FAIRYTALE Page 6

  Tugging down the nightgown as far as it would go, Killian tiptoed out of the room. The hall was empty, but he kept his steps light as he hurried out of the medical wing. His chest and shoulders ached as he moved, but it was a dull sort of pain he forced himself to ignore, creeping along even faster.

  No one stopped him, and he reached his room without incident where he quickly changed into some loose trousers and slippers. His stomach and chest were covered in bandages, and he slipped on an extra jacket, hoping that would help to conceal them a bit more.

  Neither Annette, nor the healers, had come after him. Good. Maybe they didn’t realize he was gone yet.

  Before he stepped back into the hall, he stole a quick glance in the mirror. His usual vibrant, green eyes looked sunken and tired, and his hair was a laughable nest of knots and tangles. Killian grimaced, smoothing back his unruly tresses as he walked back out to the hall.

  At this time of night, the castle was almost entirely empty. Even in his padded slippers, Killian’s footsteps seemed to echo all around as he made his way down the marble corridors. He kept close to the walls, still wary of someone dragging him back to the infirmary.

  He remembered what Melchior had told him before the earth had begun to shake, and he felt a familiar twist in the pit of his stomach. But he didn’t care. Fedya wasn’t a spy. He wasn’t a thief or liar. Killian walked a little faster. He just needed to see him again, one more time.

  Killian scanned the signs outside each door, trying to remember if Fedya had ever mentioned his last name. He turned a corner and skidded to a halt. The door to one of the rooms was open, and someone was stepping out. Killian pulled back, peering cautiously at the stranger.

  The man was tall and slender, though he shared Fedya’s dark eyes and long, thick hair. Although he was clearly older than Fedya, he was not old enough to be his father. Killian then remembered that Fedya had come to the summit with an older brother.

  The man’s mouth moved quickly, but Killian was too far away to hear anything. He strained to read the writing on the sign, but he was already certain he knew whose room it was. Quietly he turned around, when a polite voice called out to him.

  “Excuse me.”

  He stopped, and looked over his shoulder. The door to the bedroom was now closed, and the man was staring straight at him. His mouth was set in a thin, grim line, but there was a hopefulness in his eyes.

  Killian sucked in a breath and hoped he didn’t look too frazzled. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  A faint smile flicked on the man’s face as he walked over. As he approached, the dim lighting caught the shadows under his eyes, but the similarity to Fedya became more striking. They had the exact same nose.

  “Are you the man who saved my brother in the garden?”

  “Oh. I mean, yes.” Warmth flooded his cheeks as he nodded. “I suppose that’s me.”

  “I wanted to thank you…”

  The man stopped, his voice faltering. He stared at Killian, as though confused for a second, and his eyebrows furrowed together. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

  Killian tore his gaze from the closed door and quickly shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so.”

  The man studied him a second longer before sighing and rubbing his eyes. “You’ll have to excuse me, it’s been a long day and my eyes must be playing tricks on me. But I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate what you did. You saved my brother’s life. He would have died out there if you hadn’t found him.”

  As he spoke, he tried to offer another smile, but it was fleeting. There was still that edge of panic creeping into his voice, that fear that Killian knew all too well. It clipped at the edge of his words, sucked out the life and joy, killing it with the knowledge of just how easy it was to lose something precious.

  “He owes you his life.” He bowed deeply. “We are in your debt. Thank you.”

  Killian hesitated. He knew he should leave. It was late. But even so, he couldn’t bring himself to turn back toward where he had come from. Instead, he took a couple cautious steps forward. “Can I see him?”

  Only now did the man straighten up, and for a moment Killian almost took back his request. But then he nodded.

  “He might be asleep, but go ahead,” he said as he stepped out of the way, and Killian walked toward the door. As Killian reached for the knob, he stopped, and glanced back at Fedya’s brother. What was his name again?

  Yet before he could ask, the man spoke one final time.

  “I know Fedya is skilled in pushing people away,” he said, and for the first time the smile on his lips felt genuine, “I’m glad he didn’t push you too.”

  Killian couldn’t help it. He smiled back, and they both nodded before Fedya’s brother walked away. Killian watched him leave before turning back toward the door. He stared down at the knob in his hand, suddenly hesitant to turn it. But he forced himself anyway, and slowly he eased the door open.

  A rush of cold air instantly hit him in the face, and Killian shivered as he peered inside. But there was something else too that wafted outside. Music.

  Killian sucked in a breath and peered inside. The bedroom was almost exactly the same as his own—spacious with tall windows and sweeping tapestries hung upon the wall. A near-identical four-poster was pushed against one wall, the bed still made and empty. A large fireplace took up the other wall. It was unlit.

  Killian eased himself further inside. A puff of white parted from his lips as he exhaled, and the music grew louder, the gentle melody of a piano. The doors that led to the balcony were wide open, Fedya sat on a bench in front of them, a small, white baby grand piano in front of him. His back faced Killian, and his fingers flew across the keys with skillful precision.

  Inhaling, Killian stole forward a few more steps, but suddenly stopped, blushing in spite of himself.

  Despite the frigid winds, Fedya wore only a simple pair of drawstring pants and thick slippers. His bare chest and stomach were wrapped in thick, white bandages, and his hair was free from its usual updo, grazing the top of his shoulders. As his shoulder muscles moved, a thin silver chain winked in the firelight around his neck.

  The music clunked to a stop. Killian froze as Fedya stared back at him, his dark eyes wide, and a burst of crimson already spreading across his cheeks.

  Killian grinned sheepishly, “Sorry, I thought you were asleep.”

  “So you still came in?”

  Fedya grabbed a shawl at his feet and wrapped it around his shoulders. Killian tried not to stare as Fedya covered himself up, turning his head to the side, though he was glad Fedya’s injury didn’t look too serious. But as Fedya tightened the shawl, Killian couldn’t help but notice long, thick scars stretching from Fedya’s clavicle down across his chest, half concealed by the bandages. They looked too faded to have been from the Grimbeast attack.

  Fedya cleared his throat loudly, and Killian’s eyes shot up. He clenched his jaw, hating himself for peeking. “Sorry.”

  Fedya’s glare wavered, then he sighed and his expression softened. “They’re old,” he said. “I was in an accident a year ago.”

  “Oh. Good.” Killian winced. What was it about Fedya that swirled all his thoughts and words like a snowstorm? He shook the thought away. That wasn’t important right now.

  “Look,” Killian sucked in a breath, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

  Fedya looked startled, guarded. Then he glanced away and answered quietly, “I’m fine.”

  Killian paused. Fedya was looking back at the piano, though he no longer played, hands in his lap. Tiny flecks of snow flew in from the open doors, dancing around him on wisps of wind. Killian cleared his throat, lightening his voice, “So, was that your brother who just left?”

  “No, my father just had me when he was ten years old.”

  Killian blinked, but for a second he swore he saw a glimmer of a smile play on Fedya’s lips. It didn’t
last long, though, as Fedya pulled himself from the bench, keeping his arms crossed tight over his chest as he walked across the room. “What were you even doing out there? You could have been killed.”

  Fedya’s voice was tight, each word calculated. Killian wished he could see Fedya’s eyes, catch another glimpse of that smile, or hear that laughter from before. Only Fedya wouldn’t look him directly in the eyes, his gaze cast to the side, each movement slow and stiff with pain. But Killian could see how rapidly Fedya blinked, the tremors that shook his shoulders. He was embarrassed.

  “I was looking for Empress Merav,” Killian said. “I saw her walking into the gardens just before the earthquake hit. I didn’t find her, but I’ve been told she’s safe.”

  “Well, aren’t you a hero.”

  Killian twitched. An unexpected venom suddenly laced Fedya’s words that hadn’t been there before. Angry. Bitter. Fedya sat on his bed, and when he looked back to Killian, his eyes were dark. The deepest shade of mahogany, they soaked in whatever light was left and trapped it inside of him. His face remained perfectly smooth.

  Killian couldn’t look away. Though Fedya’s words were piercing, he wanted to hold on to them, keep them just for himself. Instead, he sucked in a breath and reached for the small pocket sewn inside his jacket and extracted its contents: a single rose.

  “I’d like you to have this.”

  The rose was small, hardly more than a bud. Its pale pink petals were still curled together, and they practically sparkled silver in the pale moonlight. The stem was covered in silver thorns, yet somehow they didn’t prick Killian as he extended his hand.

  All at once the anger fled Fedya’s eyes. He drew back, staring at the flower as though he expected it to burst into flame at any moment. “Why?” he finally asked.

  “We call it a Winter Rose,” Killian said. “They’re native to my homeland, and generations ago they were so popular in trade, they became almost entirely extinct. We eventually had to stop and set up a special garden inside our castle’s walls to grow them. Now, only my family is allowed to choose to give them away.”

  Fedya hesitated, though his gaze remained enchanted upon the small flower, and Killian couldn’t help but smile.

  “It’s just a rose,” he said with an encouraging nod, and then he thought about it and added, “Consider it a thank you, for the coat.”

  His words seemed to strike a chord, and Fedya looked back up at him. Any trace of anger was gone, replaced with something much more vulnerable. He looked young again, innocent. His brows tugged together as a sort of confusion clouded him, but Fedya didn’t say anything. He only reached out and gingerly took the rose from Killian’s offered palm. For a moment their skin met, icy cold fingertips brushed on warm flesh, and Killian inhaled as a prickle of goosebumps ran up his arms.

  “Plant it properly, and it will bloom almost anywhere,” Killian murmured. “Even in the snow.”

  Fedya remained silent, staring at the rose with intense curiosity. Killian lingered, watching the soft glow of the stars dance on his bare shoulders. How badly he wanted to drink it all in. Savor it.

  But it couldn’t be tonight. He needed to get back to the infirmary. So he gave a small nod instead.

  “May I see you again?”

  Fedya hesitated, looked up at him slowly. He inhaled, looking ready to speak, but the words didn’t come. Instead his jaw clenched, and Killian’s heart constricted in disappointment. He blinked quickly, trying to conceal it even as the heat of embarrassment rushed to his cheeks and he nodded again.

  “Good night.”

  Without another word he turned and left the room.

  I

  t was the evening of the Silver and Gold Ball, and two nights since the earthquake had nearly split the castle in two. Almost two days had passed since Killian had seen Fedya.

  As promised, his own injuries had almost completely disappeared after a single night’s rest. By the next day, the pain was completely gone. He’d never admit to Melchior, but the healers around here definitely knew what they were doing. A slim scar trailing from his elbow to the middle of the inside of his arm was all he had left to show for his battle with the Grimbeast. Still, it did little to stop the incessant nightmares of ravenous beasts leaping in the dark, teeth plunging at his neck. But he didn’t want to talk to Melchior about that, either.

  Killian sat by the fireplace in his room, arm stretched out as he stared at the slender mark. In his left hand he kneaded his wedding ring between his fingers, the metal growing increasingly hot from the flickering flames. Grimacing, he looked over at his gold suit, encrusted with yellow diamonds and silk, draped carelessly across his unmade bed. The last of the sun’s warm glow cast a soft, pink haze all around the room, and Killian inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

  A door opened. Then a voice.

  “Very trendy, but perhaps not quite appropriate.”

  Killian squeezed his eyes even tighter. “Go away.”

  “If you wait too much longer you’re going to miss out on all the crab cakes.”

  Sighing, Killian opened his eyes, and he shot a glare over at Melchior as he settled himself in the seat across from him with a grin. Melchior already looked polished in a pale silver robe, tied with an icy blue sash knotted around his waist. A crystal tiara sat jauntily atop his golden locks, glittering in the firelight.

  Killian smirked. “That’s pretty.”

  “Yes, well, my dearest duchess insisted I wear it,” Melchior said with a slight eye roll, yet the smile playing on his lips only seemed to grow. “So why are you really still sitting here? Isn’t this the night you were supposed to go dancing with that Duke? I would think you’d be even a little bit excited.”

  Killian didn’t answer. He brought the ring up, inspecting it closely. Every day it felt heavier.

  Melchior sighed loudly and stood up. “Killian,” he said, “you’ve got to get over this. I know you wanted something a little more exciting than this, but that is just the way it is. I’m sorry you didn’t get to take your trip, or...or have that last fling, but—”

  “He’s not a fling,” Killian growled, and Melchior fell silent. Their eyes met, and Melchior raised a calculated brow, but this time Killian didn’t look away.

  “And he’s not a spy, Melchior. Or a thief or liar.”

  Melchior’s expression immediately softened. “I didn’t mean to imply that he was.”

  “Well, he’s not,” Killian said again. He could already feel his neck growing warm. He dug his thumb into the ring, pinching the hot metal against his flesh. He’d only wanted to see him one more time. After nearly killing himself, was that really such a wild request? Apparently so.

  “You always make assumptions about people.”

  A total lie, but he didn’t care. He wanted Melchior to bite back, argue. Anything to distract him from what was to come. But he already knew that was wishful thinking. Instead, Melchior only walked calmly around him, toward the small table by his bed. The sound of a lid creaked open, and Killian winced as Melchior peered inside the gift box.

  “Killian.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Wasn’t that rose a gift for your fiancé?”

  Killian remembered the brush of Fedya’s fingers on his palm as he picked up the rose. They were icy cold, almost numb to the touch. Yet somehow they’d provoked warmth throughout Killian’s body, a racing of his heartbeat he could not duplicate. Standing in that frozen room, that single touch had made everything feel alive.

  “Alright.”

  Melchior stepped back around the chair to stand directly in front of Killian. For a second the flames cast dark shadows beneath his eyes, and he suddenly looked much older than before. “Why don’t you get dressed, and meet me downstairs? I know this isn’t how you imagined things to turn out, but it’s time to accept it. You can’t hide in here forever.”

  Killian’s eyes flicked up. Hide? Was that what Melchior thought he was doin
g?

  But Melchior turned and walked toward the door. He practically seemed to glide, the perfect picture of noble grace. He stopped as he opened the door, looking back one more time. He paused, and then said, “You should wear your ring tonight.”

  The moment the door closed behind him, Killian jumped to his feet. His heart pounded, thundering in his ears. Hiding? Him? He crossed his arms and scoffed. Melchior was the one who was too afraid to step foot on a boat for the first fifteen-odd years of his life, who was he to lecture Killian about hiding? After all, Melchior had never done a single brave thing in his life.

  With a huff, Killian stomped over to the suit on his bed, picked it up and shoved one arm into the sleeve. Had Melchior ever faced a Grimbeast? Faced a creature so deadly and magical that it yearned to rip his still-beating heart out? No. He pulled on his trousers, nearly ripping off a few diamond buttons in the process. When was the last time Melchior climbed a mountain, swam in the ocean or even rode a horse? Oh, right. Never.

  “I’m not hiding.”

  He spoke out loud, but only the crackling of the fire answered him. He swallowed hard, and gave another irritated swipe of his bangs before jamming his shoes on. The final touch—a gleaming white gold crown inset with glowing emeralds.

  With a note of finality, Killian crammed it on top of his head, and huffed as he looked in the mirror. Then he stopped.

  He hardly recognized himself, draped in gold and the richest silks he owned. The crown had been his father’s, a gift especially for this momentous event.

  Killian tore his gaze from his reflection, and from the corner of his eye he spotted something on the floor. It was his ring, glinting up at him. He stared at it, and almost took a step toward it. But then he turned away, curled his fingers into fists, forcing them inside his pockets, and left the room.

  Out in the hall, he could already smell the faint hint of perfume. The sound of laughter and music was quick to follow.