15. The Frost King

15

THE FROST KING

H e is caged within his own body.

The beast is loose, its senses much more heightened than his. It’s why he can still smell her—her skin's rich, sweet scent lingers on his fingers. He wants to rip the clothes from his body and inhale every last drop of her from the fabric.

He wants to prowl the desolate halls of the castle until he can find the source. To consume her lovely scent until there is no way to remove it from his system.

Thrashing against his metal restraints, they groan but hold firm.

A necessary precaution, especially with her sleeping only a few floors away—tempting and unaware. He doesn’t have much longer. Each day spent with her is a gift and a knife that stabs into his stomach. The beast demands he remember, but he happily forgets their impending demise.

Instead, he thinks of her—of her lovely face and curious dark eyes. It brings him comfort. The metal bindings will hold. There’s no need to keep fighting tonight. He tucks away the vision of Dove into his heart.

He’ll be ready to banish the beast come morning. For now, he must rest.