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The queen began to eat. The rest of us ate. The queen took her first sip of wine. We drank.
She paused in sipping her soup and looked at me. It was not an angry look, more puzzled, but it
certainly wasn't a happy look. She leaned in very close to me, close enough that her lips brushed my ear.
"Fuck one of them tonight, Meredith, or you will be joining Cel."
I drew back enough to see her face. She'd known all along that Galen and I hadn't made love. But she'd
helped me save him from Conri's challenge, and for that I was grateful. Still, Andais did nothing without a
motive, and I had to wonder why this act of mercy? I would have loved to ask her, but the queen's
mercy is a fragile thing like a bubble floating on the air. If you poked at it too much it would simply burst
and cease to be. I would not prod this piece of kindness. I would simply accept it.
Chapter 33
WE WERE BACK IN THE BLACK COACH WHEN THE DARKNESS STILL pressed against the
sky, but there was a feel of dawn on the air, almost like the taste of salt in the air near the sea. You
couldn't see it, but all the same you knew it was there. Dawn was coming, and I for one was% glad.
There were things in the Unseelie Court that could not come out in the light of day, things that Cel could
send after me, though Doyle thought it doubtful that the prince would try anything else tonight. But
technically Cel's punishment wouldn't begin until tomorrow night, so the three months had not yet begun.
Which meant that when the men went to pack, they'd gotten all their weapons. Frost practically clanked
when he walked. The others were a little more subtle, but not by much.
Frost's great sword Geamhradh Po'g-Winter Kiss-was propped between him and the car door. Even
strapped to his back, the sword was too long to wear sitting in a car. It wasn't a killing weapon like
Mortal Dread, but it could steal a fey's passion, leaving them cold and barren as a winter snow. There
had been a time when to be passionless, without his or her spark, would have frightened a fey more than
death.
Doyle drove and Rhys rode in front with him. Doyle had ordered Rhys to ride in back with the rest of
us, but Frost had insisted that he be allowed in the back. That had been... odd.
Now he sat in the far corner of the. seat, pressed against the door, spine stiff, all that silver hair
shimmering in the dimness. Galen sat on the other side. Most of his wounds were almost healed, and the
ones that weren't were hidden under fresh jeans. He'd put on a white tank top underneath a pale green
dress shirt. The shirt was tucked into his jeans but unbuttoned so the heavy ribbed material of the tank
top showed. The only thing that remained of the court was the knee-high boots of soft, soft hide, dyed a
deep forest green. The braid that decorated the tops of the boots dangled down in two beaded strings,
making them look very Native American. The brown leather jacket that he'd had for years was folded
across his knees.
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There was room on the seat for Kitto, but he had curled himself into a corner of the floorboard, hugging
his knees tight to his chest. Galen had loaned him a long-sleeved dress shirt to cover the metallic thong he
was wearing. The shirt was huge on him, white sleeves flapping down over his hands. All I could see
were his small bare feet sticking out from under the cloth. He looked about eight, huddled there in the
dark.
To questions like, "Are you all right? Are you sure?," he answered, "Yes, Mistress." That seemed to be
his answer to everything, but it was obvious that he was miserable for some reason. I gave up trying to
pry information from him. I was tired, and my ankle ached. No, my foot and my leg ached all the way up
to my knee. Rhys and Galen had taken turns holding ice on my ankle during the after-dinner
entertainment. The dance that was supposed to help me choose among the men had been a bust because
I couldn't dance. Even without the ankle I felt unwell and. achingly tired.
I leaned against Galen's shoulder, half dozing. He raised his arm to put it over my shoulders but stopped
in midmotion. "Ouch," he said.
"The bites still hurt?" I asked.
He nodded and slowly lowered his arm. "Yeah."
"I am not wounded." Frost's voice turned us to him.
"What?" I asked.
"I am not wounded," he said.
I stared at him. His face was its usual arrogant perfection, from impossibly high cheekbones to the strong
jaw with its hint of dimple. It was a face that should have gone with a straight, thin line of lips. Instead, the
lips were full, sensual. The dimple and the mouth saved his face from being utterly stern. At that moment
his face was set in as harsh a line as I'd ever seen it, his back very straight, one hand gripping the door
handle so tightly that you could see the strain in his arm. He had looked at me to make the offer, but now
he turned, giving me only his profile.
I watched him sitting there and realized that the Killing Frost was nervous. Nervous of me. There was
something fragile in the way he held himself, as if it had cost him dearly to offer me his shoulder to lean
against.
I glanced back at Galen. He raised his eyebrows, tried to shrug, and stopped in midmotion. He settled
for a shake of his head. Nice to know that Galen didn't know what was going on either.
I wasn't comfortable enough with Frost to tuck my head against his shoulder, but... but he could have
gone out the door, saved himself when the thorns attacked, but he hadn't. He had stayed with us, with
me. I had no illusions that Frost had been harboring some deep love for me in secret all these years. That
just wasn't true. But the geas had been lifted, and if I said yes, sex was a possibility for Frost for the first
time in a very long time. He'd insisted on riding in back with me, and now he'd offered his shoulder for
me to lean upon. Frost in his own way was trying to court me.
It was kind of awkwardly sweet. But Frost was not sweet. He was arrogant and full of pride. It must
have cost him dearly to make even such a small overture. If I turned down the offer, would he ever risk
himself again? Would he ever offer himself to me in even a small way again?
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I couldn't crush him like that, and even as I thought it, I knew how much Frost would hate that what
prompted me to scoot across the car seat wasn't lust or his physical beauty, but something very close to
pity.
I slid across the seat, and he raised his arm, so I could slide underneath. He was a little taller than Galen,
so it really wasn't his shoulder I laid my head against, but the upper swell of his chest.
The sheer material of his shirt was scratchy against my cheek, and I just couldn't relax. I'd never been
this close to Frost, and it was... awkward. It was like we couldn't get comfortable together. He felt it,
too, because we both kept making small adjustments. He moved his hand from my back to my waist. I
tried my head higher on his chest, lower on his chest. I tried snuggling my body closer to him, and farther [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]