Page 37 of Kiss of Frost

My protests crumbled. “You will?”

His eyes twinkled. “If there’s coffee in this castle, it’ll be yours, witchling.”

Dammit, he had me. He read sexual desires, but coffee was just as satisfying as sex, so maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. “All right. But remember, you promised not to provoke Graeme.”

“I won’t.” He planted a soft kiss on my forehead. “I just want to get the lay of the land. Maybe find some bacon to go with the coffee. Unless you want to eat cold stew for breakfast?”

“Gross.” I’d gasped as he shifted to smoke and spiraled up my body in a playful arc. “Don’t be gone long. And I need at least two sugars!” I’d called as he streamed under the door.

I turned to the door now, my gaze falling on the pot of stew Callum and I found in the corridor when we went hunting for a bathroom last night. Graeme had left two bowls and spoons, along with a frozen puddle of beer. My cheeks heated at the thought of him standing in the corridor as I straddled Callum. And, oh gods, what if he’d heard Callum reciting my darkest, most wicked fantasies? The ones that involved Graeme being a very active participant in the aforementioned straddling?

It would never happen. Even if Graeme was our mate—and my internal jury was still out on that—he was an ice dragon. His eyes had been utterly cold last night when he declared he didn’t care if Callum and I got hurt.

Then he’d brought us stew. I gnawed at my lip as I studied the pot on the floor. Graeme had searched our packs. He’d taken nothing, but he left the items in enough disarray to let us know he’d inspected our belongings before returning our bags. He knew we had enough food and water for several nights.

So why bring us dinner?

The air shifted behind me, and I turned as a line of black smoke streamed through the open window. It curved sinuously, weaving in and out of itself and putting on a show.

“You didn’t find coffee,” I said, wincing at the whine in my voice. But…caffeine.

The smoke formed into a disheveled Callum. His eyes were bright as he came to me and took me by the shoulders. “I know you’re pisappointed.”

I blinked. “Disappointed.”

“No, pisappointed. It’s when you’re pissed and disappointed. Pisappointed.”

“I thought pissed meant drunk in the UK.”

“It does,” he said, his tone mildly offended. “But we have Netflix, lass. And, anyway, I found something better than coffee.”

“Impossible.”

“Withhold judgment until you’ve seen my surprises.” He released me and crossed to his pile of clothing on the bed.

I wandered forward, my gaze traveling down his muscular back and firm ass as he stepped into his pants. “Surprises? As in, plural?”

“Aye,” he said, facing me as he pulled his pants over his hips, covering his dick. I was still masking my pisappointment when he grabbed my hand and pulled me to the door.

“We can’t go out there!”

He faced me and walked backward, drawing me with him. A mischievous smile played around his lips. “You mean you don’t want a hot bath?”

I stopped resisting. “You found a bathroom? A real one?” Because the wooden porta-potty in a closet down the hall was not it. Callum was right—hot water was better than coffee. I’d washed up as best as I could with the wet wipes in our packs, but after a day of hiking and a couple rounds of horizontal activities with Callum, my scalp itched and my deodorant verged on waving the white flag of surrender.

“Even better,” Callum said. “It’s a caldarium.”

“A cal-what?”

His eyes lit up. “Wait, do I know something you don’t?”

“Just tell me what it is.”

“I will, just let me sit with this feeling for a moment.”

“Do you know how much coffee means to me, Callum?”

He grinned. “The Romans built them. They were heated with some kind of fancy tunnel system under the floor.” My continued confusion must have shown on my face, because he said, “Big stone hot tub.”

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