“You know pride is not my sin.”
It was not the first time I’d wondered if that was the full truth, but I let it go.
“I want my own blade. Perhaps if I’m armed and can disembowel someone myself, you won’t act so overbearing in front of your subjects again. Because if you do”—I allowed just enough sweetness into my tone, making his eyes narrow with suspicion—“next time I will stick my dinner knife in you. Consider that a vow from your future queen.”
Wrath crossed his arms and stared me down. His eyes flickered with some emotion I couldn’t quite place; he was no doubt calculating a hundred reasons why arming me was a bad idea. Especially after my last declaration. I waited for the argument he seemed eager to give.
“I’ll see to it you have a blade of your own. And lessons.”
“I don’t require—”
“That is my offer. It will do no good to arm you only to have you injure yourself in a fight because you can’t wield it properly. Do we have a bargain?”
“Only one reasonable demand… and you’re agreeing with me? That easily?”
“It appears I am.”
I looked him over. “You already considered arming me.”
“I am the general of war; of course I considered it. We’ll discuss other training options in the morning. If we’re going to practice physical lessons, we’ll add blocking magical influence, too. Do you accept the terms of our bargain?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Go back to your rooms. I’m tired.”
I let his poor attitude go without comment. He was still tense, his own anger not quite leashed. I considered leaving him to his own foul company, but instead I gave him a teasing half-smile. “I imagine so. Maiming is exhausting business.”
He almost returned my grin, but it never quite reached his lips. “Good night, Emilia.”
“Good night, my jealous, mighty tongue-slayer.”
“You say such horrible things.”
But the gleam of intrigue indicated he didn’t mind. Quite the contrary. I waited for him to turn and walk away, but he seemed rooted in place. Indecision scrawled across his features.
Belatedly, I realized I hadn’t taken myself from the room, either.
I held still as he angled my face up, his long fingers stroking the side of my neck in the lightest caress. I should have been thinking of the dagger he’d just held, of the blood that had stained his hands moments ago. Of the ruthless way he’d acted. These hands could remove a tongue without much effort, but they were also capable of tenderness. Of protection.
And, undoubtedly, pleasure.
I wet my lips, recalling our earlier kiss. “I only spoke the truth.”
Wrath stared into my eyes before tearing his gaze away with obvious effort. He did not deny being jealous. Nor did he appear surprised by the emotion. I wondered if he’d already identified it and was unsure what to do with the knowledge. Not that much could be done if either of us entertained the thought. I was promised to his brother. And his duty to that mission would always come first. What happened earlier between us would not happen again.
His hand fell away, my skin instantly missing his heat, while my mind reeled with confusion over my conflicted feelings.
“I’ll see that you have your blade and first lesson tomorrow. Good night.”
This time, there was no hesitation on his part. He disappeared through a doorway covered with sheer panels, and, feeling dismissed, I finally turned and headed out the way I’d come. I paused just inside the entrance to the antechamber, my feet unwilling to carry me from the room. I knew I should leave; I’d gotten what I’d come for, but something held me back.
I drifted into the bedroom, closer to those billowing panels, and peered through them.
Wrath had escaped onto a balcony. He stood with his back to me, staring out toward the snow-covered hills and mountains jutting up in the distance, a bottle of wine perched beside him on the railing. The temperature never seemed to affect him. It certainly hadn’t prevented him from sleeping outdoors during the storm. Perhaps it was another perk of immortality.
Or maybe I’d gotten it slightly wrong earlier, maybe he wasn’t always cold fury. Maybe he possessed fire, too. And his ability to withstand the cold was simply the heat of his constant wrath, simmering, blazing, warming him more than the icy elements could hope to infiltrate.
My attention drifted to his drink again. Frost crept up the side of the glass, creating little spiderwebs of ice. The liquid inside the bottle was unlike anything I’d ever seen at home; similar to merlot or chianti, but not a deep red. It was a purple so dark it almost appeared black, but that wasn’t the most unusual or beautiful part. Silver specks floated like glittery bubbles all throughout it. Wrath topped off his glass and swirled it, setting the silver glinting into a frenzy.