He hesitates.
I wonder if he’s thinking that a dead girl doesn't need much.
I'm about to argue my case more, but dizziness washes over me, and my head swims as the adrenaline in my system wears off and my injuries once again begin to take their toll. Outside my protective circle, my strength drains quickly, and my vision begins to blur.
“Please,” I say again. It's the only fight I have left in me, that one simple word.
The creature says something, but I can’t hear him over the roaring in my ears.
Still, my one-word plea seems to have the desired effect. He doubles back and plucks my pack from the snow, then hurries up the path toward the castle that looms on the mountain above us.
I try to fight the urge to give in to my exhaustion. For all I know, he’s carrying me home to drain my blood in the comfort of his own dining room. But pain and thirst overwhelm me, and my body doesn't have much left to give.
Reaching into my cloak, I feel for the vial of blood I’ve tucked away in a secret pocket.
It’s still there and the relief whooshes out of me in an exhale that sucks me under until I’m lost to darkness.
Warmth envelops me and I stir, waking suddenly when I realize I’m no longer lying bleeding in a snowbank. Instead, I’m in a room I’ve never seen before, lying in a four-poster bed covered with furs. Around me, candlelight flickers, illuminating golden sconces mounted to walls trimmed in decorative moldings and expensive artwork. In the large fireplace, a blaze crackles, warming the room and casting everything in red-golden light.
I lift a hand to my throat and find it already bandaged. A similar bandage wraps each of my injured arms. Peeling away the furs covering me, I see that my cloak and dress are gone, and I’m left only in my slip. Half-panicked, I pray to the goddess that the creature who brought me here didn’t search my cloak, or worse, toss it out like garbage.
I look up sharply, scanning the room for where it might have gone.
In a chair by the window, the man who saved me sits, reading a leather-bound book inscribed with gold lettering.
When he looks up, our gazes lock, and I find myself mesmerized and unable to look away.
He closes the book slowly, marking his page with a silver chain before setting it aside. I watch as he rises and moves to a serving table at the foot of the bed. He pours tea and closes the distance between us, holding the delicate porcelain cup out for me.
“Welcome back,” he says, sliding his free hand under my back to help me sit up.
Dizziness threatens to overwhelm me, but I take a deep breath and it passes quickly enough. The scent of cinnamon and honey entices my taste buds, and I take the tea in confusion and relief.
“Where am I?” I ask, sniffing the concoction to see if I can sense any poisons. When my regular senses and my witch sense fail to find anything suspicious, I take a cautious sip.
The drink warms my throat, and I breathe more deeply as I think back to how I ended up here.
“You’re in my home atop Ice Mountain.”
I look up at him, noting his strong jawline and stiff posture.
“You saved me.” He doesn’t answer. “Why?” I can’t help but ask.
“You were hurt,” he says.
“I was bleeding. Isn’t that what you intend to do—bleed me?”
He flinches, a gesture so small I almost miss it. Then his expression hardens.
“I do not wish to share my meal with a pack of beasts.”
His voice is cold and clipped. I shiver with the threat his words contain. And I remember the wolves and the ease with which he disposed of them.
“The curse is real,” I say, awed by what he’s capable of, even if it makes him a predator and me the prey. “You’re impossibly strong and fast. And the likeness of your face I’ve seen from generations past . . . you’re immortal.”
“And you’re the sacrifice they sent to feed me.”
This time, it is I who flinch. My injuries ache with the motion.
"You're going to heal me up so I'm good and healthy come dinner time then?" This isn't going according to plan, and I feel off kilter, unsure how to proceed when I'm at such a clear disadvantage.
"Something like that," he says gruffly, turning his gaze from mine abruptly.
An awkward silence hangs between us as I finish my cup of tea and set it on the side table next to the bed.
When he notices that I'm done, he brings me a bowl of something and hands it to me. "Eat. You need your strength."
I roll my eyes at him. "Right, because you like your victims plump, I suppose."
"Just eat," he says in exasperation, and honestly, I would laugh at the absurdity if this whole thing wasn't so terrifying.
Every part of me wants to refuse him out of defiance, but there is little wisdom in that course of action. He's not wrong. I need my strength, and I need food to get it.
He has provided some kind of porridge with cream and honey.
Reluctantly, I give in, and my stomach rumbles as I feed it for the first time in a while.
Still, the food isn't magic, and I'm going to be weak as a kitten for some time. I take small bites, swallowing carefully, but I still flinch from the pain despite that. My right arm also aches badly as I lift the spoon to my mouth.
"Do you really plan to keep me alive until I heal?" I ask.
He grunts, turning his head to face the fire. "It would appear so."
My mind races as I try to come up with a new plan. I can no longer rely on stealth, or strength, which means I must outsmart him if I want to succeed.
I look around the room, desperate to know if my pack made it here with me.
My eyes land on my cloak tossed over a velvet high-backed chair near his reading nook. Beside it on the floor, I spot my unopened pack. His gaze follows mine, and I hurry to cover my relief.
Noticing his book, I quickly turn the topic so he doesn't give thought to the importance of my personal items. “What are you reading?”
He raises an eyebrow, appearing mildly surprised. "Nothing you would have heard of," he says with so much haughtiness I want to smack him.
“Try me,” I say.
"Of Defiance and Reign," he says. "It is a poignant tale about a prince exiled from his land and becoming a beggar, only to—"
"Only to rise up in a new land and become king, saving the people from a tyrant," I say, interrupting him. "Yeah, I've read it. Compelling enough, but I found the prose bloated and the self-aggrandizing prince a bit of an ass."
"Of course you would," he says with a sneer. "You are a peasant and unused to the ways of the elite."
I nearly choke on the spoonful of porridge I just ate, which causes painful spasms in my throat. "You know nothing about my life," I point out, coughing as gently as I can to avoid more pain.
I could tell him about our agreements with other kingdoms, who sent their scholars and knights to stay with us and train me, just to prepare me for this quest. A quest I've practically failed at before even getting here, but that's not the point. The point is I'm not some ignorant, illiterate street rat. I'm polished to a shine and more well-read than he can imagine. I also have a hard time keeping my mouth shut, something Grandmother has drilled into me my whole life.