Fireblood (Frostblood Saga #2)(24)



Her violet eyes stayed steady on mine as she contemplated the question. My stomach tied itself in knots as I waited. Her opinion, I realized, had become important to me.

Finally, she looked away, stuffing a ball gown into my travel chest. I doubted I’d have any use for such clothing, but since I wasn’t bringing the chest, I didn’t bother to say anything. She seemed to enjoy packing, and I was touched that she wanted to help.

“Whether it’s wise is irrelevant,” she said, carefully folding a chemise I also wouldn’t be bringing. She looked serious, almost melancholy. Very unlike her. Before I could ask what was wrong, she shrugged and grabbed another gown. “Sometimes there is no choice. We all have our role to play and this is yours. You must go.”

I wished I could feel as certain as she sounded.

I tried two or three times a day to see Arcus, but the guards turned me away every time. Finally, on the third day, I threatened to burn the door down, speaking loudly enough for half the castle to hear.

Arcus’s voice came through the thick oak. “Let her in.”

I entered his room, all my bluster leaving as soon as I set foot on the plush carpet. The guard shut the door behind me.

Arcus sat propped up on his pillows and his face held more color, but the look in his eyes was blank. Empty. Focused on something behind me, as if I was a stranger who happened to walk between him and the person he was talking to. Apparently he’d spent the last three days reinforcing those walls.

I stood awkwardly for a moment. “How is your wound?”

“They say it’s healing well.”

I nodded. Everything about his voice, posture, and expression told me that I wasn’t welcome. That he couldn’t bear to look at me.

I forced the words out, one by one. “I came to say good-bye.”

His eyes slid closed. If it weren’t for the humming tension in every line of his body, I’d think he’d just fallen asleep.

“This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do,” I whispered, trembling.

He shrugged his good shoulder, an elongated motion that spoke of indifference.

Heat flared, instant and sharp, and it was a relief. I preferred anger to that killing uncertainty. “So you’re not even speaking to me?”

His eyes met mine with an intense look that was both confused and angry. “I just don’t understand why you’re doing this. Why trust that stranger? You say you’re doing this for the kingdom and for me, but admit it, Ruby—you’re really doing this for you. You want to go to Sudesia, and you want to do it on your terms. This whole thing is damn selfish.” The words were equivalent to a shove in the chest.

“You’re being unreasonable,” I argued. “You, who prides himself on reason.”

“Except I’ve never been reasonable when it comes to you.”

The bald statement brought me up short. If he’d said that to me a few days ago, I would have been delighted, buoyed at the thought that he felt too much for me to be logical. But now the words sliced my rib cage like a scythe. This might be the last time he admitted to feeling anything for me more than anger. Or worse, indifference.

In our shared history, I’d never truly let Arcus see how much I needed him. And he, in perfect pantomime, did the same. No one wanted to be the first to admit we felt more than we could handle.

And now, I was walking away.

A stabbing pain radiated from my heart, which seemed confused about whether to pour out heat or to stop beating altogether.

Was he right? Was I just looking for excuses to go to Sudesia?

No. I might be impulsive, but Brother Thistle wasn’t. He had no agenda other than helping Arcus, helping Tempesia. He also cared about me and wouldn’t risk my safety if he didn’t think it absolutely necessary. We needed to take this chance.

And I had to try to pull Arcus back to me before I left.

I moved so close that my legs pressed against the side of the mattress. My hand came to rest on his arm, its muscles rigid with tension. The temperature dropped, giving him away. He wasn’t as calm as he wanted me to believe. There were cracks in his defenses.

As I bent toward him, he turned his head away and my lips landed on his cheek. The world narrowed to the small patch of his skin where two opposing temperatures struggled for dominance: the insistent heat of my lips, the defiant cold of his cheek. Neither yielding. Neither moving. The breath in my lungs cooled.

The realization hit me like shards of broken glass: He was not going to acknowledge my caress. He was going to pretend I wasn’t even here, denouncing me completely with his perfect stillness. It felt as if I were being slowly ripped in half. He was forcing me into a choice I’d had no intention of making: To save the kingdom, I would lose him.

My heart skipped a beat when he finally moved. His hand came out to cover mine, his skin colder than my northern village in the dead of winter. Relief flooded me at his touch, until I realized he was only peeling my fingers from his arm, one by one.

“Good-bye, Ruby.” His voice was as empty as the abandoned arena, echoing with the ghosts of past pain.

The shock somehow released me from my paralysis. I straightened.

“Good-bye,” I echoed, my blood heating with anger. His skin was marble, his eyes so pale they were light gray, almost colorless. I know you care about me! I wanted to shout. Don’t push me away!

I needed to move. I focused on the muscles in my legs, telling them to turn me in the direction of the door. Ordering my feet to take me away. Now, quick, before you scream and rage and make a fool of yourself.

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