Page 52 of Wicked Prince of Frost

I open my mouth to respond, but he quickly averts his gaze, and I decide to let it go for the time being.

The prince pockets the wrapped shard as he rises to his feet and smooths out his clothes. “We should return to the palace. It would be best if our absence remains unnoticed.” His tone is gruff, but I don’t take it personally.

It’s never easy to have someone you barely know witness a vulnerable moment.

We take a different route on our return trip, stopping in a small town a little over halfway to the palace.

Joon casts a glamour over us as we ride in.

There are only a handful of places to get a meal. The first is a tavern filled with patrons already deep into their drinks.The second is a packed inn with no free tables. He settles on the only other option: a small restaurant. It’s what I would have chosen—not that he bothered asking. There are too many eyes glancing our way. Strangers in a small town stand out to the locals.

As soon as we are seated, Joon orders the house specialty for each of us. I’m just grateful that it doesn’t take long for the food to arrive, because I am famished.

I wriggle in my seat, anticipating the meal as my mouth waters from the aroma of the cooked meat and roasted vegetables. The promise of a full belly and the day’s victory instantly bolsters my mood.

“One success does not guarantee another,” the prince grinds out under his breath as soon as the server is out of earshot.

My hand stops with the fork halfway to my mouth, and I lift my gaze to meet his scowling face. “I know.”

“Pretending it will be easy will not make it so.”

I place my fork beside my plate. “I know that, too,” I say slowly. “I never said?—”

“I cannot tell if you were born naive or if you are intentionally acting as if you were,” he continues.

Narrowing my eyes, I lean forward. “My being positive and trying to make the best of this situation is not naivety,” I hiss, trying to contain my irritation and not draw attention.

The prince leans back in his seat and folds his arms over his chest. “Then what would you call it?”

My throat feels uncomfortably thick and dry. I take a sip of the warm, spiced cider before responding. “What harm is there in seeing good wherever I can when my life is destined to be short? I don’t want to waste what little time I have left being miserable or giving in to the fear of my…inevitable end.”

Joon relaxes, lowering his arms, his expression slipping into one of neutrality. He doesn’t say another word about the topic, and we finish our meal in silence.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

VIOLET

I wanderthrough a crystal garden along the wall that separates the Northern and Central courts. Flowers, bushes, and trees are carved from the clear stone, each piece cut and polished to perfection until every surface glints with the appearance of ice. The early afternoon sun shines through the curves and facets, throwing rainbows over the ground.

The stunning display does little to lift my spirits. It’s been days since I’ve seen the prince. After we returned, he walked me to my quarters, leaving me with a gruff word of thanks, and has been avoiding me ever since.

It’s hard not to be frustrated or hurt over being ignored when he doesn’t have a use for me.

“Is this not helping?” Iseul asks, leaning forward to peer at my face. She frowns. “I thought for sure it would.”

“It is beautiful. It’s just…” I hesitate, searching for wording she will understand that won’t trigger the silencing effect of the bargain. “How can I fulfill my role when he hides? I don’t seem to understand anything about him.”

Iseul taps her bottom lip, humming in thought. “I’m notsure.” She hums thoughtfully. “Why don’t we talk through it… But not on an empty stomach. If we go to the kitchens, the chef will give you one of Joon’s favorite treats if you ask.” Iseul has taken to calling him informally by his name when we are alone. “Perhaps knowing what he likes will be a good place to start.”

I highly doubt the prince’s favorite snack will offer the kind of help I need, but I suspect it’s really an excuse for Iseul to sneak some for herself. “Then, what are we waiting for?”

Iseul takes me by the wrist and practically drags me out of the garden. She releases her grip and composes herself the moment we reach the common areas where we might be seen.

I much prefer when she’s free to be herself around me, rather than adhering to hierarchy protocol.

The kitchens are quiet, with only the head chef and three other cooks prepping for the next meal. Two women are at a stone counter along the wall, rolling dough. A young man stands between the stove’s two firepits, adding various ingredients to different pots. Another counter is laden with jars of pastes, seasonings, quick-growing herbs in pots with several bowls filled with others freshly picked from the garden, and piles of vegetables.

Several waist-high, dark brown clay pots line one of the walls. They are the kind meant for aging the mouth-watering sauces and marinades I’ve tasted in every dish I’ve had here.