Page 14 of Wicked Prince of Frost

“Do you think me foolish?” His voice is soft and low, as if he is promising something dark and forbidden. Yet, it cannot hide that it is a dangerous question.

My heart sinks like lead.

“What could a mere human even possibly have to offer?”

That…wasn’tan outright refusal.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I will help you with one thing you need—no matter what it is.”

“What makes you thinkIneed help? Do you have any idea of who I am?”

“Everyone needs help at some point in their life… no matter who they are.” The argument sounds weak, even to my ears.

“And if I did, how is someone likeyouqualified to helpme?”

Despair claws up my throat. “Accept my offer and see for yourself.”

He inhales sharply. His piercing blue gaze searches my face for a long moment.

It was a reckless offer, but…is it possiblethat he needs something desperately enough to consider my offer?

When he seems to come to a conclusion, he braces a forearm against the wall, trapping me in the cage of his body.

He leans in, brings his mouth close to my ear on the opposite side, and says, “Do you have any idea what you have done?” His warm breath caresses my cheek, but it is the question that sends an icy chill down to the marrow of my bones.

My mouth goes dry. “What I’ve… done?”

“Have you not wondered why I am here—how I found you so easily?” He leans in, bringing a hand up to trail a finger along my jaw to grip my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You trespassed onto fae lands.”

He smells of a warm spring day. Of sun and trees and wind. The graceful features of his handsome face turn hard.

“Trespassed…” I murmur.

His proximity is making it hard to think. His touch is cold, and I can feel it radiate from his body along every inch of mine.Is he using glamour or compulsion on me?

“I…”

“You left your glove at the scene of the crime. From there, it was child’s play hunting you down.”

“My glove?” I frown. I thought my glove fell out of my pocket at the archives, but it seems it was nothing more than a ruse. A way to ensure he had the one he wanted. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“Didn’t mean to?” he mocks. “You did not mean towhat?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, trying to clear my mind. “No, I?—”

My eyes snap open at the loud thud of his fist against the wall.

“Do not think of trying to deny it,” he grinds out. “You took what was not yours.”

“Took?”

He pauses to breathe as if reining in his temper. When he speaks again, each word is slow and measured. “Will you stop repeating me as though you are some half-wit?”

I lower my chin and press my back against the wall, wishing it would swallow me. I do not think anyone has ever spoken to me with such venom or contempt in my life. Yet even I can admit that it’s not entirely unearned. He has not accused me of anything I’m not guilty of.

As much as I want to deny everything until he believes me, I cannot bear to lower myself to such dishonesty.

Is there anything I could say to make things right without forfeiting my life?