Page 85 of Blood Beneath the Snow

“I know.” He brushed a stray lock of hair from my face. “I hope this is enough to make up for it. Now get back into bed. That shoulder of yours still needs rest.”

I obliged, clambering off him to return to the mattress but tugging at his hand until he acquiesced and joined me there, curling up next to me under the blankets. We faced each other and I drank him in. It was intoxicating, seeing him without the mask. The slope of his nose, the flush in his cheeks, the flutter of his lashes—it all painted a picture of him I’d never seen before.

Then I realized something. “What’s your name?”

His smile was soft. I wondered if this would feel like nothing more than a dream tomorrow. “Søren.”

I hummed. “It suits you.” Deep within me, I heard a chastising voice.What are you thinking? He is the Hellbringer. You have no future with him.

As I rolled over, I shoved the voice away. And as we settled on our sides, his arm around my waist, I intertwined my fingers with his and decided I would care about the consequences tomorrow.

21

The next day found mepacing back and forth as if trying to wear a hole in the prison floor.

The Hellbringer—Søren, I had to keep reminding myself—was gone, on another mission for the queen. After the life-changing moment we’d shared in the tent the night before, I was expected to return to normal. We’d returned and he’d left, and was I supposed to slip back into our routine? Impossible.

Hence the pacing. All the while, my thoughts flooded like the tide, rising and then receding, only to be replaced by another.

The kiss. There was no denying what we felt anymore. We’d done things, said things, that couldn’t be taken back. And I liked it that way.

The press of our mouths, our breaths becoming one, our heartbeats synchronizing. His firm grip on my waist, the desperation in his hungry eyes. My own desire for him reaching a new high.

I couldn’t chase it from my mind. I wasn’t sure I wanted to either.

His face was engraved into my memory as well. The Hellbringer was Kryllian’s most vicious general, but Søren…Søren was beauty incarnate. A work of art in human form. I blushed as the memory of his smile returned to me, his eyes heady enough to get drunk on.

And he’d shared his true identity with me. His face and his name both. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. What to do with it. Because, despite the trust he’d given me, the way I cared for him, hewasmy people’s most feared enemy. The general who could eliminate us all in a heartbeat. Who would to save his sister.

The worst part was understanding him. My feet, bare against the cold metal floor, began to grow numb. I sat down on the bed momentarily to wrestle my thick socks and boots back on. Before, when he’d been a faceless monster, it was easy to hate him. Without a name, he was nothing more than a curse, a scourge on my people. Regardless of whether I believed the war was holy or a mistake.

“Søren.” I whispered his name like a prayer, running the feel of it over my tongue.

Would a monster care for me so openly? He wasn’t just pretty words and promises; the Hellbringer was action, confidence, power. He’d declared his feelings and I believed him. It wasn’t in his nature to lie.

Where did that leave me? Caught between my country and my heart.

I stood once more and pulled a target from where it stood against the wall. A week back, the Hellbringer had brought it for me to practice on with throwing knives. We hadn’t used it much, but he taught me the basics. Now I hoped using the knives he’d gifted me would help me clear my mind.

With the first throw, my thoughts drifted to Freja. My best friend, my anchor. Stuck freezing in a prison against her will, all because we’d defied my father and the priests. This was for her. Everything was for her. If my arms trembled and gave out, if I took a knife or a sword to the gut, if I lost my life in the arena, it was for her.

But it was also for me. For the Nilurae in Bhorglid, who suffered under my father’s rule. Who would suffer just the same, if not worse, under Björn’s.

Freja had started me on this path, but even if she were free this very moment, I would continue. This was more than a campaign for one person’s justice now; it was a true rebellion. It had been an uprising from the beginning for everyone else, but not for me.

The realization steadied me. When my first two throws missed, I jogged over to pick them back up and start again.

When the Hellbringer returned late in the evening, I was still there, limbs trembling with exhaustion, preparing to throw the knife again. His steps were quiet, but I heard them beneath the roaring of blood in my ears.

My churning thoughts and endless repetitive movements had worn me down. Despite it, I was happy he was back. Alone, my thoughts were overwhelming. Now we could talk. I could make sure I hadn’t hallucinated the kiss, dreamt his face.

Warm hands landed on my shoulders, squeezing gently, and his voice—not distorted from the mask but entirely his own—murmured in my ear, “Your footing is likely causing some issues.” His touch migrated down to my shoulder blades, my waist, landing on my hips. I shivered when his breath brushed against the shell of my ear. “Try this.” He turned my hips until my footing was aligned the way he wanted. “Good.”

And, gods, if that didn’t send a thrill of longing through my stomach…

“Now,” he said, placing his hand over mine on the dagger, “do you feel how the knife balances? Right here? When you release it, you want to be sure you stay relaxed. Tensing up can make your aim worse. Go on, try it.”

He stepped back, chill air replacing the heat of his touch. I missed the warmth immediately but took a deep breath and focused on performing the best throw I possibly could.

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