8. The Frost King

8

THE FROST KING

S he sits stiffly at the end of the table.

She does not speak a word. He watches her through the eyes of the beast. Her color has returned—the bath has restored her glow and brought a shine to her hair. The dress molds to her body, the same one he had glimpsed when?—

He swallows down a snarl, refusing to give the memory any purchase in his head.

They have not spoken a word to each other. From the moment she arrived in the dining hall, looking like a vision from his sweetest dreams, tense silence surrounded them. However, the beast does not dream or understand the need for this farce. It is a pointless waste of time.

He should be preparing, not having a tense dinner with someone he never should’ve taken.

“Fool,” a voice snarls from deep inside him. “Let me out before you ruin everything.”

This voice is familiar—it makes his hackles lower.

“You remember me,” it says. “Remember who you are. It is not too late. There is still time.”

The beast feels warm. Warm enough to let the exhaustion of keeping up his icy walls dissipate. He doesn’t have it in him to fight right now. Not when the sweet release of a nap beckons him into the darkness.

Yes, he will rest now and make preparations later.

“Very good old friend,” the voice praises.

He lets the familiar voice wash over him, feeling something knitting back together and becoming whole.

Friend , the voice had called him. It’s odd. The beast cannot remember ever having one of those.