Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(45)

“No.” I moved to block the doorway. “What were you writing so furtively when you should have been at morning prayers?”

My hand darted out and snatched the letter poking from the collar of his robe.

“You dare to put your filthy hands on me!” he railed, coming at me with a raised fist. I dropped the letter and sent a blast of heat at his arm, but momentum carried his hand forward. His fist slammed into the side of my face with a blow that knocked me soundly out of the room to sprawl on the floor of the corridor.

“You burned me,” he said in shock, holding his singed wrist. His face turned red. He brought his foot back. I curled into a tight ball just before the sharp toe of his sandal met my back.

When he pulled his foot back to kick me again, I grabbed the other foot, yanking him to the floor. I used my elbows and knees the way Arcus had taught me when he gave me a lesson in close combat, then finally managed to shove him across the floor.

“Do not make me use the full force of my heat on you,” I said, cupping my hands together and letting fire build between my palms.

His eyes rounded as he stared at my hands. With jerky movements, he pushed himself up and stumbled away. His sandals slapped the stone floor as he disappeared around the corner.

A few minutes later, I was on my pallet in the infirmary when Arcus came in. His eyes gleamed like bleached sapphires. He looked furious.

“How badly are you injured?” he asked.

“Not badly at all. How did you hear?”

“Sister Agnes saw the commotion and came to me for help.”

He fell to his knees beside me and examined my swelling cheek, his nostrils flaring with veiled rage. I shivered with a pleasant chill at his nearness. He took the cloth I had used to wash, dipped it in the basin, and blew on it to make it cold. He held it against the swollen skin of my cheek, and I sighed with relief.

“Brother Lack had some sort of letter,” I told him. “He didn’t take kindly to my attempt to read it. I wonder if he means to complain to the order about my presence here.”

“Brother Thistle is checking on his whereabouts right now,” Arcus answered.

He put the cloth back in the water and wrung it out. I grabbed his wrist to guide the cloth to my cheek, and he sucked in a breath. I let go instantly.

“Sorry,” I muttered, clasping my hands in my lap. “I burn you without even meaning to.”

He raised the cloth and put it gently to my cheek. “It… does burn in a way. But I don’t believe I would ever get a wound from touching you.” He took a deep breath. “The heat seems to seep under my skin when I would prefer to remain cold. It’s… easier that way after what has happened.”

I wanted to ask so many questions but wasn’t sure which he would answer. “And my touch threatens that somehow?”

“In a way. I brought you here to prepare you for a huge task,” he said, dipping the cloth in the water and touching it to my cheek again. “An enormous weight rests on your shoulders.”

I sighed, irritated at the reminder of what made me truly important. I wanted to mean more to Arcus than a way to melt the throne.

“And now I wonder if I can let you go,” he added quietly.

I searched his face, shadowed by his hood, for signs that I’d misheard. The space between us seemed to crackle with energy, his words repeating themselves in my mind.

“It doesn’t matter, does it? There is no other way.”

“Someone else could kill him,” he said, his voice tight. “I could.”

“And the throne would take the next king, and the next. We’d never be free.”

“That is truer than you know,” he whispered, his fingers finding and clutching mine.

His hand was cold, but it made my skin tingle and my heart beat strong and fast. I didn’t want to do anything to make him move away.

“What is the truth, Arcus?” I asked quietly. “You’re full of secrets, and I would like to know one or two.”

He paused for a minute, then opened his mouth to speak.

“Only I wish to see your eyes while you tell me,” I added quickly. “You showed me your face before.”

“To scare you,” he said, drawing away from me. “To punish you for what you’d done. I don’t want you to be scared of me now.”

I looked up at him, taking in his stiff posture and tight jaw. “I’m not scared of your scars.”

He took a shuddering breath and I held mine, waiting, wondering what he would do. Slowly, his hands went to the edges of his hood and pushed it back just far enough that I could see his deep blue eyes and ravaged cheek. My heart kicked into a gallop, its echo throbbing in my temples. He was trusting me. Choosing to let me see.

“Is that enough?” he asked, his voice endearingly uncertain.

I nodded and he exhaled a deep, relieved breath.

“No part of you is frightening or unappealing to me.” I paused to let that sink in. “But I understand that’s as far as you are comfortable.”

His hand gripped the quilt on my bed, the other hand squeezing the cloth that now dripped, forgotten, in his other hand. “You don’t know the effect your words have on me, Lady Firebrand. It took years to build up this ice. You will melt it and then I will be broken.”

He stood abruptly and paced the room.