Page 75 of Wicked Prince of Frost

“… doing?” a woman growls. “Not…, you’re… her. Idiot!”

“Not… fault. She’s doing…”

A vicious tug yanks my head back, holding it at a painful angle, then up to my feet toward a blurry face shining like the moon in the shadows. A shouted command. A large hand wraps around my throat, sending another wave of magic into me that feels like a thousand bees stinging all over.

Joon’s voice rings out. I’m released, barely catching myself before I collapse to the foul-smelling ground.

They are arguing… but I can’t understand them through this endless, unbearable pain that threatens to consume my mind for good. An inferno burns through my veins, setting my heart on fire.

In the shadows of my waning consciousness, I feel it. Claws, scraping up my body. Inch by inch, numbing my skin. My muscles. Working its way through me to remove all feeling. It is worse than the agony because I know it’s death coming to claim me.

Cold metal presses against my neck, leaving a stinging trail inits wake. The hand keeping me upright releases me without warning. I drop to my knees, catching myself with my hands.

Darkness crowds in on the edges of my vision. I try to see what’s happening, but it only causes my stomach to lurch. It forces me to focus on the pinprick of light reflecting off the small, rancid puddle beside my hand.

My head buzzes, muffling the shouts. Making the thuds and cracking sounds of the fight sound far away.

Joon wraps his arms around me, then the soothing sensation of his power washes over me, cooling the fire that threatens to consume me from the inside out and washing away the foreign power from the other fae man. Feeling returns to my body. I can finally breathe again.

I shudder and push the memory away. Resting over the last several days has helped rid me of the fatigue and remaining aches that even Joon’s power couldn’t heal.

The books from that day are stacked neatly atop the dresser under the window. Three on healing with common plants found in the wild, another two on gardening plants for healing, and two volumes on all known illnesses, their symptoms, and causes, with another on rare maladies.

I brush my fingers over the top book’s buttery soft leather cover. They should be a horrible reminder of what happened, but they aren’t. When I look at them, I see the beauty of the expansive bookstore—how so many books were pieces of art themselves—the reason we went into the city….

And Joon.

He said to call each other husband and wife. A role we play for the public, the same one we play for everyone within the palace. I hadn’t expected him to watch me as a doting husband might.

Then again, it made sense when he paid. I was about to offer to reimburse him when the owner made casual conversation regarding our new marriage bond. It was so painfully awkward that all I could do was pretend not to hear.

Outside, a snowflake drifts past the leaded glass. Then, more and more. Within moments, the sky looks as if it’s sprinkling powdered sugar over everything.

Winter is returning. But seasons do not reverse, which can only mean one thing—the Winter Dragon stirs, slowly waking. I can’t help worrying about Joon. He must be struggling to contain it.

Guilt settles on my shoulders, weighing me down.

He must need to siphon, or this wouldn’t be happening. Why hasn’t he sent for me yet?

Perhaps he doesn’t realize I’ve recovered yet. I should let him know. But it’s late. Iseul left for the night an hour ago. It would be rude to intrude on the little time she has for herself just to ask her to deliver a message for me.

His apartments are not far. It will only take a few minutes, and I’d prefer to do it myself anyway.

Besides, I want to see how he is doing. And should he need to siphon, I will already be there.

Setting my jaw, I cross over to the wardrobe to grab a nicer dress and quickly change.

When I emerge, there is a folded piece of parchment on the floor. The messenger must have slipped it inside when I didn’t respond.

The message is only a single sentence.

Meet me at the Garden of Stars.

I take pride in my handwriting, but Joon’s neat, elegant script puts mine to shame.

At least now I know where to find him. Setting the note on a narrow stand beside the door, I reach for my cloak and wrap it around my shoulders.

My hand hovers inches from the door when a series of light taps against the window behind me demands my attention. I turn in time to see a dark figure, made indistinguishable by the layer of frost coating the glass, hastily duck out of sight.