeze her on the spot with that deadly Gaze of his? Or would the devastating passion they’d shared last night stay his hand?
She tossed the remaining few personal items from her room in a small satchel and pinned the heavy veils in place over her hair. “It’s time,” she said. This continued deception was a farce, but one she was committed to carrying out. If she could just make it to the carriage without being unmasked, then she would have some hope of making it past the city gate before she was discovered. And if she could make it past the city gate, she had a chance of reaching the first posting stop without being discovered. The farther they got from Summerlea before Wynter realized how he’d been tricked, the less likely he was to kill her on the spot and return for a different princess.
Or so she told herself.
“Storm,” Autumn murmured. Tears welled in her eyes. “It should have been me. I should have told father I would be the Winter King’s bride. I was the one his eye settled on first.”
“Don’t torment yourself. This was my choice.” Khamsin forced a smile, trying for brightness, hoping that at least she’d avoided terrified. “You know how I’ve always dreamed of the ancient heroes who saved Summerlea. Well, this my chance to play Roland Triumphant.”
“Roland died, Storm.”
The bright smile faltered. “Yes . . . well . . . maybe Roland isn’t the right example.” She drew the veils down over her face, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
Downstairs, the court had gathered. Spring and Summer were waiting at the top of the stairs, and they took up flanking positions at Khamsin’s sides as she grew near, threading their arms supportively through hers. Together, they descended the palace steps.
The Summer King was there, too, looking pale and pained. Too much drink, Kham thought, then remembered how Wynter had forced him to share the wedding cup. Ah, that explained it. But judging from the worn, unhappy look about him, he’d not spent his arras hours gorging on shattering pleasure as she had.
There was no remorse in his eyes, only fierce loathing, which he tried to hide with a false paternal smile for the benefit of his court. “Daughter,” he murmured, and stepped forward to embrace her. “Enjoy your life,” he taunted on a hiss meant for her ears only. “What’s left of it.”
She stood stiff and suffered the peck to her veiled cheek. She wanted to taunt him back, to sneer and inform him she had survived the worst he could dish out and would survive Wynter as well. But that had yet to be seen.
Metal clanked against stone. A cold, harsh wind swept into the palace, sending Summerlander skirts and doublets swirling. Several ladies cried out and clutched at fashionable curls tossed into disarray.
Outfitted once more in full plate mail with Gunterfys strapped to his side, Wynter strode into the marbled greeting hall. Temper snapped around him like crackling frost. He caught sight of Khamsin, and his mouth flattened to a grim, bloodless line.
“Veils again, my queen?” he sneered. He approached her with such scarcely contained force, she was surprised his boots did not strike sparks against the ground. His gaze flickered down to her hands. The sight of the large blue-white diamond glittering on her left hand made the line of his mouth soften slightly. “So, you can follow directions. That’s something, at least.” He caught her hand in his, and the now-familiar flash of energy leapt between them at the point of contact. His pale brows drew together, the golden brown skin furrowing, winter blue eyes narrowing.
Oh no.
Her fingers curled, and she gave her hand a tug, trying to free it from his grip. He would not allow it. He lifted her hand, examining the ring of faint bruises and the even fainter abrasions from where he’d pinned her hands to the headboard in one of their more passionate moments last night. His thumb brushed across the Summerlea Rose burning on her inner wrist. He splayed her hand against his, threading his fingers through hers as if measuring how her hand fit in his.
