His eyes brightened. His finger dragged my lower lip down, his gaze following as he brought it over my chin and then to his mouth.
He could have just kissed me. He could kiss me whenever he liked, and he knew it.
But he ran that finger over his lips as if tasting something so delicious it was forbidden, then turned back to Bennington.
I watched, my heart thundering with anticipation, as Florian readied the horse who had to duck his head to fit through the large entrance to the stables. Then I followed them out into the cold.
He mounted first, swift and with an elegance that shocked for a male of his size and a beast so large. The sun peeking through the gloom overhead blinded when I gazed up at him from the ground. His hair curtained his cheeks in dark waves, the breeze rustling it against his shoulders and lips.
Lips that curled when I failed to acknowledge the hand he’d offered.
I dropped my head momentarily—eternally feeling the fascinated fool around this king—then placed my hand within his cool grasp.
He tugged, pulling me forward a step. A shocked squeak left me as he reached beneath my arms to haul me up onto the horse to sit before him.
The saddle was bigger than average, of course, but not built for two. I failed to care about the rubbing of the leather pommel snug against my core while pressed so tightly to Florian’s chest.
His rough exhale stirred my hair. His arm a tight band of muscle around my waist.
He adjusted my plum skirts, instructing, “Lift your legs for me.” Taking his time, he gently tucked the wind-catching gauze and silk under my thighs.
Every stroke of his fingers singed. Every breath in my ear became more ragged. Until he cursed and snatched the reins, hard at my lower back as he commanded Bennington to leave the drive of the stables.
I gripped the saddle, my chest filled with a riot of fluttering butterflies as we passed by the paddocks.
The stable hand cupped a hand over his forehead, watching us. He bowed before we left his line of sight and disappeared behind a dilapidated greenhouse. Rows upon rows of dead fruit trees surrounded it.
“Lemon trees,” I said, studying the bare branches. “Oranges, too.”
“It’s been a long while since they’ve produced any fruit,” Florian said to my ear. “They need to be ripped from the ground.” His tone hinted at a reluctance to do so, and I sensed something stopped him from getting rid of the greenhouse, too.
“Autumn will come,” I said, as that was likely why he waited. Hellebore was the coldest kingdom in Folkyn and all of Mythayla, but its deathly winter would make way for enough respite to give birth to more life.
Florian didn’t respond, and I soon forgot about the seasons as we approached the lake I’d seen from a distance earlier. The surface resembled a grimy mirror, shadows swaying from the snow-dusted trees we trotted within.
“Can we walk upon it?”
“Yes, but not with Bennington,” he said. “It’s thick, but not so thick that it will tolerate all of our weight combined.”
As we moved on, I looked back to the lake with longing—with a wonder for what lurked in the water beneath its frozen ceiling. “Have you ever seen a pixiefish?”
“Many,” he grunted, his fingers rubbing ever so slightly over my stomach.
“They were my favorite creature of Folkyn to read about when I was young,” I said. “Are they truly unable to leave the water?”
“Worried their tiny teeth and claws will find you?” Florian teased dryly.
I didn’t care if he wasn’t interested. I still said, “No, I just cannot imagine only ever staying in one place. Never seeing anything else.”
He sensed why that troubled me, but he took a minute to respond. “In Oleander, you’ll often see them baking upon the rocks by the rivers and sea. So yes,” he said, as though I’d forced him to, “they can leave their homes, but not for long.”
Not for long.
Those words hung like icicles within my chest as we wended deeper into the woods.
Bennington seemed all too happy to explore despite the cold. His breaths steamed the air, but he trotted through the brush with what could only be described as merriment. I leaned forward and patted his neck.
“You shouldn’t distract him.”
“He’s not distracted,” I said. “He’s happy.”
Florian’s hold tightened, almost as if he wanted to squeeze me for talking back to him.
I wouldn’t have minded, and I was past the point of caring what my acceptance of his frosty treatment said about me. Attraction, I reminded myself. I was discovering what I liked, and there was nothing wrong with that. I wasn’t worried that I liked to be told what to do.
The only thing that alarmed me was that I liked a lot of him.
Bennington leaped over a log, and I let loose a breathless and near-silent scream. Florian’s chuckle warmed my skin. The sound one of rough and rare beauty.
As if knowing it pleased me, he sobered and cleared his throat. “You wear the same coat.”
“I like it,” was all I could think to say. Rolina had never given me anything that wasn’t once her own, or unclaimed clothing she’d brought home from work.
“And do you like the rest?” he asked some moments later. “The clothing.”
My eyes caught on the crimson ivy of the manor through the trees ahead. We’d almost circled back. “I do,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Ask.”
I refrained from sending him a scowl over my shoulder. “How do you know I wish to ask anything?”
“You tense, and your tongue pokes at your teeth.”
I frowned as we left the trees and crossed the dirt road to the pebbled drive. “You can’t see that.”
“I can see the change in your jaw when you do it.”
Distant voices and wheels trundling over rock and dirt invaded our bubble.
“Perceptive,” I said, admittedly kind of impressed. Also far too pleased that he’d studied me so thoroughly.
My smile waned at what I glimpsed behind us.
Wagons were being hauled uphill toward the manor. Many wagons and many warriors on horseback. I stared over my shoulder as we continued ahead of them all, attempting to see what they were doing.
Florian placed his lips on my cheek and whispered roughly, “Ask, butterfly.”
So focused on whatever the king was having delivered—and in such large quantity—it took a moment to recall what we’d been discussing.
Another kiss to my cheek and I remembered, although his scent and the hand pressing against my stomach made it difficult to form the question. I hoped my insecurity came across as mere curiosity. “Who did all the fine clothing belong to?”
“You,” he responded simply, and rather than continue toward the stables, the king urged Bennington into a canter that stole my breath and every thought from my head.
The breeze whipped and burned my cheeks. My heart seemed to soar through the crisp air in our wake. Florian slowed the horse as we again entered the woods beyond the stables, allowing him to cool down before he brought us to a complete stop deep within the icy foliage.
I turned to look at him, about to ask what he intended by stopping here.
His mouth immediately stole mine, and he swallowed my shocked gasp with a quiet groan.