Page 2 of Kiss of Frost

My brain tripped over itself trying to untangle the giant’s words. He waited, his expression kind, as he sipped from his mug. The scent of coffee hit my nose as I took in his golden-blond hair gathered in a ponytail at his nape. More golden scruff covered his jaw, which was as rugged as the rocks that surrounded Beithir Island. Several beaded bracelets decorated his thick wrist. As I gaped at him, something primitive and impossibly ancient moved through his eyes.

His beast. This could only be King Cormac, owner of the vase I’d just smashed. Also? The most ancient being on the planet wore jeans and stacks of bracelets. The heady scent of roasted coffee beans hit me again, and I weighed how weird it would be if I asked the king of all dragons for an Americano with an extra shot of espresso.

“You’re the witch from House Blackwood,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact as he studied me. The side of his mug said “I Kilt It on the Dance Floor” in big, blocky text. He followed my gaze, turning the mug to peer at the words before flashing me a smile. “Isolde’s idea of a joke. Give me a claymore, and we’ll have no problem. But ask me to tolerate the music they’re playin’ in the pubs these days?” He shuddered, a look of mild horror passing over his handsome face. “If you can even call it music. It’s more like noise, innit?”

I cleared my throat. “I…”

“The elders of your house said you wanted to pay your respects to Niall.” Cormac’s eyes twinkled as he leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Fair warning, lass, my mate is a prickly sort. But he’s softer than he lets on. You might have to poke him a bit to get past the brambles.”

Before I could respond, the Great Hall’s doors opened, both panels swinging back seemingly of their own accord.

King Cormac brightened. “Ah, here we go.” He stepped through the doors and, coffee in hand, strolled into the Hall. As I wandered in after him, my breath caught.

Dragons.

I’d never seen more than two at any given time. The race’s numbers had dwindled so low, rumor had it the males avoided gathering in groups lest some calamity cull their population any further. But that was far from the case now. A dozen tall, broad-chested men stood around the Hall, their glittering eyes trained on me as I stopped inside the yawning doorway. Each one wore a sword strapped to his waist, and each one looked ready to draw his blade and separate my head from my shoulders if I made a single wrong move. A fire roared in a massive hearth carved with sinuous dragons in flight. The flames were reflected in each man’s eyes.

No, I realized, the flames danced inside their eyes.

Except for Niall Balfour. He stared at me, his dark gaze as cold and menacing as a winter’s night. He sat on a raised platform adjacent to the hearth, his posture rigid in his throne-like chair. His black barasta gleamed with intricate black embroidery, the spells in the threads so powerful the whispered incantations floated to me on the air. As I held his stare, the temperature around me plunged. My heart sped up, and I had to stop myself from taking a step backward.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” a feminine voice called out. A second later, a beautiful dark-haired woman peeked out from behind the hulking man positioned before her chair on the platform. The dragon warrior was so huge, he’d obscured her entirely.

She rose and stepped around him just as Cormac reached the platform. The king stopped and swept her a courtly bow, his movements all the more impressive with his coffee mug still in his hand.

“My queen,” he murmured, his gravelly voice heavy with affection.

The woman’s eyes softened as she dipped a shallow curtsy. “My king.”

Cormac mounted the platform and kissed her cheek. Then he settled in the larger chair next to Niall’s and cut him a sharp look. “We have a guest, mo chridhe.”

“Aye,” Niall said without taking his eyes off me. “An unwelcome one.”

“Niall!” the woman, Queen Isolde, exclaimed. Still standing, she swept her gaze around the room. Exasperation tinged her features as she raised her voice. “Enough, all of you. Mullo created the Curse.”

“And he’s dead,” a male near the enormous hearth said darkly.

Growls of approval rose from the other dragons in the Hall. Niall’s expression remained forbidding as he gazed at me.

Isolde swung toward him. “You’re a hypocrite, Niall Balfour, and you’re teaching your warriors to be rude.”

At last, Niall’s icy reserve cracked. He jerked his head toward the queen, his dark brows pulling together. “A hypocrite?” he asked, his tone incredulous.

“Yes,” Isolde said, propping her hands on her hips. “The witches consider you their king—”

Niall cut her off with a negative sound. “They don’t have a king. They never have.” He cast me a dismissive glance. “Just petty despots who preside over crime families.”

“Well,” Isolde said, “I guess that makes you the petty despot of House Balfour. Considering your predecessor is dead.”

“Too right he is,” one of the dragons growled in a voice thick with approval.

Another chorus of answering growls went up.

“Quiet!” Isolde snapped, her green eyes flashing.

Cormac caught my eye and winked at me over the rim of his coffee mug.

Niall gave Isolde a patient look. “You don’t understand, lass.” Pain moved through his eyes. “Our men watched our women die one by one. For centuries, we searched in vain for a cure. We went to war with the other Firstborn Races. We made the vampires our mortal enemies. Our people were pushed to the brink of extinction, and it was all because of the witches.”

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