The Prince and the Ice King by Amanda Meuwissen

Chapter 7

JACK DIDN’Trest that night. He dressed in clean clothes, drained his bath, and hoped that the smell of the oils would overpower any lingering scent of Reardon.

They did not.

Not enough.

Time moved so slowly when he didn’t sleep, but he still felt it in his bones when the sun was about to rise. He didn’t need the sun to touch him directly, only for it to reach the castle grounds. As that moment drew near, he removed his clothes and went to stand by the door so that as little of his rooms as possible were affected by his chill.

He never wore his crown. He locked that away ages ago. Yet still, once the change took him, an icy crown would rest upon his head like a mocking extension.

It didn’t hurt, but it did ache, like reaching the end of a grueling fight—only a fight waged naked in the middle of winter. One would think he’d be used to the cold by now, but that was the one thing that never got easier.

He had heard his court say that their changes merely felt like their stomachs dropped, a weightlessness overtaking them as their true bodies faded. Jack, conversely, was encased, but his body still felt like it stretched to fill his icy prison, mangled and pulled like he had mangled his kingdom.

Only, today, with his hands creaking as he clenched them into fists, there was a new ache that wouldn’t go away, like a dagger lodged in his chest.

Damn prince, Jack thought and turned to open his door.

“Good morning, Majesty.” Reardon dared darken his threshold at the very crack of dawn, prim and dressed and smiling as he gave his customary bow from in front of the throne.

Stomping forward with booming tremors, Jack fell upon Reardon like the monster he was, getting closer than he would have dared with one of his subjects. “Do you know how easy it would be for me to end you right here?” he bellowed, frigid breath in Reardon’s face.

Like most days, Reardon didn’t so much as teeter backward. “Then do it,” he said with a maddeningly stable expression. “But I’m not leaving.”

Jack had never known anyone so stubborn!

And he refused to listen to Josie’s voice in his head saying—he was.

“I am not your love,” Jack affirmed.

Only then did a flicker of heartache pass over Reardon’s face, but that too was replaced with a determined smile. “Then be my friend. We were friendly before last night, weren’t we? We were starting to know one another—truly, not only… carnally. So let us start again from there.

“Either way, Majesty, I believe this curse can be broken, but my kingdom must see reason too, or head down its own doomed path. Would you deny me that chance?”

That was unfair, like a lowly highwayman using Jack’s own past against him.

Reardon kept his smile and gestured to the window—which was when Jack realized his other hand held a book. “It’s a lovely morning. I thought we’d read up on the ramparts to start today’s audience. Unless you’re still feeling an urge to throw me from them?”

Jack could ignore him, turn from the prince in silence and disappear into the tunnels alone, but Reardon knew the tunnels now too and was not likely to be easily dismissed.

Rocking back on his icy haunches, Jack huffed with a visible snort. “I might toss you to your demise yet, so do not test me,” he warned but motioned for Reardon to lead the way.

Pillars of Virtuewas not a love story but, to Jack, it played out as one. The knights, Sir Waite and Sir Kent, were stationed to guard a watchtower together, and initially seemed to clash. Waite was stoic and calculating, while Kent was heartfelt and impulsive. They countered one another in every way, but because of that, they also balanced each other, and through their differences found things to admire in one another.

Their kingdom was constantly threatened by invading forces, and they were soon considered the lucky sentinels who, when on watch, always managed to ward off attacks or stop them before they became more than the kingdom could handle.

If it hadn’t been for the side stories of Kent falling for a sassy barmaid and Waite’s cat-and-mouse with a female rogue, the ending could have easily culminated in a passionate kiss.

Jack and Reardon didn’t quite get that far into the story, with Reardon reading aloud, his voice as lovely as if he were singing another bard’s tale. Instead they reached the point when the knights were first starting to display fondness for one another. Jack had been listening less closely, remembering where the story led and looking out at the distant horizon beyond his kingdom, when he realized Reardon had stopped speaking.

He turned to see Reardon watching him, the book carefully marked with a ribbon to find their place later.

“Even this fictional kingdom with its stalwart knights doesn’t seem perfect,” Reardon said. “There’s crime, corruption, unrest inside the walls and out. Tell me, Majesty, if you could do it all again, what would you have done differently?”

“You mean, besides everything?” Jack droned.

“I’m serious.” That earnest patience was very difficult to turn away from, so Jack didn’t try.

“I… wouldn’t have dismissed all the advisors. A few, certainly, but not the kind and competent ones. I would have stopped my philandering—well, lessened it—to focus on state matters. I would have listened to the people, not to give in to their every whim, but to deliberate and understand what I could truly provide that would be beneficial for all.

“The way things work here now, everyone gets a voice, but there must still be consensus or there would be chaos.”

“Sounds like the castle is the perfect version of a kingdom.”

“As is my penance.”

Pity filled Reardon’s face, and he gave a gentle sigh, but whatever Jack expected him to say, it wasn’t quite what he did. “Why not, instead… a legacy?”

Jack already had one—the dreaded Ice King, whispered about fearfully across the lands as a monster in a frozen castle. That was his legacy. Why did Reardon insist that it could be otherwise?

The young prince shivered, and Jack noticed how high the sun had trekked.

“Forgive me, Majesty, I’m growing cold.” Reardon stood from where he sat on the edge of the ramparts, gathering the book beneath his arm. “I suppose our time is up for today. I had plans to visit the alchemist tower before lunch. Shall I see you tonight?”

“I told you—”

“I’ll keep my eyes closed. At least until you change your mind.” He bowed, and then turned to leave before Jack could protest further.

It was one of the few times when Reardon had offered to leave rather than Jack insisting at the first sign of his potion wearing off. That would have been infuriating enough, but worse was how, more than ever, Jack wasn’t ready to be without him.

He waited a reasonable amount of time before following Reardon, but when he did, he heard Zephyr’s voice.

“First of all, how dare you go about as usual when something clearly happened between you and the king!”

Jack tensed, keeping hidden behind the bend in the passageway.

“It was late!” Reardon protested. “I went to bed. Then, this morning, I wanted to be early for our audience.”

“Reardon!” Zephyr exclaimed, but their voices were drifting, meaning Reardon must be continuing on his path. “I heard you say you’re going to see him again tonight.”

Spymasterindeed, Jack thought.

Once he was certain the pair had moved around the next bend, he followed, keeping his steps silent and his pace even to not give away that he was there.

“Technically, I didn’t see anything,” Reardon said, and then added in a softer private tone, “but I did share his bed.”

Zephyr practically squealed, while Jack continued to grimace, not that he’d expected the encounter to remain a secret. “Naughty princeling. What’s he like in bed? I’ve always wondered.”

“I-I can’t speak of that!”

“Sure you can. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“And as your friend, shall I remind you of what got you into trouble with your love the last time?”

Zephyr scoffed. “I have never been unfaithful to Nigel. I merely enjoy a nice view on occasion. After 175 years,” he muttered, “he’s more likely to get bored of me.”

“You don’t believe that.” Reardon stopped; Jack heard the stutter of his feet and stopped his own forward progression.

“That I’m boring?” Zephyr returned to bright and undaunted. “Heavens no. I’ll pry those details out of you yet, friend.”

He poofed away, he must have, for Reardon sighed like he had at Jack, and the sound of retreating feet continued.

Back to invisible like a persistent wind, Zephyr was probably fully aware of Jack’s tailing now, but Jack didn’t care. He followed Reardon all the same, until the prince left the tunnels to enter the alchemist tower.

“Reardon!” Barclay pounced upon him.

“What happened?” Shayla latched on to him next.

Jack could see them all through his usual removed stone. To his surprise, along with Widow Caitlin and Liam, Josie was also there, the lot of them having gathered in wait for Reardon, the meddling traitors.

“All of you?” Reardon voiced Jack’s thoughts. Then he looked around and realized, “No Nigel?”

“He’s about somewhere,” Barclay said.

“And what of Branwen?” Reardon asked, looking to Caitlin. “You’re his… scribe, he said?”

Caitlin had the grace to look uncomfortable, not that any of their coupling was news to Jack. He’d known from the beginning—Zephyr told him everything—and it had never occurred to him to question his court’s love lives.

They deserved reprieve from the curse. They weren’t at fault for causing it.

“Bran doesn’t generally enjoy group gatherings unless he can have a drink,” Caitlin said. “But ‘scribe’ is… accurate. He dabbles in verse, romance mainly, if you can believe it. He’s actually very good! But he doesn’t like others reading his work, or at least, not while knowing he’s the one who wrote it. He has many books in our library under false names. He’s not particularly fast with a quill, however, so he asks me to help.”

“He asks you,” Reardon reiterated, seeming to enjoy the close press of his other friends on either side of him, “never anyone else, to help write down his romances?”

“He is a perfect gentleman!” Caitlin countered.

“Even gentlemen have wants,” Shayla said, and when Caitlin’s cheeks filled with color, she added, “and ladies.”

“Not that we need you coming around for the show again,” Liam said to Reardon, electric arms visibly crossed in irritation and sparking liberally.

“Enough of all that,” Josie interjected, her golden form floating a safe distance in the corner. “What about you, Reardon? What of my brother? Did you stay in his rooms all night?”

“N-no,” Reardon admitted with a flicker of sorrow, “but I was inside them.”

He proceeded to brashly tell them what he’d already told Zephyr, including his inane ideals over Barclay’s vision and Jack being his love.

“I may have acted rashly, but I refuse to believe I’m wrong. Unless….” Reardon looked to Barclay, who had released him by now but had still been in contact with him for some time.

“I… can’t say for sure,” Barclay said slowly, “but it isn’t impossible.”

“See!”

Fools—all of them.

“I had to see the king straight off when I awoke,” Reardon continued, “but I came here next for more reason than just to offer you all news. The truth is, I have two missions now. To break the curse, of course, first and foremost, for everyone’s sake, including that of my kingdom. But as I work to melt the king, I also intend to find out what killed my mother, so that when I return home, I can catch whoever did it.”

He turned imploringly to each of them, saving Caitlin for last, who didn’t seem surprised.

“Will you help me?”

Reardon hadn’t spoken of his mother’s death since he first arrived, yet now he believed he could catch the culprit? None of those with him laughed at the notion. In fact, they each offered heartfelt agreement to help however they could, even Liam.

“It’s going to come down to days, maybe weeks of experiments,” Caitlin said.

“Liam’s favorite pastime,” Shayla teased, catching her lover’s eye with a smirk. “That means more foraging together, Reardon, trying as many different combinations as we can until we get it right.”

“It hadn’t occurred to me to try before…,” Caitlin said softer, wistful and sad, only to bolster herself and hold her head higher. “But I think we know enough to figure it out. Discovering the right alchemical combination for whatever the poison was, however, won’t necessarily reveal who used it.”

“I know,” Reardon conceded, “but it will help me narrow down who did if the person has used the same poison since, and it would allow us to create an antidote.”

“What of melting the king?” Josie queried playfully.

Reardon’s smitten expression was like a bright summer sun. “When we first made our deal, he asked me what my arguments would be to change the hearts of my people once I returned home. I think I know now. If love can truly break a curse, who could say that only certain kinds of love or the people experiencing it are good and others are not? I know the truth. I just need to convince him.”

Fools, Jack thought again. All fools….

But maybe he was a fool too, because it took feeling the burn of eyes on him to realize he’d been staring at Reardon so intently, he hadn’t noticed when Josie turned to look at him.

She couldn’t see him through the missing stone, it was far too hidden and dark, but she didn’t hide that she knew he was there. Her smugness made him glance away, bringing his eyes to his obvious ice trail, frost covering the stones beneath him and on the wall.

Reardon used the tunnels. He’d see Jack’s ice; he’d known he followed him, watched him, especially after Jack had admitted as much last night. Reardon must have noticed other times these past many days….

Even so, Jack stayed, unable to bring himself to retreat.

It was nearly lunchtime, so the small gathered crew only got so far as a plan for initial foraging that Shayla and Reardon would see to later. Jack followed afterward like a tether connected them, watching Reardon eat in the great hall, where he met up with Nigel, pulling him aside once the meal was done. Jack hadn’t thought much of Zephyr’s earlier mutterings, but Reardon clearly had.

“He thinks I’m bored of him?” Nigel said, stopping short in the hall where they’d found themselves alone—as far as they knew. “That’s why he keeps trying to anger me?”

“It seems so,” Reardon said with the gentle patience of a friend who’d known Nigel for years. “I wonder if he’s so worried, he’d rather push you away than have you leave him first.”

Nigel wasn’t the type to show candid emotion, more likely to grin and joke and distract, like the charlatan he’d once been. Now he dropped all pretense completely. “The truth is… I’ve been fearing he feels that way toward me. How many lovers do you know who’ve been together almost two hundred years?”

“But doesn’t that only prove your love?”

“It does for me.” Nigel surprised Jack with his certainty, and then laughed. “Yet I still feared the same thing he does.”

Reardon’s sympathetic smile suddenly dropped, and he whispered, “What if he’s listening now?”

“No, I can always tell,” Nigel assured him. “Technically, if he wants to know something, he can still tap into the whispers of the wind, even if they’ve already faded, but I can feel when he’s active. Surprising the Spymaster requires finesse, but no one is better up to that task than the man before you.” He gave a little bow. “I am going to prove Zephyr is being a fool. Just like I was.”

“Not exactly what I was striving for.” Reardon chuckled. “But I can support that.”

“Thank you, Reardon.”

“Of course. You’re my friend,” he said without waver and pulled Nigel against him.

“Hey!” Nigel cried soon after, because Reardon had unsheathed the jeweled dagger from his belt. “You deviant!” He laughed, failing to snatch the dagger back, as Reardon held it out of reach. “Did you just use emotional connection to divert my attention?”

“You left me no choice!” Reardon said, even as he was laughing too. “I truly meant everything I said.”

Nigel smacked his shoulder firmly. “I couldn’t be prouder.”

“That was pretty low of me.” Reardon tried to give the dagger back to him.

“Oh no, you earned that fair and square. Unless I steal it again, of course.” Nigel winked.

Reardon proudly sheathed the dagger on his sword belt.

“You never told me where you got that thing. Family heirloom?”

“Oh, um… no. It was a birthday present from my kingdom’s master of arms.”

Lombard, Jack grimaced. Was Reardon so fickle, or did he not realize who truly held his heart if he treasured that gift so much?

“Maybe I’ll let you keep it, then,” Nigel said. “Besides, I need to get to work on a grand gesture to set Zephyr to rights and prove we’re idiots together. A new verse! Something especially for him. Would you help me find the words?”

“I’d be honored. And actually, I need help of my own, though more for a tune to go with something already written. Shall we go to the music room to work on our epics together?”

There he went again, being a hopeless romantic, even after talk of Lombard. Not that Jack was jealous! Jealousy was pointless when….

Wait. Already written? Jack hadn’t seen Reardon working on anything lately that didn’t have mu—

The poem! Jack’s own verse; he couldn’t recall if he’d seen it on his desk after Reardon left last night. The prince really had learned to be a thief!

As Reardon and Nigel left to head for the music room, Jack debated detouring to his chambers, but he was certain his guess was right. And it was not romantic or endearing!

Turning angrily to give chase through the tunnels, he had half a mind to burst into the music room and demand Reardon tear that crumpled parchment to pieces—only to find his path blocked by the golden smirk of his sister.

“Jack, what are you doing?”

“Stopping a thief.”

“Of what? Your cold dead heart?”

Jack snarled and stomped the tunnel floor. “I am aware of the foolish notions that prince is trying to fill you all with—”

“Compared to what you filled him with last night, I think we’re allowed to form our own opinions.”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Jack spat, not that he could deny that part.

“Jack—”

“Out of my way.”

“No. It seems you’ll have to push me,” she retorted, knowing full well he would never risk such a thing. “I know what you’re thinking, that it’s too late for hope. That hoping and being let down again might be more than you can bear. But you know Barclay’s visions are always right.”

“About leaks in the castle, infestations, lost items.”

“And sometimes important things too!” She looked at Jack in sympathy, in pity, and he couldn’t bear that either. “When Barclay was first ushered into the castle, with so many people touching him, he saw a multitude of visions… and one of them was of the court’s forms at night.”

“What?” Jack gaped.

“He didn’t make it two weeks, Jack. He knew the truth before he was even presented to you that first day.”

“He lied—”

“He didn’t want to anger you! He came to my room that very night to confess, that’s why I was the first to learn of his visions, and I agreed to keep his secret until the two weeks were up to avoid any rash judgments from you.”

“You fooled me—”

“Because Barclay saw that it would keep the peace, and he was right. The fact that he turned out to be lovely company as well happened to benefit me.”

Fools, Jack thought again and huffed. Love had clearly warped all his court’s minds! “The prince admitted to me that Barclay is not certain of what he saw in this vision of love. It’s a riddle. A guess! There is no reason to believe it has anything to do with me.”

“Don’t believe it, then. Maybe it isn’t about you. Or maybe, even if it is, it doesn’t mean our curse can be broken. But please—” Josie floated the smallest bit closer. “—if we’re stuck with this curse forever, then at least find some happiness for yourself like the rest of us. It took me two hundred years to find my love. Don’t wait all of eternity to find yours.”

She left, floating elegantly away from him.

Jack was still angry, at Reardon, at everyone, but the bitter knots forming in his stomach made him loathe the idea of following the prince anymore today. It would only tempt him to chase fairy tales himself—like the unattainable ending to his poem.

REARDON SPENTmuch of the afternoon with Nigel in the music room, though neither felt their work was close to completion after only one day. Reardon wanted his tune to be perfect, and Nigel wanted his epic to be unmatchable as well. They’d continue to help one another until both pieces were just right.

Before dinner, Reardon and Shayla went out to forage for several specific items to begin testing. After learning Caitlin’s story, Reardon hadn’t been certain he wanted to go down this route. His father had given so much of himself trying to discover the truth of what really happened to Queen Reagan. Reardon didn’t want to lose himself to it too, but as the days passed since hearing what had really happened, he hadn’t been able to shake the dream that he could finally put all this to rest for everyone.

He and Shayla were late getting back for dinner, the sun setting before they had finished eating. Reardon was hurrying his dinner to more swiftly join the king, even if he thought he might discover a locked door when he finally arrived.

“What’s the rush?” Barclay asked. “I thought you’d want to spend more time in the tower starting experiments.”

“Discovering what killed my mother is only one of my goals. There’s time for everything, but tonight, I have somewhere to be.” Reardon had only just started to get up when a commotion struck.

The members of the court—sans the king, of course—burst in from the back of the room.

They were all human, and everyone in the castle knew the truth—but they didn’t all know that Reardon knew, and several people gaped and cast Reardon nervous glances.

“Didn’t you all hear?” Branwen called, leading the pack. “The Emerald Prince had a run about the castle last night.”

He looked much as Reardon had seen yesterday, since he’d still been dressed at the time, in a simple sunset-colored tunic—though in Reardon’s mind, he imagined he’d look quite at home in heavy armor.

The others Reardon had seen in various states of undress, so it was different seeing them in normal finery: Zephyr in similar dress to his usually transparent doublet, Liam in a long robe-like cloak befitting of a wizard, and Josie in a beautiful gown of cream and gold.

“Now,” Branwen went on, as he came to stand behind Reardon at the center table, “let’s see if I can teach our royal pain in the rear how to drink properly.” The slap Branwen gave to the middle of Reardon’s back rivaled any from Shayla, and there was a loud chorus of cheers.

“N-no, I can’t—”

“You can.” Branwen wedged in between Reardon and Barclay—who didn’t seem to mind once Josie sat at his other side—while Zephyr and Liam joined their respective partners. “I hear you bedded the king,” Branwen whispered, “yet he’s still being an ass. Maybe make him sweat a little tonight.”

Dissent was readily on Reardon’s tongue, but his words went stale. He hadn’t considered that tactic. He’d told the king he would come see him. The king was expecting him to try.

Maybe making him wait had its advantages.

“Seems the ruling came early!” Oliver raised his voice over the din, standing from the end of one of the long tables and raising a glass. “By decree of our own court, the Emerald Prince is fully initiated!” He thrust his glass higher in a hearty hail that everyone mirrored, a full glass of ale being pushed into Reardon’s hand that he knew from experience he didn’t handle any better than wine—but he was willing to try. “To the prince!”

“The prince!” the others cried, and although Reardon had begun to feel at home days ago, a new warmth filled the crowded hall.

Even those who’d sneered at Reardon, like the fierce blond and her darkly colored elven lover, toasted him and offered welcoming smiles.

As for the king….

Reardon clanged his goblet with Branwen’s and took a hearty swig.

The king could wait.

JACK WASnot waiting for Reardon.

But it had been hours since the sun set, and where in the heavens was he?

Jack had planned to lock his door, deny any future knocks, and once again threaten Reardon bodily harm if he didn’t stay away. None of those things could be accomplished without the prince’s presence! It was infuriating to be left sitting at his desk—where his crumpled bit of parchment was indeed missing—and tap his fingers without so much as a shuffle of approaching feet on the stones outside his door.

If it had been any other night, Jack would be in his bath, enjoying a glass of wine and perhaps some bread and cheese. He didn’t require food any more than he required sleep, but he could still enjoy the taste after dark. Now he wasn’t doing any of those things, too busy wondering when the prince might slip into his room again.

Two hundred years Jack had gone without touching someone or being touched. Now, after only one night of rekindling those forgotten fires, he yearned to feel it all again.

He pounded a fist on his desk in frustration.

A thud, like an echo, snapped Jack’s attention back to the door. Not footsteps or a knock—a thud.

“Mmmajesty?” a voice slurred.

The knob turned—

Fuck!Jack leapt from his desk to intercept, realizing he hadn’t locked the door after all, but it was too late, the door was swinging open with Reardon standing right there to see—

Nothing. He had a scarf that Jack recognized as Josie’s wrapped around his eyes.

Reardon stumbled across the stones, nearly face-planting, and Jack reached him just in time to catch him. At the same moment, Jack swung his door shut again, in case any foolish others were daring to wait on the other side to steal a peek.

It didn’t seem as though anyone had been there, but they had to have gotten Reardon close to the door before setting him loose, because he was in no state to walk, even if he hadn’t been blindfolded. At least they’d removed his weapons, but he smelled like he’d taken a midnight swim in a vat of ale, and then rinsed his mouth with wine.

“Bran was tryin’ to teach me to drink!” Reardon raised a hand as if to emphasize his point as a sweeping declaration, only to nearly swing himself right over, forcing Jack to lift one of the price’s arms over his shoulders to steady him. “But I’m… I-I’m… I’m not very good at it,” he finished with a giggle.

“Pitiless vultures,” Jack growled. “They told you to come here like this?”

“Nnno,” Reardon said innocently, cheeks flushed from drink and lips rosy and sweetly smiling, as he turned to Jack. “Bran and, um… Josie! And the others… tried to stop me, but I… I said I gotta! I promised. Did you miss me?” His prettily parted lips puckered, and he launched forward with impressive accuracy.

“No.” Jack only just managed to heave him backward before they connected.

“You didn’t?” Reardon asked miserably.

“You’re not putting your mouth on me,” Jack explained.

“But I haven’t kissed you yet! I-I… I bedded you before I kissed you. My first kiss….” He giggled again, and the truth of that sank Jack’s stomach.

He’d deflowered a man who’d never even kissed someone. He was definitely not going to kiss him now. “There will be none of that while you’d taste more like a barrel than a man. Now, come here.”

Jack hefted Reardon forward, dragging him across the antechamber. The prince was still light, but his near-dead weight did not help. Once Jack had gone a few steps and had a better handle on Reardon’s limp limbs, he lifted him into his arms to carry him like last night.

Reardon rested his head on Jack’s shoulder and hummed happily, too much like a rag doll to coil his arms around Jack’s neck this time. His smile remained intoxicated and dreamy when Jack laid him out on the bed, a catlike stretch erupting as he settled in and clung to Jack’s arms when they started to leave him.

“Will you have your way with me again?” Reardon murmured, shirt untucked and riding up his lean stomach.

“Not tonight.” Jack pried the prince’s fingers from his forearms.

“Tomorrow night?” Reardon reached after him.

“We’ll see,” Jack said. He had planned to reprimand Reardon for stealing his verses, but now was not the time. “Now, I need you to stay awake until I’ve gotten some water and food in you.”

“Are you certain you can’t get other things—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Jack ordered. His self-control was wafer thin as it was.

Reardon pouted but said no more, and Jack used the reprieve to escape. The prince’s pores were practically sweating ale. A cool cloth, sweetly scented, would help.

And water.

Muchwater.

Jack forced Reardon to swallow down a glassful and half of another before he allowed him to wave it away. He even stuffed a crust of bread down Reardon’s throat before picking up the cloth he’d brought and beginning to wipe at the prince’s brow and down his neck. The scent of lilacs permeated, same as the bath, and Reardon took a big breath, as if to bask in it.

“A field of flowers… outside a deep wood,” he said, sighing blissfully. “That’s what being with you reminds me of.”

Those were the most sensible words Reardon had said so far, but just poetry again, fantasy. Jack didn’t know how to respond, so he chose not to. He simply wiped at the sweatier places on Reardon’s skin and then laid the cool cloth to rest on his forehead.

Reardon’s hands found Jack’s wrists and held them, but his breathing soon evened out and the grip went slack. Slipping away would be easy then, yet Jack didn’t rush to do so, enjoying the light touch of Reardon’s soft fingertips. Once he was certain Reardon was asleep, he rose to put everything away and refilled the water glass should Reardon need it later—which he would.

Jack had no intention of sleeping himself, and Reardon was taking up the whole center of the bed anyway, so he pulled the covers down to fit Reardon beneath them and tucked him in.

“I still… miss her….” Reardon grasped Jack’s wrists again, barely audible as he roused. “She was… so good… kind and loving. Why would someone kill her?”

His mother, Jack realized. If ever he’d thought there was selfish intent in this prince, he knew better now. “I don’t know.”

“She might have changed things… as I wish to. Because of that?”

“Maybe.”

“Conspirators working against my kingdom… killed my mother. I… I must solve it and discover who they are. I must go home.”

The warmth in Jack’s chest returned to bitter cold. “Then you should.”

Reardon smiled, and with the blindfold, Jack couldn’t be sure if he was truly awake or dreaming. “When I have the answers, I will… but not until the curse is broken and you believe you are my love. Then, my king, once you are free… I will free everyone.”

Heat returned with a vengeance, but not to Jack’s chest—it stung his eyes, hot and wet and dangerous. Reardon was a fool—he was a fool, a fool—and he went limp again, head lolling to the side to show he’d once again drifted off, leaving Jack with his dreams.

Jack pulled away more swiftly than before, dizzy and feeling the need for a cool cloth of his own. He knew only one thing for certain.

He hated the Emerald Prince—for forcing him to hope.