Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(38)
He stood so abruptly his chair tipped over and clattered to the floor behind him.
“You think I want you to die?” His chest rose and fell with agitated breaths. “That I’d happily send you to your death?”
My skin tingled. I had never seen him display such emotion. As always, his anger soon kindled mine. I shoved my chair back and planted my palms on the table.
“Yes! That is what I think. You’ve called me weak, threatened me, belittled me, and made me so furious I lost control and nearly hurt you. You’ll probably celebrate a new festival around the day of my death.” I threw my hands in the air, heat suffusing my face. “The Fireblood’s Death Day. Good riddance to Ruby!”
He stepped toward me, his breath an audible hiss. “You are so—”
I stuck out my chin and stepped around the table, moving closer. “Reckless? Hot-tempered? Dangerous? I’ve heard all that before. Come up with something new.”
“All those things,” he said, his volume rising. “And blind. Some of us have to think of others. You only care about yourself.”
A red haze settled in front of my eyes. The statement was so unfair. No part of my life had ever been my choice. As a child, I hadn’t been allowed to get angry, in case I lost control of my heat. The only selfish thing I’d ever done was practice my gift, and I had been swiftly and mercilessly punished in the most agonizing and irreversible of ways. I’d drawn the soldiers who took the only living person I’d loved. I’d lost my mother and months of my life to the king. Now I was training morning to night for a task two Frostbloods had devised, a task that would benefit the kingdom but might cost me my life. Nothing I’d done was purely for my own benefit.
And Arcus and Brother Thistle didn’t even trust me enough to fully share their plan.
“If that were true,” I said, my voice thick with anger, “I would take a horse and leave. I would ride to the ocean and find my way onto a ship and never look at this cursed land again. Maybe I will!”
I whirled toward the door. His hand grabbed my shoulder.
“You won’t. And you know why? You want to kill the king more than anyone. That’s why you came back.”
I turned and glared up at him, my hand itching to knock his hood off so I could pin his eyes with mine.
He was perfectly still, a statue carved of ice. I opened my mouth and closed it.
“You want to say something,” he said. “Say it.”
“Were you there the night my mother died?” I demanded, my voice thick with tension. “Were you one of the soldiers?”
Suspicion had wriggled up again into the shadows of my mind, only asserting itself when I was incensed enough to blurt it out.
His hand clutched my shoulder. His face was just inches away. “Is that what you want to hear? So you can hate me completely?”
He dropped his hand and stepped back, opening his cloak to show the thin tunic underneath.
“Kill me now if you’re so keen,” he said, his voice soft and deep. “Unless you want me to suffer. Maybe you’d like to have some sport with my face. Or would that be treading old ground?”
I was breathing heavily, my heart pulsing with simmering heat.
“Were you there?” I asked quietly.
He paused, his jaw rigid with tension. Finally, he replied, “No, but you’ll believe what you wish. Why did you even come here?”
Some of the fight went out of me. I shook my head. “To say sorry and… because I want to know who you are.”
Arcus let out a long breath. “This is the truth, Ruby: It doesn’t matter who I am unless you win. If I die tomorrow, the world will be no different than it is now.” He stepped closer. “Everything depends on you. If you fail, there is little hope for this kingdom. You matter.” His hand lifted to hover inches from my cheek, seeming to freeze in midair, as if he couldn’t bring himself to touch me.
“The world would be no different,” I repeated, coating each word with scorn. “You say you don’t want pity, and now I know why. You have plenty for yourself already.”
His hand dropped. He stepped back.
I stepped forward, my hands in fists, suddenly furious that he was so easy to push away. “I would care if you died, you stupid goat’s behind. I would miss you. Like I missed you when you left for days and I didn’t know when, or if, you were coming back.”
My voice broke, the veneer of anger cracking and letting my pain and longing through. I couldn’t seem to help myself. I sensed on some level that he was as lonely as I was, and maybe he didn’t have to be. Maybe I didn’t have to be.
I stood close enough that the heat of my body met the cold of his. He smelled of soap and pine and woodsmoke and something enticing that was just him.
On impulse, I lifted my hand to the edge of his hood. As I slowly pulled it back, his hand came up and grasped my wrist. I stilled.
His lips were slightly parted, his breath cool against my forehead. Sometime in the past weeks, I had taken to wondering what it would be like to press my lips against his. I wondered whether it would hurt, whether it would sizzle, or whether our lips would just meld together like hot and cold air that make a mild summer breeze.
I lifted my forefinger and lightly touched his lips. He sucked in a breath but didn’t move away. His lips were cold but not uncomfortably so. I ran the tip of my finger along the smooth corner, over the ridged scar of the upper lip, and over the smooth lower one.