17. The Frost King

17

THE FROST KING

T he beast and him agree for the first time in centuries: save Dove.

He melted away and let the beast rise to the surface, ready to fight. The need to spill blood pours through his veins. All the beast knows is kill, kill, kill . To save her, he must succumb to this loathsome part of himself. He must give in to the primal urge to claw, bite, and rip apart.

It is the part of him she is repulsed by—she may hate him after seeing what he is capable of. It matters little as long as she is alive.

Keep her safe, keep her safe, keep her safe.

His hands meet fur and warm muscles. Blood spills up his arms and across his body, but he doesn’t feel it. The sting of claws and bites barely registers to the beast.

Over and over, he fights it. Two monsters clashing in a deathmatch over the most precious prize. He will not lose when she is on the line.

The bear gives one final howl as he punches deep into its throat. With a tug, the meaty sound of flesh hitting the snow reaches his ears: the white bear crumbles, its fur stained crimson.

A familiar voice begs to be let out—for him to remember who he is—but the beast is in complete control.

He pushes it far into the darkness, where its pleading can no longer reach him.