Page 26

Everly

B y the time the sledge rolled to a halt, dusk had bled into something darker, and even more cold.

We were at the base of the Shardspeak Mountain range, standing before what looked like the last outpost before the Mother had abandoned the mountains altogether.

The wind howled around the inn, raking frozen claws over the wooden shingles and rattling the frost-crusted shutters. Ice coated the eaves in jagged ridges, sharper and thicker than dragon’s teeth, and over half of the stone steps had been swallowed by snowdrifts.

To the left, the stable doors groaned as they opened, and a pair of cloaked figures moved through the dusk with practiced urgency, guiding the Velgrun stags toward shelter. Draven’s wolves followed them in, shaking the snow from their fur as soon as they crossed the threshold.

All but Lumen, who stared back at the sledge in question before Draven waved for him to keep going, blinking at me in annoyance like it was my fault his pet preferred me.

I didn’t wait to be helped down from the sledge. I climbed out fast, boots crunching into packed snow, my breath fogging the air. The cold hit like a wall made of sharp bricks, and I quickly covered my face to filter the frost from my lungs.

I shivered, tugging my cloak tighter around me. Every snapping branch and gust of wind set my nerves twitching. The inn itself looked safe enough, but the darkness curling at the edges of the trees said otherwise.

Monsters could still hunt in the day. We’d seen that firsthand.

But now the sun was setting, and remaining outdoors was feeling more and more like tempting Fate.

A shadow passed close behind me. Draven didn’t speak, just reached for the door and shouldered it open with an enviable ease, like he wasn’t actively working against the force of a snowstorm.

He held it open, and I was forced to brush against him as I slipped inside. Somehow tiny bits of lightning managed to zap from his skin to mine even through several layers of furs.

Maybe the mana of the bond was getting desperate now, but I had no intention of giving it what it wanted.

The warmth inside was jarring. A fire crackled in the hearth, and oversized plush armchairs sat in front of it, practically begging to be crawled into.

A lanky male with silver hair and pale blue skin lounged behind a counter. He snapped to attention as soon as he caught sight of Draven’s towering form.

He gave a quick bow. “Your Majesties, welcome. Everything is prepared.”

Draven must have sent word ahead. He nodded, and the male ushered us to a door at the top of a narrow stairwell.

The king followed without hesitation, but I was more reluctant.

Exhaustion weighed on me, but I didn’t want to sleep with the looming anxiety of the hells that were waiting for me tomorrow. I tried to give my mind some small fragile hope to hold onto.

Maybe the storm would keep us from trekking up the mountain. Maybe it would destroy the Sanctum in some freakish, unprecedented blizzard and I would never have to stare into the bitter, cruel eyes of mages again.

Draven cleared his throat from the top of the stairs, impatience etched into every line of his icy features.

I held his gaze, taking one painfully slow step. Then another. Basking in the bare victory of inconveniencing him.

If I was going to die tomorrow, or worse, then I might as well take my joy where I could find it.

He sighed, then blinked twice before a muscle twitched in his jaw.

My next step was even slower. By the time I made it into the room, my husband was practically fuming, but I at least had found a small slice of reprieve in making him suffer. Until I scanned the room.

Singular. I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, except that Draven had chosen this inn, seemed to be familiar with it, and some part of me thought they would have suites reserved for their king.

Or hoped, anyway. But this was just an average sized room for a smallish inn. Warm, clean... and cozy.

Far too cozy.

A fire roared in the hearth, and thick rugs covered the floor. A copper kettle hissed gently near the flames. And in the center, taking up most of the space, sat one average-sized bed.

Just one.

Shards damn everything.

The innkeeper shuffled awkwardly, his gaze flitting back and forth between us as he explained where we could find the things we needed. He cleared his throat, then swept from the room with a muttered comment about returning with dinner.

Leaving me alone with my husband. And the single bed lying in wait in the middle of the room like a frostbeast unto itself.

The silence pressed in. I deposited Batty onto a table next to a tray of winterberries that had been set out for us.

She let out an excited squeak before skittering over to snack.

I took a few for myself before looking around to realize I had exactly nothing productive to do. Finally, I turned to face my husband.

“Did you get a second room for yourself?” I asked, far more casually than I felt.

He blinked like I was an idiot. “Yes, because nothing keeps the people from gossip like knowing their royals can’t share a room.”

I stopped just short of reminding him that we didn’t share a room at the palace. There was a door between our quarters, so it wasn’t as though the people knew where we were spending our nights.

Not that I gave a single damn what they thought when he was likely to revisit the idea of execution once he realized that I did, in fact, have no mana. But of course, there was no convincing him of that.

“So you’re sleeping on the floor then?” I attempted, knowing full well it was in vain.

Sure enough, he scoffed outright. “No, and neither are you, for that matter.”

I opened my mouth to disagree, but he shook his head sharply.

“Mirelda might know to hold her tongue, but the same can’t be said for the servants here.

They’ll be in and out to attend to us, so I’m afraid you won’t have the chance to martyr yourself for the noble cause of refusing to share a bed with your husband.

” His tone left no room for argument, not that I wasn’t happy to try.

But I was tired. Tired of fighting. Tired, period. Any argument would only lead us back to here.

To us both sleeping in that shards-forsaken bed.

My heartbeat pounded in my chest with something darker than fear and far more potent. He had been given every opportunity to touch me, but he never had. He sure as hells wasn’t going to now that he knew we might create a little Hollow heir together.

Which was a relief. A comfort.

Still, a shiver crept up my spine, and Draven honed in on the motion, his eyes raking over me from head to toe.

“Still afraid of me, Morta Mea?” He stalked closer to me, effectively sucking out all of the air from the room.

He really did have a perfect face. A jaw cut from ice, eyes born of the aurora itself. Apparently, our marriage bond didn’t care that he was carting me back to my very worst nightmare. It reached for him with tendrils of longing I had to forcibly wrangle under control.

I licked my lips that were suddenly dry, from the blistering cold outside, no doubt.

“No,” I lied. “I lean closer to loathing these days.”

The smallest smirk tilted his full lips, and he stepped backward.

“You really should work on that lying habit.”

My lips parted, a scoff escaping them. “At least you won’t have to worry about that for long.”

The sober reminder effectively doused the room in ice. I hadn’t realized how his power had vibrated the air between us until the sensation abruptly vanished.

I let out a curse under my breath, pacing over to the fire. Draven followed, leaning against the wall near the hearth, arms crossed, eyes on the flames. His silence pressed against my skin, oppressive and cold, like the storm had followed him inside.

“We’ll hike to the Veilreach Sanctum at first light,” he announced like nothing at all had happened.

I didn’t respond. Just sat on the fur-draped bench and began unbuckling my boots. A knock sounded on the door, heralding the arrival of dinner. It was simple stew, hearty and flavorful enough to take my mind off the uncomfortable night ahead.

By the time we were finished eating, I was tired enough that I almost didn’t care that I would be sharing a bed with the Frostgrave King. Almost .

Until he slid into bed first. Without his shirt.

It was worse, somehow, being forced to join him instead of the other way around. He probably did that on purpose, leaving the far more awkward part to me. All that was left was to pretend I was unbothered.

So I slipped off my outer furs and slid beneath the blankets, still dressed in my traveling gown and facing firmly away from Draven. My heartbeat pounded, and my muscles clenched from the cold, but I managed to keep my teeth from chattering.

The heat rolling off him was infuriating. Unfair. The bastard radiated warmth like a walking furnace, though he already had his mana to stabilize him. Meanwhile, I was freezing and the one trekking to my torture and eventual demise.

I really did hate him.

I hugged the edge of the bed, cocooned in my side of the blanket. And still, the warmth licked at my spine, pulling me toward him.

I did not move closer. Would not. I stayed right on my edge.

But shards , I was freezing.

I had been cold before, though. This was nothing for me. Nothing compared to tomorrow, and nothing compared to the abject humiliation of letting him know I was suffering.

Resolved in my mind, I forced my racing thoughts into submission, falling into something close to sleep.

I should have known Fate wouldn’t be so kind as to let this last night be peaceful.

The battlefield was endless. Wolves and panthers attacked from the ground while winged fae shot through the air. One by one, they froze and shattered.

But more always took their place.