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Sapphire

I wake at sunset to the storm still howling outside, battering against Riven’s ice barrier like it’s trying to break through.

It won’t. His magic’s too strong for that. But the translucent wall gives us a perfect view of the blizzard, although there’s nothing to see except endless white.

Riven’s already up, staring through the ice like he’s willing Ghost to appear. He looks as desperate to find Ghost as I feel to find Zoey.

But despite fear for my best friend, I can still feel the imprint of Riven’s lips on my skin—of how much being together felt right.

Heat rises to my cheeks at the memory.

Well... memories.

There were a lot of them.

“We should…” He clears his throat, his voice rough as he glances at the ice wall again. “We should make use of this time. Since we’re stuck here, we might as well?—”

He pauses, and my heart races—in a good way—at the assumption that he’s about to say we should have a repeat of last night.

“We should train,” he says instead, and I flinch slightly, although I’m not sure he noticed. “You’re a natural with your magic, but your combat skills need work. And it wouldn’t hurt for you to learn how to use a sword.”

“I’m not that bad with weapons,” I say. “I killed that dark angel with my dagger and the Stalo with your sword.”

“By projecting and killing them from the back,” he snaps. “By leaving yourself—your real self—unconscious on the ground. But you won’t be able to do that all the time. You can’t leave your real self that vulnerable. You need to be able to fight head on.”

“I think I did a pretty decent job against the nixies…”

I trail off, since did I really do a good job against them?

No. Because if I’d been a better fighter, Zoey would still be here with us.

Guilt slams into me all over again for what happened to her.

But I have to hold onto hope that she’s alive. That somehow, eventually, we’ll find her and get her back.

“Your form is sloppy,” Riven interrupts my thoughts, pulling his sword out of his weapons belt and examining the blade. “You’re going to learn how to use this.”

Tension crackles between us as we hold each other’s gazes, sending more memories of last night flashing through my mind.

The sword he’s offering isn’t the one I want to be practicing with right now.

But he moves closer to me, holding it out. “Take it.”

I eye the weapon warily. “I have my dagger.”

“A dagger won’t save you against someone with superior reach.”

“Fine,” I say, and when I grasp the hilt, a chill races up my arm, like the blade itself is made of winter.

“Balance your grip.” He moves to stand behind me, his hands covering mine, adjusting my fingers on the hilt.

His closeness sends more electricity rushing through me than the sword, and I’m suddenly very aware of his breath against my ear.

“Keep your stance wide,” he continues. “Center your weight.”

I try to focus on his words and on his hand guiding mine, but it’s impossible with him so close. “Like this?” I manage, and from the way he pulls me closer, I know he has similar things on his mind that I do.

“Better,” he says. “Now, move with me.”

He guides me through basic forms—how to strike, how to parry, and how to use my opponent’s momentum against them. His touch is professional, but it’s impossible to forget how those same hands felt on my skin just hours ago.

“Focus,” he says sharply when I miss a block. “Your enemy won’t be distracted by whatever’s going through your mind right now.”

“I’m focused.” I hold his gaze, but from his smirk, we both know I’m lying.

Well, I’m not really lying. Because I am focused.

On him.

“Prove it.” He draws my dagger—which he’s been using in lieu of his sword—and comes at me with a speed that makes me stumble back.

I barely get his sword up in time to block.

The clash of metal-on-metal rings through the cave, and my arms shake from the impact.

“Better,” he says. “But your footwork is sloppy. Again.”

We continue like that for hours. And even though my supernatural healing is quick, I still feel every blow. Every break.

Finally, I catch him along his bicep with the edge of the blade.

The cut isn’t deep—his reflexes are too good for that—but blood wells up, bright red against his skin.

The scent hits me like a storm.

Rich. Intoxicating. Everything I’ve known I’d need since my last feed.

He moves toward me, worried, as if I’m the injured one and not him.

“Don’t.” I stumble back, dropping his sword with a clatter. “Don’t touch me.”

Want pulses through me—not desire, but hunger. Pure, primal need that makes my fangs ache to descend.

I will not feed on him, I tell myself. I will not feed on him. I will not feed on him.

“Sapphire?” His voice sounds far away. “What’s wrong?”

Everything, I want to say.

But I can’t tell him. Can’t let him know what I am. What I need.

So, I make my breathing as shallow as possible, to push down the hunger until it’s manageable. Until I can trust myself to look at him without wanting to lick that blood off his arm.

It’s better now that the cut’s healed—now that the blood isn’t flowing—but I’m far more aware of my hunger than I was when I woke up in his arms earlier.

“I’m fine,” I say, now that I’ve regained some sense of control. “I think I’m just tired. And worried about Zoey.”

He studies me for a long moment, and my heart races with worry that he might push for more.

Finally, he nods. “We should break for food anyway,” he says.

Food.

If only he knew how right he is about the fact that I need to eat.

But he’s wiping the now not-fresh blood off his arm with a cloth, and then he picks up the sword, cleaning it as well.

When he rises, we’re so close that it makes my breath hitch.

I have no idea when we’ll have a chance to be like this again—just the two of us—after the storm ends. This cave has somehow become our little piece of Heaven.

Apparently, he feels the same, because in a flash, he’s kissing me again, this time with a fierceness that leaves no room for hesitation.

The sword clatters to the ground.

And in here, with Riven, the world narrows to just us, and we’re pulled back into a storm that’s purely our own.

Afterward, wrapped in Riven’s arms, even the howling storm feels distant.

And for once, he looks unguarded, his eyes softened in the dim light of the cave. It’s a version of him I don’t think anyone else gets to see—a glimpse beneath the frost.

“You’re quiet,” he says. “Regrets already?”

“No,” I quickly say. “I was just… thinking.”

He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow to look at me. “About?”

“About you,” I admit, turning to face him fully. “And Zoey, and Ghost. I’m sorry you didn’t have anyone else who was there for you. Really, truly there for you.”

“My mother was there for me,” he says without pause. “Before she…”

He looks away, his eyes distant.

I stay quiet—not wanting to push, but also wanting to give him space to share.

“My mother wasn’t like the others in court,” he finally says, turning back to me. “She was softer. Kinder. Everything a Winter Queen wasn’t supposed to be.”

I stay still, barely breathing, afraid that if I move or speak, he’ll retreat behind his walls again.

“The court whispered about it constantly,” he says. “How she showed too much mercy. How she let her emotions guide her decisions, instead of logic. She heard every word, even when they thought she didn’t.”

“That must have been hard for her,” I say softly. “And for you, watching her go through that.”

“She wanted to change. To be what they wanted.” He glances at the ice barrier—as if she could be waiting outside in the storm—then turns his attention back to me. “So, she started searching for a way to suppress her emotions. To be the Winter Queen she thought they needed.”

“That’s why she was so desperate to make that potion,” I say, everything starting to click.

The potion that killed her.

“Yes,” he says, tightening his arms around me. “She couldn’t find the final ingredient, but she was gifted and intuitive with her magic—like you are. So, eventually, she decided she was confident enough to try anyway.”

“It killed her,” I whisper what I already know is true.

“Froze her heart completely.” The words come out rough, like they’re being torn from his throat. “My father and I found her in her quarters. She was just sitting there, like a statue made of ice. And when he touched her, she shattered.”

I push up onto my elbow so I can see his face, and when he meets my gaze, the raw honesty there takes my breath away

“I won’t lose my father like I lost her,” he says. “The court needs stability. A ruler who can balance logic and emotions without being destroyed by either. So, we’ll get the ingredients for the potion. All of them. And then we’ll—well, you’ll —brew it correctly. And then, hopefully, he’ll be okay. Hopefully everything will be okay.”

I wish I could say it’ll all work out like he wants it to.

But I can’t. Neither of us know how any of this will turn out.

“I’ll do my best,” I say instead, and I mean it.

Not just because the faster we get this potion made and give it to his father, the faster we can start searching for Zoey. But also because I want to do this for Riven. Even if we didn’t make that deal to help each other, I’d want to do it for him.

It breaks my heart to see him so alone.

He shifts closer, his arm wrapping around me as he settles back against the pack we’re using as a pillow. “Get some sleep,” he says. “We’ll need our strength when the storm ends.”

I nod, but as I close my eyes, his story lingers in my mind.

The woman who tried to be something she wasn’t. The man who broke when she died. And the son left to pick up the pieces.

Then there’s the quiet truth I don’t dare say out loud: I think Riven’s stronger than both of them.

And I can’t help wondering what the Winter Court would be like if he was the one who was king.