The Prince and the Ice King by Amanda Meuwissen

Chapter 10

NO! JACK thought as he snapped awake—awake, because he’d allowed himself to sleep beside Reardon in an unthinking act of carelessness, and now it was morning!

He cringed, an extra spike of pain shooting through his body at his futile attempt to stave off the change, being twisted and hunched and covered in stinging cold as the ice took him. He was still on the bed, for the first time in all the decades since the curse was cast, causing him to freeze a part of his one human sanctuary, destroying the sheets, and then the bedpost that he reached for to get up and away as fast as he could.

It was too late, though, he knew, because he’d been wrapped around Reardon when the curse took hold, and he’d heard the prince scream.

Transformed and frosting everything around him in his distress, Jack stood, unable to move farther at first save the tremors wracking his limbs, knowing what had to be on the other side of the bed where Reardon had fallen.

The young prince might be in pieces after his own futile scrambling, if he’d turned to ice before he landed. Even if he was whole, Jack had most certainly killed him, creating a new statue, all for one selfish act of wanting something he didn’t deserve.

Clenching his icy claws, Jack forced himself to stomp around the bed. He had to see. He had to accept what he’d allowed to happen and look at Reardon—

Who was whole and not made of ice!

Jack surged forward but stopped before he got too close. Reardon was still flesh and blood, but his naked back was an angry swath of frozen skin like the worst frostbite. He was unconscious, likely from the pain, but still breathing.

“Zephyr!”

REARDON REMEMBEREDpain—so much pain. He could still feel it as an awful ache across his back beneath a warm numbness as he tried to rouse and focus.

His blindfold was gone, but he was still naked, covered only by a sheet, lying facedown on a bed far smaller than the king’s. There were voices around him, but not the king himself.

Zephyr, who’d found him.

Oliver, whose strong arms had carried him to wherever they were now.

Caitlin, barking orders, with the occasional caress of her delicate fingers rubbing something soothing over Reardon’s half-sore, half-numb skin.

And others, Nigel maybe and others with elven blood, offering a healing touch.

Through the din and constant shift between feeling content, nothingness, and pain, Reardon remembered what had happened. All he could think was that the king had to be so worried, while also blaming himself, which was why his voice wasn’t among the rest.

“That should stabilize him,” Caitlin’s voice came more clearly, Reardon finally picking up on real words, as he turned toward the sound and blinked with blurred vision. “Reardon,” she said, her face swimming into view, “you’re going to be fine, but the damage to your skin… it might never completely heal. How do you feel?”

“F-foggy.” Reardon struggled to move his mouth.

“That’s normal with everything we gave you to help the pain. Once it wears off, you shouldn’t need more, the wounds are no longer open or necrotic, but….”

“Scars don’t bother me.” Reardon curved his mouth into a smile—or as much of one as he could manage with a heavy head. “The king? Is he…?”

“He’s in his throne room,” Oliver said from nearby, but Reardon couldn’t lift his head to look.

Beyond Caitlin, Reardon thought he could tell where they were now, in a back corner of the alchemist tower, on a healer’s bed that was almost never used, since no one in the castle ever fell ill.

“He won’t go into his chambers,” Oliver continued, “even with the bed destroyed and so much of it iced over already. It was strange being there. Besides Zephyr, first on the scene, Caitlin and I are the only ones to ever enter those rooms since before the curse.

“Well, besides you, Emerald Prince. If Zephyr hadn’t fetched us so swiftly—”

“But I was swift,” Zephyr’s windswept voice interrupted whatever Oliver might have said. “And now I can tell the king that his fretting is for naught. His little prince is fine.”

“Wait,” Reardon croaked, turning his head the other way, though it took much effort, his mind as sluggish as if he’d drunk a bottle of wine. He wasn’t certain if Zephyr’s ghostly form floated before him or not, but he said, “Tell the king it’s okay. Not just me. We’re okay. Nothing has to change. I know how he must be blaming himself, but I don’t. I have no regrets, not a one, about being in this castle or with him. Promise you’ll tell him?”

Zephyr was quiet, and Reardon feared he’d already vanished until he whispered, “All right,” and then he did vanish, removing some of the haziness from Reardon’s eyeline.

“There are others who are worried,” Oliver said, a strong hand patting Reardon’s ankle. “I’ll let them know. Heal well, Emerald Prince.”

“Thank you.”

The combination of treatments Caitlin provided were more than enough to soothe Reardon, and while some of the numbness might be as permanent as the scars he hadn’t yet seen, the pain eventually ebbed. Soon he could sit up and look around, confirming where he was, though Caitlin insisted he rest and avoid lying on his back until evening.

It was annoying, staying on his front or side, but Reardon wouldn’t have minded if the hours hadn’t ticked by without Zephyr bringing any return message from the king. Eventually Reardon was able to stay sitting up for longer periods, and did so in the company of good friends.

Liam had come in by then too, since it was his tower. He feigned lack of concern, but Reardon knew him well enough now to notice the relief in his voice when he said, “If you can sit up and chat, I hardly believe you can’t be useful and work.”

“Liam,” Shayla warned, sitting at Reardon’s bedside with Barclay and Nigel.

Reardon smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it. Although he was grateful for his friends, he ached to see only one face today.

Nigel had tried a few new tales to cheer Reardon up. Shayla had tried jokes. Barclay had excitedly told Reardon of the day’s most recent experiments. None of it lifted Reardon’s melancholy.

Wynn visited too, among others, even Raphael, who’d peeked his head in with a wiggle of his nose. The visits from the court members, however, made Reardon sadder, because they and his other closest friends all made up couples that he envied.

Liam and Shayla ribbed each other ceaselessly but always managed to share a warm smile that spoke of their deeper connection.

Zephyr and Nigel were lighter in their teasing and often fell into somewhat vulgar—yet adorable—promises for when night fell.

Josie and Barclay were sweet and affectionate, even during daylight hours when they couldn’t touch.

And Branwen and Caitlin were just as sweet, however subdued, now that Reardon had seen them together more often. Branwen would grumble like usual, but then call her “Caity” so offhandedly, and she’d smile in a way Reardon hadn’t seen any signs of his first week at the castle.

It just made Reardon more aware that one person hadn’t come to visit him like the rest.

“Nigel, can you call Zephyr for me?” Reardon asked.

“Call me yourself.” Zephyr appeared. Even now, Reardon forgot sometimes how easy it was to catch the Spymaster’s attention.

“Are you sure the king didn’t have a message for me?” Reardon asked in a small voice, feeling exposed with such a vulnerable question spoken with an audience, but then, most of his visitors had stopped by before someone finally brought him trousers.

Zephyr’s features pinched, unmistakable no matter how transparent his face was. “He didn’t say anything, not a word, even after I passed on what you’d said. I’m sorry.”

It had been a fool’s hope, knowing the king as he did now, but one mistake was not going to ruin what they had found together. “Caitlin!” Reardon called. Even tucked back from the main part of the tower, he could still see the edge of the worktables and Caitlin and Liam’s bustling forms.

She leaned around the corner with an inquisitive brow.

“I feel fine. Sore and tired, but I’ve rested enough. Please, may I have your blessing to leave?”

“I suppose.” Her brow pinched like Zephyr’s. “But if you feel unwell or notice any returning pain—”

“I will come right back here. Zephyr, tell me where he is.” Reardon tossed the sheets aside. He was meagerly dressed in trousers and a simple untucked shirt, but he didn’t care how unkempt or casual he looked.

Shayla and Nigel both scooted back their chairs to give him room, and Barclay jumped up to help Reardon stand. Barclay’s eyes widened when their skin touched.

“What is it?” Reardon asked. “Was it something important?”

His friend’s face seemed alarmed and almost pale despite his dark complexion. “I, um… no, it’s nothing. I just realized this must be why I kept thinking you needed more cold draught. I hate when I don’t understand my visions enough to help.”

“Don’t blame yourself. But are you sure that’s all?” Reardon had known Barclay a long time, and there was more than regret on his face.

That was fear.

“It’s nothing,” Barclay said again, covering his trepidation with an anxious smile. “Go see the king.”

Reardon knew his friend would tell him the truth in time, but for now, he had somewhere to be.

Zephyr told him the way, and Reardon accepted the supportive nods from his friends before leaving the alchemist tower on determined feet.

JACK HADsat on his throne for hours, staring at nothing, even when Zephyr floated in to tell him that all was well and delivered Reardon’s expectedly naive message.

When Zephyr pressed for an answer, Jack had simply sent him away. He’d already known Reardon would live after seeing him on his bedchamber floor, but the cost, how close things had come to turning out so much worse, was unforgiveable. Couldn’t Reardon see that?

Jack wasn’t in his throne room any longer. He’d finally gotten up, only to discover the scarf that had once covered Reardon’s eyes lying on the floor in front of the still-open door to his private rooms. He couldn’t touch it, couldn’t go into those rooms and see the damage he’d done just by being in there. He had to get away.

Maybe he should have gone to the ramparts or the garden, but his monstrous feet had brought him into the secret tunnels and to the library. More hours passed, and he hadn’t turned a single page. He barely remembered what book was on his pedestal before he and Reardon had started reading together.

“Shall I have Zephyr fetch Pillars of Virtue?” Reardon’s voice nearly caused Jack to topple over backward.

“What are you doing here?” Jack demanded, hunkered in his trench, as Reardon came in, looking weak and all manner of disheveled without a doublet or even shoes. “You should be resting. Are you mad?”

“So you keep trying to claim, Majesty, but I know what I am doing and what I want.” Reardon’s eyes held all their usual emerald brightness. He sat, tired and frail as he looked, right at the edge of the trench and far too close to Jack. “I’m fine,” he said, as though Jack were a child needing comfort. “I really mean it about the book. I can rest sitting right here, have Zephyr fetch it, and we can—”

“Get out.” Jack rose, so furious at the young prince’s negligence that he could barely see clearly.

“Majesty—”

“We are no longer having audiences. Not in the mornings, not now, and not when the sun sets.”

“You’d run?” Reardon yelled after him, when Jack tried to turn and flee. “You’d run like a coward and turn me away, after we—”

“After I nearly killed you?!” Jack howled back, whirling so fast and fierce, a burst of ice filled the trench about his feet, proving the threat he was to everything around him. “Yes, I’d run. I’ll get as far from you as I can, until it finally sinks in that you will only find despair here, and I will not let you make me be the cause of it. I’ve caused enough.

“Go home.” Jack swallowed the catch in his throat that Reardon’s eyes filling with moisture conjured so easily. “Once you’ve solved your precious potion, go home. Tell your people that I will accept no more offerings. Build a new kingdom that never thinks on us again.”

“No.” Reardon sucked in several breaths to stay his tears. “Love can beat anything. If only you’d—”

“There is no love for you here!” Jack cried, clutching the cracks of his icy chest to indicate the hollow shell beneath. “There is nothing but a cold, unfeeling thing that wants to be left to its prison.

“There will be no more audiences. There will be no more words between us. Do not waste your time on me any longer. Finish what you started to find justice for your mother, and then. Go. Home.

“There is no love for you here,” he said again, “only regret, only misery, and scars you didn’t earn.”

“I don’t care about scars,” Reardon choked on the sobs he could no longer keep at bay, standing on shaky legs and moving closer to Jack along the edge of the trough with tears streaming down that stopped when he got too near and froze on his cheeks. “Not mine or yours. It was an accident.”

Jack slid backward, putting as much space between them as he could with a stride. “Next time it might be your life. If you follow me,” he warned, even if the threat fell far flatter than it once would have, “it will be.” He tried to make it to the tunnel entrance in only a few steps, but Reardon called brokenly after him.

“Jack, please… I love you.”

Jack couldn’t turn. If he did, his frozen tear tracks would be visible. “Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

For once, Reardon didn’t follow. Even so, Jack couldn’t bear being in the tunnels, in his throne room once he reached it, or near his ruined chambers. He went up to the ramparts and looked out toward the Mystic Valley, wondering if the Fairy Queen, hidden by some invisible veil that made the lands look empty, was staring back, witnessing his suffering and laughing.

“DID YOUhear us?”

Reardon blinked from gazing down at his bowl of soup. He should be starving. He hadn’t eaten much of anything yesterday while recovering in the alchemist tower. He’d barely slept last night. Now it was lunchtime, his back feeling no more pain and the most scarred parts feeling nothing but numbness, yet he’d still hardly touched any food.

Jack refused to see him. He wouldn’t last night or for their regular audience that morning. He was set on his words to end this and had become a retreating ice trail everywhere Reardon sought him. The only words he’d spoken were to tell Reardon once again to go home.

“Sorry, can you repeat what you were saying?” Reardon smiled somberly at his friends. He, Barclay, and Shayla had all come from the alchemist tower, where Reardon had tried to bury himself in work, but he’d been too distracted to be of much use.

The others had been fruitful, however—more than he’d realized.

“We said,” Barclay explained softly, “that with only a few more ingredients and hard work for another day or two, we should finally have the right combination to identify the potion used on Caitlin’s husband and your mother. We’re almost there, Reardon.” He smiled, but it was so obviously pitying for everything else Reardon was going through.

“That’s wonderful.” Reardon tried to smile back anyway. “Do we have everything we need for the final tests?”

“Some extra hemlock would be useful,” Shayla said. “We’ve narrowed it as one of the last ingredients. I was going to forage for some after lunch.”

“Would you mind if I went to get it?”

“We’ll go together.”

“I’d prefer to go alone.”

Shayla and Barclay exchanged pensive looks.

“I’ll be fine,” Reardon insisted.

“Reardon,” Shayla tried, “you know we don’t usually allow—”

“Please, I need to think, to clear my head, and… I could use the air.” Everywhere in the castle was a suffocating reminder of the king’s avoidance, especially when Reardon found ice. “I’ll have my weapons with me. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

They exchanged more troubled looks, like so many inhabitants of the castle had been acting around Reardon, as if it was his first week all over again.

He was ready to plead his case further when Shayla said, “Okay, but if you’re not back in time for dinner, I’m siccing Liam after you.”

Fragments of a real smile twitched at Reardon’s lips, but fragments couldn’t form a complete picture. “Thank you.” He stood and grabbed his soup to dump it.

“Wait.” Barclay reached across the table. “Maybe I should—”

“No.” Reardon flinched out of reach. “Sorry, but if it’s all the same, right now I don’t want to know what comes next.”

He expected Barclay to follow him, expected every second of his trek to collect his weapons belt and cloak that Barclay would catch up and try to stop him, or suddenly appear and grab his arm to read his future.

Love, death, and blue eyes in a sea of white.

It was all true, it was all here, but if death was how this ended, no matter how much Barclay had said things didn’t have to turn out the way that sounded, then Reardon didn’t want to see it coming.

He hurried out of the castle. He was rarely ever alone inside its walls, and he hadn’t been alone outside since before Shayla took him on his first forage. It was the end of January now and reaching the bitterest temperatures. Besides taking his cloak, Reardon had downed an extra resistance draught to protect against the elements.

It had snowed recently, and his boots sank deep into the mounds covering the path he and Shayla took to reach the edge of the wood. He didn’t have to look up to know the way, only down at his feet to keep steady. The bag slung over his shoulder would soon be filled with hemlock and whatever else he found that was deemed worthy to add to the tower stores.

Anywhere but the Frozen Kingdom, hemlock wouldn’t flourish until early spring, but here, within the grounds of the castle, various greenery and flowers could be found all year round, even peeking out of snowdrifts. Reardon knew exactly where the grounds ended, because there was a hard line where that strange mix of life and death stopped. He could see it in the first line of trees, still mossy or budding, only for the second line to be completely barren.

Sometimes Reardon forgot that, technically, his weeks here hadn’t aged him. Nothing here aged, and yet the seasons came and went in their own way like a mockery.

Reaching several sprigs of hemlock, almost hidden with their white flowers so similar to the snow, Reardon began to pick them as he’d been taught and carefully bundled them away. The monotonous action cleared his mind as he’d hoped, but the melancholy he felt only seemed to set in deeper.

How could he prove the king wrong if Jack wouldn’t even speak to him?

Or maybe Reardon was the one who was wrong….

Only when his hands ached from the cold did he realize it had been hours, his bag full and his potion losing its potency. He glanced back at the castle up the hill, pristine and beautiful when once he’d thought it ominous. He had a duty to his own kingdom, to his mother’s memory, but there was so much more he could do here.

He knew, selfishly, that the real reason he didn’t want to go home was because he’d finally found his love, and in a place where no one shamed him for it.

Could he really just leave?

The crack of a stick whipped Reardon’s attention back to the trees, where a pair of glowing eyes locked with his. Without moving any other part of him, Reardon slowly reached for his swords.

The glowing eyes drew nearer, and soon a familiar form stepped into the light from out of the wood—a thin but slightly less emaciated wolf than how Reardon had last seen him.

Another stick cracked, even though the wolf had stopped moving, and a second wolf slipped out from behind the first. This wolf was smaller but still fully grown, a mate, if Reardon were to guess, judging by the way it nudged the larger wolf’s side and then began to growl at Reardon.

But the first wolf nudged back and didn’t growl in kind, as if to say, No, there is nothing to fear. The wolf that had nearly killed Reardon all those weeks ago had been healed, nourished, and left in peace to try at survival again, and with that gift, he’d found another.

“Mercy begets mercy…,” Reardon said softly, thinking this a very magical place indeed. “I am happy for you, lone wolf, that you’re not alone anymore.”

The wolves’ heads snapped back into the wood, picking up on something Reardon couldn’t hear, and then they took off running the opposite direction down the line of trees.

Reardon hefted the bag over his shoulder, turned where the wolves had looked, and finished drawing his swords all in one smooth sequence. He feared a bear, if the wolves were running, but in the darkness of the trees, the figure coming toward Reardon appeared to be a man.

Memory of the original sacrifice struck Reardon all at once, who he’d let wander into those woods alone. Could it be him, running from a horde of monsters he’d found once he reached the Shadow Lands?

“Here!” Reardon called, waving one of his swords in greeting. “Are you well? Do you need help?”

The figure kept hurtling toward him, the wood so dark, Reardon couldn’t make out anything save his outline, but it was definitely a man. Reardon started to put his swords away but hesitated.

“Hello?” he questioned, because the man hadn’t called back, and it was only when he burst from the line of trees that Reardon saw him fully—not the sacrifice he’d saved but a dirty and wild-looking highwayman with a dagger drawn as he pitched himself at Reardon.

Reardon swung his swords up in an X that caught the dagger before it struck him.

“Stop! What do you want? I—!”

The man howled, hair bedraggled and beard so bushy, Reardon could barely see his eyes. The man pulled his dagger free and swung at Reardon’s side, but Reardon brought his swords sharply to the right to deflect the blow, parrying the man once more.

“Listen! If you need coin—”

The man rushed him while Reardon’s swords were pointed down, using his body to knock Reardon off balance. The potion might have kept Reardon’s feet from slipping normally, but it had long since waned, and the slickness of the snow sent him tumbling backward. The man fell upon him, and Reardon barely managed to get his swords up into another X to stay a downward plunge of the dagger.

“Please!”

And then a sharp pain stabbed into Reardon’s side—from a second dagger he hadn’t seen. Reardon pushed with the force of his connected swords to throw the man off him, but the second dagger stayed in his side, abandoned and dug in deep to the hilt. Reardon easily could have bested the man, but he hadn’t wanted to hurt him.

Mercy merely means you might end up the dead man instead, he heard in Lombard’s voice.

A howl from the man broke the afternoon quiet, as he swung the first dagger over his head to fall upon Reardon yet again—

—only to be caught, mid-leap, by his throat in an icy grasp.

The effect was instant, a wave washing over the man as if he were a matte surface on the ground and someone had spilled a bottle of oil that burst over him, catching rainbow colors in the light. But it wasn’t oil, and the man was far more than a soiled floor, dead now, turned to ice.

His neck cracked as the Ice King tightened his grip and threw the frozen highwayman into the snow, where he broke into dozens of shattered pieces. Reardon’s stomach lurched, but then he hissed, because the real pain was buried deep in his side, and there was no time to mourn the madman who’d attacked him.

“You fool,” the king said, his hulking form towering over Reardon.

“Y-you… came for me,” Reardon sputtered, vision dimming and the chill of the snow feeling strangely warm.

He must have passed out, though he remembered rousing when someone lifted him, then again from the bob of his body being carried up stairs, and once more with Caitlin’s face hovering. The sun was far from set, so the king must have fetched someone to rescue Reardon.

Time drifted like a lazy river, until at last, Reardon sprang awake fully to find himself in his own bed.

“Jack,” he exhaled, wishing so desperately to see him.

Had he dreamed it all? But no, he wore only loose trousers with his chest bare, and there were bandages about his waist where the dagger had pierced him. It was after dark now, and only a lone candle flickered on his nightstand.

“You fool,” the king answered, echoing his words from before, but his voice was different now—human.

Human and in Reardon’s room.

A rush of air came at Reardon, upsetting the candle and casting overlapping shadows and light over the face of a man, right there above him, with firm hands planted on either side of Reardon’s shoulders upon the bed.

“Why do you keep putting yourself in danger to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved?”

Reardon stared. The wolf? The bandit? But no, he knew the truth. Because he could finally see him—the man who didn’t want to be saved.

“Jack…,” Reardon whispered with trembling hands reaching up to cup that elusive face.

The scars felt the same beneath Reardon’s palms as when he was blindfolded, and the eyes, oh, those eyes could belong to no one else. Now the rest of the picture was painted before Reardon in candlelight.

Jack tried to pull away, eyes darting to the sheets as if he wished he could hide, having allowed this without meaning to, it seemed, but Reardon held firm.

His features were perfectly symmetrical—straight nose, high cheekbones, firm jaw—with wavy locks of snow-white falling into his eyes, even with white eyebrows, like a lasting part of the curse clinging to him even at night, same with the scars that covered so much of him.

Reardon had been prepared from what he felt, but now he could see them—over Jack’s lips, his eyebrows, everywhere. No battle-hardened warrior knight could compete with all that damage.

But to Reardon, he was beautiful. The scar tissue, the despair in his eyes that he didn’t deserve to feel, none of that mattered. Reardon took in everything before him and loved it all. He would wipe that despair away and prove to Jack that he was right.

“I loved you before I knew anything more than the wonder of your eyes. Now I can say without falter, Jack… that I love you, all of you, and I will never stop trying to save you.” Reardon stroked his thumbs over Jack’s cheeks and pulled him down, forcing Jack’s eyes to meet his. “Thank you. For saving me, and for giving me this.” He kissed him, closing his eyes only for a moment, and then drew away to look at Jack again.

Maybe Reardon was blinded by love. Maybe loving someone made them beautiful regardless. Either way, though Reardon knew he could never understand the grief Jack felt or why he’d hid for so long, that wasn’t his duty. His duty was simply to love Jack and to show him that love however he could.

“Please, my king, believe me this time when I say—I love you.”

JACK HADN’Tthought, hadn’t paused even for a moment to consider what he was allowing, until it was too late. Reardon had seen him now, but he’d done nothing more than smile and kiss Jack in the aftermath.

No one else had seen Jack. Others had come for Reardon at the tree line, carried him and cared for him until his wound was closed. Only after it was deemed safe to leave Reardon in his bed did Jack tell everyone to stay away so that, once the sun set, he could enter Reardon’s room as himself.

He’d wanted to berate him, to end this once and for all, to scream at Reardon all the reasons why this would never turn out the way he wanted. But now Reardon was looking into his eyes while holding his face—his human face, scarred with all the wrongs he’d committed during life, and Reardon still said the same words.

“I love you.”

How he could see Jack and still say that?

“Don’t push me away. Don’t tell me to go home. Let me show you that this curse can be broken if only you’d let me melt the ice caging your heart.” Reardon’s hold on Jack’s face became gentler, loose enough that Jack could have pulled away if he’d truly tried, but then Reardon slid one hand to the back of Jack’s neck and drew him down again.

His lips were always soft and warm. Jack had feared, with so many scars covering him, that knowing someone’s touch again would be the real curse, because he wouldn’t be able to feel it through the numbness. But he could feel Reardon, every nerve igniting at the barest brush of skin.

Jack clambered up onto the bed to get closer, falling deeper into the kiss. The covers had fallen to Reardon’s waist, and Jack climbed atop him in the mere trousers and shirt he’d snatched from his chambers before diving back into the tunnels to get here. Reardon was in trousers only, but Jack’s hands sliding from the mattress to his chest and lean stomach reminded him of the bandages where he’d been stabbed.

“You’re hurt,” Jack panted between delves of their tongues.

“Then you… will be gentle,” Reardon panted back and dug his fingers into Jack’s hair to bring him down again.

Jack had to be gentle. He could be gentle. Reardon was strong and could usually handle however Jack might flip him or roughly pin him to the bed, but no matter how effective the healing potion Caitlin had given him, Jack had to be gentle now, unless he was willing to walk away, and he… he couldn’t.

He should. He should retreat and end this, but the thought of that hurt more than any jagged pierces of ice entering into his skin when morning came.

Keeping his hands on the bed or tentative down Reardon’s hips, mindful of the wound in his side, Jack straddled the prince’s waist and ground into him, kissing him deeply once more. Each twirl of Reardon’s tongue was rapture, though he always pulled away between presses of their mouths to look at Jack and smile again before he claimed his lips with another press.

The longing in Reardon’s emerald eyes spurred Jack to sink against him. Reardon shoved his trousers down, and then shoved Jack’s down too, clawing at Jack’s shirt like he’d never been so desperate to be rid of clothing. Jack tore and kicked it all away, until they were bare and grinding and kicking down the covers too.

But Reardon stopped, grabbed hold of Jack, and rolled them. He spread Jack out, taking in the full form of him, head to toe, like taking nourishment in the view.

Jack hadn’t had anyone’s eyes on him this intimately since before the curse. The rest of his body was as scarred as his face, worse, and even the hair between his legs had been turned white from the ice so deep-seated within him when once he’d been as brunette as Josie.

Reardon saw it all and continued to smile, no guile, just contentment, as he drew a hand from Jack’s face down his neck and chest and hips to his thighs, and then farther between his legs. Jack gasped as the prince’s fingers curled around his length. It was hardly the first time Reardon had touched him, but it was the first time with his eyes on him.

Slowly, Reardon started to stroke, shifting closer to lift one leg over Jack’s hips and straddle his thigh—only to hiss and fall back with a twinge.

Jack moved after him, concerned at first, but then amused by Reardon’s pout. Carefully, Jack pulled Reardon to him, but it was then that he felt the far too similar scars covering Reardon’s back.

Jack ran a hand up and down the expanse. Across Reardon’s shoulder blades, down the center, and as low as his waist, the scars Jack had caused could be felt like the surface of an oil painting. Jack didn’t have to see them to know how they must look, so like his own bare skin.

“Reardon….”

“I don’t care,” Reardon said, smoothing a palm over Jack’s chest and resting it over his heart. “All that matters is this.”

Jack’s heart was beating wildly, and as he slid his hand from Reardon’s back to mimic the gesture, he felt Reardon’s pounding just as fierce.

He rolled Reardon onto his back, Reardon’s hand returning to between Jack’s legs and joined by Jack’s own, connecting their heated cocks. With Reardon sprawled and comfortable, Jack straddled the prince’s thigh instead, rocking their slick lengths together while his hand curled around Reardon and Reardon’s remained on him.

It was a synchronized clash of fervent pumping through budding wetness, with only so much movement allowed without risk of hurting Reardon, but it was enough. Anytime Reardon’s eyes closed, they opened again, locking on Jack’s or straying down his body. He truly seemed to love and want everything he saw, even though Jack was ruined and had ruined him too.

“Reardon,” Jack gasped again, foregoing the use of his hand to rut with more urgency, half at Reardon’s side and half atop him, thrusting with a maddened need to release while those emerald eyes were on him.

“Jack… oh, Jack,” Reardon mewled back, weak and struggling for breath but still pumping upward to meet him. His hand fell away too, leaving them as two mindlessly grinding bodies, slick with sweat and the moisture from their cocks, until Reardon’s gasps grew harsher, and then Jack’s did too, and they finished, almost overlapping.

“I love you,” Jack said, too caught up in the moment to hold the words back.

The smile Reardon graced him with was more breathtaking than any Jack had yet seen. Reardon took Jack’s face in his hands once more, kissed him again, and held him close, never once believing that this bliss between them wouldn’t last.

Jack knew better, but oh, how he wished it could.

REARDON AWOKEwith a creeping feeling of déjà vu, but there was no body wrapped around him and no increasing pain from deadly cold.

Of course, Jack hadn’t stayed in bed with him after what happened last time, but when Reardon rolled over, he found Jack, human still, sitting in a chair and looking at Reardon with a soft expression.

They’d done it, Jack would see. The curse was lifted now that Jack had confessed his love for Reardon and….

And….

And then the sun rose outside the castle walls, prompting Jack to stand with a wince and move for the door so he wouldn’t leave too long an ice trail when the curse finished taking him and remade him into the beast.

Take him it did, the first time Reardon had seen the change happen, when he had thought… he had hoped that he could be enough to end it.

It looked so painful, the strain on Jack’s face and tension in his steps that stuttered and stopped when he reached the door. His beautiful, scarred, naked body seemed to grow the ice out of itself, stretching and deforming him and causing Reardon to shiver from the expulsion of cold and pull the covers tighter around him.

The Ice King wasn’t ugly to him, never had been, but now the sight of him made Reardon’s heart sink. Jack looking back at him with so much sorrow and shame in his expression only made it worse.

“But I… I love you,” Reardon said miserably.

“And I you,” Jack repeated without taking back the words he’d said last night, “but as I told you, my little prince, sometimes love isn’t enough.”

He left, and Reardon stared at his now iced-over doorknob, wondering what he’d done wrong to fail his love so terribly.