Page 30 of Of Rime and Ruin (Sirens of Adria #2)

Chapter twenty-eight

Nahla

For the first time since I left home, I’m properly warm.

A fireplace crackles at one end of the dining room.

Beneath the table, I dig my toes into the soft fibers of a furry rug.

All thanks to the gentle female who found me wandering in the hallway, wrapped me in furs, and plopped me before the biggest pot of tea in my life. Four cups in, and I feel myself again.

How an asshole like the Frost King could keep staff like Deirdre is beyond me.

She’s much too nice, and I suspect blackmail.

No other explanation holds water. In the matter of an hour, the kind housekeeper warmed me, cheered me, fed me, and got me thinking that I could stay here forever and we could be friends if it wasn’t for her asshole king .

My shoulders slouch at the thought of him, ruining my peace.

The king, standing now at the doorway, looks like he’s been hit by a fleetwhale. Frost crusts his hair, thawing to slide down his wind-bitten face. There’s still snow on his cloak, and a pair of leather pants peek through the gap in its furs.

He sheds the cloak, hanging it from an iron rack near the door. I slide my gaze along his frame, noting the tapered slope of his waist. The slant of his shoulders. His skin is creamy white where it peeks through his shirt collar.

“Nahlani Mahelona,” he greets me. A smile twists his mouth, devilishly handsome, and my stomach flips. “I see you’re alive and well.”

“Yes,” I say, from my seat because fuck curtsies. “With no thanks to you, Aethan Nastrond.” His full name feels foreign in my mouth. I lick my lips to clear the aftertaste.

His smile falls as quickly as it appeared. He steps into the room, followed by the friendly housekeeper. Him, a tower of ice. Her, soft and motherly, her gray hair hardly clearing his shoulder.

The king pulls out the chair across from me, scraping the legs across the floor. I cringe at the squeal of the wood. The large table stretches between us, on it Deirdre’s teapot and my cooling mug of tea. Three candles burn low in the center candelabra, dripping wax.

He watches me, frosty eyes unblinking. Deirdre pours tea for him, adding a cube of sugar. He takes it and stirs, eyes never leaving my face. “Porridge, Deirdre.”

“I won’t leave Her Highness alone with you. The poor girl thinks you’re unpleasant, Sire, and you’ve yet to prove her wrong.”

I smirk. Unpleasant is not exactly what I told her. The king’s eyes tighten, and I hope he knows I meant asshole . I mouth the word at him, just in case.

His eyes darken. Still, the king stares. A chill traces the base of my neck. I touch my cheek, searching for crumbs and finding none.

“I’ll take her to her room first, if that’s okay with Your Majesty,” Deirdre continues.

My heart soars. I could kiss her right now. A room? No more frozen cage. No more boredom. No ceiling tunnels or cranky Vaughn.

No more visits from the Beast.

The emotional whiplash is fierce. Joy and pain twist together, ripping through my chest.

He’ll be all alone, without a friend. The aching sadness in his mind was clear at our parting—and the guilt pierces me now.

But he told me to get warm. Practically pushed me onto the beach.

I shouldn’t feel badly.

And yet…

“Her room?” the king echoes, his stare unwavering.

“Yes, Sire.”

He frowns. “Show her in a moment. I’ll take the porridge first, please.”

The housekeeper doesn’t move. She stands next to him, wringing her hands. She frowns and shoots me one last worrisome glance. “If he comes after you, love, just whack him. I’ll take the heat.”

Finally, he breaks his stare, watching as she exits through the service door at the back of the room.

Silence settles in her absence. I can’t decide which version of him I like least—the restless, angry pacing king from the throne room or this frozen, quiet one.

The silence stretches another minute. I trace the wood grains in the table, following the sweeping curves and knots with my fingernail. What I’d give to get inside his mind, if only for some noise.

I can’t bear it any longer. “I like her,” I say, nodding toward the door.

He lifts his eyebrow, a perfect arch of white hair. “Most do.”

“She’s nice.” Unlike you.

Silence falls again, and I internally curse myself for making it awkward. My ears burn under his gaze.

The king leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His forearms flex, a thick vein rising. “You have trouble following the rules,” he says.

“Rules are meant to be broken, don’t you know?”

“No, Princess.” He turns his face, and the candlelight catches the sharp line of his jaw, the plane of his cheek. From this angle, he looks almost beastly. Powerful. “Rules keep you safe.”

His voice drops in timbre, deep as thunder.

My heart quickens its pace.

I’ve read the royal directory before. In his entry, there’s not much there. A few sentences at most. King Aethan Nastrond is known for his cold demeanor, with a personality to match the rugged terrain. Ascended to the throne while he was young. Then one word: secretive . No physical description.

The king is hiding something. Something he doesn’t want the rest of us to know.

I flick through the options, considering each one: fertility issues, perhaps, or a sex dungeon. A hoard of the undead penned in the backyard.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I got out of my cage?” I whisper.

His jaw unhinges, dropping an inch before he snaps it shut again. “Tell me, how did you summon the clawbeast?”

That’s what he wants to know? Not how I managed not to starve or freeze to death? “None of your business, Blizzard Balls.”

He bristles, shoulders rolling, jaw clenching. “I’m the king. Everything is my business here.”

“Not me. You’re not my king.”

I glare at him, hoping he can feel every ounce of my hatred. Motherfucker. Land-dwelling King of the Assholes. But these insults never reach his ears. I’m nearing the line, and one more wrong word from my mouth and it’s back to the ice cage for me.

The king folds his arms on the table and leans forward. “Especially you, Sunshine.”

I narrow my eyes. That word, from his lips. It almost sounded like Sunfish .

He smiles, white teeth glinting in the candlelight. Round, white teeth.

I shake my head, clearing my suspicion. I’m exhausted, and a week in freezing water hasn’t done my brain any favors.

His big dark secret is probably just a sex dungeon, nothing more. I’m letting my imagination get away from me.

At that moment, Deirdre returns, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl. She sets it before the king and sweeps her assessing gaze over me. Pleased, she nods.

“Ready for bed, love? I’ll get you settled in the East Wing.”

The king dips his spoon into the porridge. “The queen’s quarters?” he protests.

“Yes, Sire. Unless you’d rather give her your bed, it’s the only room halfway decent these days.”

He glances up. His eyes darken suddenly. Hungry. His tongue darts out, swiping over his lips.

Deirdre’s eyes widen, and she sucks in a breath. “My apologies, Sire. I’ve come all undone. I don’t know why I suggested that.” On cue, her mouth parts and stretches in a yawn. Poor thing.

“Go to bed, Deirdre,” the king says, rising from his chair. “Please. I’ll show her the room myself.”

When he turns his smolder on me, his eyes—for a moment—are soft.