Page 12 of Wicked Prince of Frost

Nearly there…

My lungs squeeze. Painfully. Uselessly trying to pull in air. Black spots dance before my eyes. As hard as I try to keep from slowing, my limbs refuse to obey. I grasp at my chest as if I could take hold of whatever has wrapped itself around my heart and untwist it.

There’s a sharp movement of a large shape along the edges of my vision. I flinch. In the next breath, I barely manage to keep from colliding with the tall figure standing between me and safety.

I open my mouth—to speak or scream—but before I get the chance, two strong hands grab me, slamming my back against something solid.

A strong arm encircles my shoulders at the same time as a sharp edge digs into the skin just below my jaw.

“Did you think you would get away so easily?” The question is more venomous growl than words.

Even if I could answer without slicing my throat open, I wouldn’t be able to draw enough breath to form words.

I am blinded by pain. And if I hadn’t felt it a thousand times before, I would think the man at my back had used that blade to pierce my lungs.

Every muscle in my body weakens as rasps scrape their way up my neck. I can’t feel my legs. My half-numb fingers grasp uselessly onto the arm holding me up.

“It has been a long time since anyone dared to break the Old Laws. Now you will pay. If you even think of struggling, then everyone in this demon-cursed town will die with you. Do you understand?”

I nod.

He releases me, and I fall, knees and palms crashing to thefrigid stone drive. I can’t think as I attempt to breathe through the unrelenting pain.

Maybe this will be the time when thisweaknessclaimsmy life for good, I think bitterly.

The man moves into my line of vision. Perfectly pressed slacks and shoes made of the finest materials. He gracefully lowers to a crouch.

The pressure in my head begins to swallow my consciousness.

No. No, no, no, no.

Long, slender fingers pinch my chin. His touch is icy against my skin as he tilts my face up. Piercing electric eyes glare with cold detachment as he sneers. There is no mistaking the pure, unfiltered hate in the expression of the man from outside the archives. The gentlemanly hat is gone, and he wears the hood of his cloak over his head.

He scoffs and motions behind him. Then he’s hauling me up by the arm and dragging me up the front steps. The door opens for him without resistance or key, then slams shut with a loud bang.

My ears ring. I whirl, panting, and face my captor.

Trapped—I am trapped with a man who hunted me down to murder me in my home. And there is no one close enough to hear if I scream for help.

“What do you want?” I demand. The sound of my voice is clear and strong, as if I hadn’t just suffered one of my episodes.

The lingering pain is gone too.

I take a step back. Whatever that was, it couldn’t have been an episode, despite what it felt like. Either way,heis undeniably responsible. “What did you do to me?”

The man’s lip curls. “What didIdo?” he repeats incredulously, taking three steps closer—a predator seconds preparing to ambush its prey. “You dare accuse me of something so petty? Others would die instantly for a lesser insult than that.”

I stand silent, refusing to waver as I wait for an answer.

His back straightens as he moves to close the remaining distance between us and looks down his nose at me. “I did not come to watch a woman crumble at my feet in hysterics.”

“I wasnothysterical,” I snap.

It’s enough that I have gone most of my life being told how fragile and helpless I am because of my heart. Yet somehow, it hurts having it reduced to nothing more than a display of excessive emotion. Suddenly, it’s all made worse because it means the cure didn’t work. It was my last hope.

“Then enlighten me. What was that display?”

Why should I answer him when he hasn’t answered my questions?