Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

“Why did you stay?” Roark asks. He sounds perfectly calm, but his hands clasp and unclasp in his lap.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

His fidgeting stops. He doesn’t respond, but with a hand motion and muttered phrase, a flame appears in his palm.

“It’s just a wisp,” he warns. “It won’t put off much heat.”

“Thanks,” I say gratefully, moving closer to warm my hands with it. I’m not dressed to hang out in an ice castle, especially with bare feet, and the temperature is dropping.

We sit so close I can make out his individual eyelashes. The long scar over his palm blurs every now and then when the wisp flickers. Roark’s beautiful, and all the want I’d felt at the fountain comes rushing back.

“Stop staring, Smith,” he says. “I’m not that interesting.”

“Wrong. I can’t figure you out.”

He makes a tiny noise.

“You have no problem facing down monsters, but the second I try to do something nice as a thanks for helping me, you bolt. What the fuck is up with that?” I fidget with the hem of my jeans, a little embarrassed now to have assumed he’d find a small farm pretty. “Was it really such a bad gift?”

His face shutters whatever he nearly exposed. “No.”

“If you want a different picture, you just need to tell me. I’ll find something else—”

“I liked the one you picked.”

Something uncurls behind my ribs. Those are the only honest words he’s uttered since he got back. “Really?”

“Yes. And I didn’t know what to do because it...it’s the first real present I’ve ever gotten.”

“You’re a prince,” I say, hoping for clarification because that statement doesn’t quite make sense to me.

“I receive gifts as a result of my title. Gifts designed to show off the giver’s generosity or skill or devotion. Never gifts given because someone thinks I may want them. Or because they want to do something...nice.” He shrugs, his flannelled shoulders rising and falling smoothly. “The thought that you had done that for me was unnerving.”

“In the future, when someone does something nice for you, running is not the socially acceptable response.”

“Noted.”

The wisp twists and dances between us, so light it nearly matches Roark’s eyes. I clear my throat. “To clarify, you weren’t trying to run away from me?”

His lip curls a little, a gentle sneer. “A few nights back I had my tongue down your throat. No, Smith, I’m not trying to run from you. Even if I should be.”

The world doesn’t change. It’s more that everything shifts a little and I scramble to adjust, reworking thoughts in my head because that really wasn’t supposed to be his response.

He gets up, ignoring me again as he paces the edge of the wall. There’s no question that the conversation is over. Normally, his feigned ignorance would drive me insane. This time, I know that no matter how much he pretends otherwise, I’ve gotten under his skin. Roark doesn’t want to want me, but he can’t walk away.

“We don’t need to worry about the creature,” he says over his shoulder to me when I rise to join him. “It froze to the ice a few minutes ago.”

“Nice. So, exit strategies?”

He taps at the ice wall, scowling as he inspects it. “I honestly don’t have any right now.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

I watch while he stalks back and forth. The light catches in his hair, shadows the sharp lines of his cheekbones, and highlights the play of his muscles under his jeans. Too bad the worn flannel he’s wearing over it hides his back from me. I’ve become a connoisseur of his back, replaying all those shirtless moments around our apartment I didn’t know I’d been hoarding in my memory until recently. There’s nothing more I’d rather do than stand here all night and watch him, but it’s officially too cold for me. Time to cut our little interlude short.

I find the nearest wall, one that hopefully doesn’t have a monster attached to it, and place my hand against the ice. Gritting my teeth against the cold, I search for the ley line. It’s farther away than I expected, but comes when I call. This time, I don’t ask for anything specific. I let it flow from my hand like water from a hose, spilling over the ice with raw heat, shivering at the contrast of steam and warmth on half my body and dry cold on the other.

Roark doesn’t notice until I’m nearly done. “What are you doing?” he asks, rushing over to my side. “Are you stupid? You’ve overtaxed yourself already.”