Page 111 of Of Rime and Ruin
“Come now. You need a little something to cheer you up, hmm? How about some cream?”
“Just leave the tray. I can fix it myself.”
Pressure dips the mattress as she sits on the edge. Her hand lands on top of my head, heavy through the layers of blankets.
“Are you feeling any better this morning?” Her fingers rustle at the hem, curling around the fabric, tugging it to let cool air through the opening.
“No.”
Salt stings the corners of my eyes. I ball my fists into the covers, holding them over my face. I can’t let her see me like this. How fucking embarrassing.
This is not princess-like behavior, hiding from the hurt. I should be upright and active, none of this moping, depressed lumpiness—Winona would be appalled. If she were in my place, my sister would take the king’s rejection without more than a blink, then move on to her next project.
Then again, she ended up hitched to that boring lump of a male, Ferrell. At least my fate is better than hers, in that regard. I’d take one devastating tangle with the clawbeast over a life stuck with Ferrell.
And that’s all it was—a tangle. Like our time in the ice-shelter was hypothermia-induced sex. It meant nothing.
My heart squeezes so tight I can’t breathe.
It meant nothing.
I stuff the pillow into my mouth to keep quiet. My shoulders tremble and quake.
I’m a bald-faced liar. It wouldn’t hurt this much if he meant nothing to me. Somehow, I’ve fallen for the grumpy Frost King. Now I’m no better than a love-sick guppy, pining over a male who doesn’t want me. If he did, he’d be here. Tending to my wounds. Telling me I’ll be okay. He’d be bringing me tea himself, not sending his housekeeper.
The mattress shifts. Deirdre sighs. Moments later, I hear her retreating footsteps, the turn of the doorknob, and her quiet report to Perrin in the hallway.
“Is she still in bed?” Perrin whispers, not quietly enough.
“Poor thing hasn’t moved an inch.”
“Shit.”
“Watch your language, love.”
“Sorry,” Perrin mutters. I smile, despite myself. The youngling’s picking up my favorite word. “I just wish he would—”
“His Majesty has his reasoning.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Chin up, Perrin. He gave you an important post. You should be honored.”
“I didn’t know it’d be this boring,” he mumbles.
Ouch.
Deirdre hisses something too low to hear. And then it’s over. Her footsteps retreat down the hall, and Perrin’s body slumps against the wall.
I pull the covers away from my face. Daylight filters through the crack in the curtains, cutting a line across my pillow. The stale air evaporates the tears from my cheeks. It’s not Perrin’s fault I’m imprisoned, and I’m being a shit friend.
I should at leasttalkto him. Maybe we could have a burping contest through the door. Orsomething. It’d be a good distraction for me, to avoid spiraling further into my pit of despair.
With a groan, I peel myself from the bed. Slip into my robe and tie the sash. I plant my feet on the cool wooden slats, my back creaks, and I sway with dizziness.How long has it been since I ate?My stomach lets out a hollow whine, and I clutch it.
Deirdre left toast with my tea, the butter hardened in a perfect rectangle on top. Cold. I pluck it from the plate and bite through the stiff crust as I walk to the door.
Pain flares in my side, spazzing along my scars.
