The Impostor Queen (The Impostor Queen, #1)(61)

I gave Oskar back his smile.

One day, as I’m hanging our laundry up to dry by the fire, he emerges from the back cavern, clean-shaven. Some of the young men, including Harri, his curly hair damp from the stream, are joking with him. “Tell me, Oskar, was it difficult to kill the ferocious little beast that had made its home on your ugly face?”

Oskar runs his palm along his smooth cheek. Harri couldn’t be more wrong—Oskar is far from ugly. He looks a few years younger without that beard, but his jawline is straight and strong. He laughs. “It was a close call,” he says, then draws his hunting knife and waves it in the air. “But it was him or me.” He looks over and sees me watching him, and I bite my lip and duck into the shelter again.

Even though we’re locked in the hard grip of winter, even though it’s so cold in the caverns that my bones ache endlessly, I’ve never been happier. Oskar had hoped I could take away his magic for good, but I’m ashamed to admit that I’m glad it grows inside him during the day and leaves him shivering on his pallet at night, waiting for my touch. That moment I slide my hand into his is the absolute best second of every day.

Each morning I wake a little closer to Oskar’s side, until one morning, I wake up in his arms. I don’t remember it happening, but my head is on his shoulder, and my forehead is pressed to the cool skin of his throat. Strands of my copper hair are sticking to his dark stubble. His fingers are woven into my thick locks. He’s breathing deeply, still sleeping, sweet and quiet. But my heart is racing. Tentatively I slide my arm over his chest, feeling the contours of him, memorizing the feel of it. This is what it’s like to be in the arms of a lover, my mind whispers.

This is a thing I never thought I’d experience, yet something I have imagined more than a few times. I know that Oskar and I are friends—that he appreciates what I do for him and cares for me because I do it—but for a moment I close my eyes and pretend. His other hand is on my waist, and one of my feet is tucked between his calves. I inhale his scent, wood smoke, sweat, and something crisp and fresh that I can only think of as the purest kind of ice. It fills me with the crazy desire to curl my fingers into the fabric of his tunic, to press my lips to his skin and taste him.

I can’t help but think he would taste delicious.

I should move, but I can’t quite summon the will. I want this to go on and on.

I should be cold, molded against the body of a powerful ice wielder, but heat is rushing through my veins. My body tightens, curving into him, edging closer. I’m not sure what I’m seeking, but I crave it like I’ve never craved anything before.

The slow swish of Oskar’s breath falls silent. For the barest instant, his fingers tighten in my hair. And then he turns on his side, rising on his elbow. His hair hangs down, shadowing his features as his face hovers above mine. But I feel his eyes on me. Trembling, I reach up and touch the tiny bow in the center of his upper lip. His breath gusts warm over my fingertips as he begins to lower his head.

“Don’t mind me,” Freya says cheerfully as she pops out of her chamber. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt.” She strides out of the shelter, probably headed for the relief chamber.

Oskar sits up abruptly, tugging his cloak around his body as he peels himself from my side. He rises from the floor, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I, ah . . . I should . . . yes. I should.” He walks out of the shelter, leaving me sitting on the floor, my hair a mess, my heart thumping in my once again hollow chest.

Freya returns a few minutes later and sits next to me by the smoldering fire. “You didn’t think you were fooling me, sneaking out every night?”

I pull one of the fur blankets over my lap, twining my fingers in the soft pelt. “I guess I did.”

Freya’s dark-brown hair is loose and wavy, and she has her skinny legs pulled to her chest under her thick woolen nightgown. “You’re not very stealthy.”

“Are you angry?” I swallow hard and look over my shoulder at the curtain of pelts that covers Maarika’s chamber.

“She knows, Elli.” Freya tosses a stray bit of wood onto the fire. “But Oskar’s been happier in the last few weeks than he’s been in a long time. It’s hard to be angry about that.” She snorts. “I can think of a few people who might be, though.”

“Oskar and I aren’t . . .” I have no idea what we aren’t. Or what we are. But I have the niggling fear that what happened between us just now might have complicated everything. And despite that, I want to relive it over and over. To understand. To savor.

Freya pokes my arm. “Oh, sure you aren’t. I might be ten, but I’m not stupid.”

I laugh. “Well, lucky for you. I’m sixteen, and right now I feel really stupid.” I get to my feet and grab one of the empty pails. “I’m going to fetch some water.”

Oskar’s little sister gives me a saucy, raised-eyebrow look. “Make sure Aira’s nowhere nearby when you do. She just might push you in.”





CHAPTER 16


Something tugs on my toe, and I jerk my foot away. Then it catches my ankle and pulls, and I emerge from sleep all at once. Oskar’s shape fills the gap in the curtain. “Elli,” he whispers.

“I’m coming.” And full of relief—Oskar never came back to the shelter last night, and I was afraid he didn’t want to sleep next to me anymore.