The Yule Prince : An Enemies to Lovers Fantasy Romance

Chapter Seven

I lie on the floor with a musty cushion beneath my head. My breath mists in front of my face.

A part of me considered leaving. I could have gotten back onto my horse and rode far away through the snow. I do not dare to think about Friedrich's mood when I see him in the morning.

I saw something I should not have seen; something I did not want to see. And it makes me feel something for him that I do not ever want to feel. Something that is teetering dangerously close to compassion.

I do not want to feel that way for him. I will not feel that way for him. The scars do not justify his cruelty.

And his need for cruelty will be heightened toward me now, I'm sure of it.

He will make me pay dearly for this.

But I need to be sensible if I'm to get home. I have a blade beneath my cushion and I'm a strong fighter. I'd rather take my chances against the Yule Prince than try to make it through the blizzard outside.

Hopefully it will die down before Friedrich wakes up. Then I can leave.

These storms are often violent but quick to pass. I recall the fairy tales the housekeeper would tell me as a child as I wept for my mother; she said the snowstorms came every time the Snow Queen lost her temper. But the Snow Queen's moods were quick to change.

I pray that her moods change quickly tonight.

I do not know how long I lay here, damp and cold and trying to sleep, but at some point, I hear the thud of footsteps. I grasp the hilt of my knife underneath my pillow.

And something heavy falls on top of me.

With utter confoundment I realize it is a blanket.

"The bedroom is disgusting. I will sleep out here."

The floorboards creak as Friedrich sits down behind me. I dare a glance over my shoulder. He stretches out onto his back and folds his arms behind his head.

Because he's not looking at me, I pull the moth-eaten blanket over my body and bask in its warmth. I had always thought that Friedrich was cold blooded, but his body heat washes over me too.

Slowly, the feeling comes back to my hands and toes.

My pulse is racing though.

I do not know what this game is. I do not know why instead of punishing me for what I saw in his bedroom, he has brought me a blanket.

His breathing is steady behind me. And I need to say something. I need to fill the silence and get rid of this weird tension. It feels as if no-one has spoken for an eternity.

"I did not know," I say finally. I keep my hand on the knife beneath my pillow.

"That my father beats me? I did not suppose that you would."

He shifts behind me and I tense, but he is just scratching his jaw.

"I. . . I should have knocked," I say.

"Knocking, yes. I do find that to be a fairly simple and useful piece of everyday etiquette. Particularly when entering someone's bedroom."

I breathe out sharply through my nose. "I'm trying to apologize, Friedrich."

"Well, you're not doing a very good job of it, are you?"

I glare over my shoulder. He's staring at the cobwebbed rafters, his hands behind his head and white shirt crumpled. The corner of his lip is quirked up.

"Go on then. I'm waiting," he says.

I stare at the unlit hearth, keeping my back to him.

"What were you doing with your shirt off anyway?" I say sullenly.

"Oh, it's my fault now, is it? That you barged through the door with all the prowess of a polar bear? I mean why would you assume that, having been caught in a storm, I would proceed to change my wet clothing within the privacy of my own bedroom?"

I exhale. "I just mean. . . I thought you didn't feel the cold."

He falls silent a moment. "I feel it in a way, I suppose. It just doesn't affect me. It is strange that it affects you, if what my father said is correct."

He shifts behind me. A moment later he pokes my cheek. I slap his hand. "What are you doing?"

"You are cold," he says as he settles back down. It could be my imagination, but I think he moves a little closer to me.

"Obviously."

"If your father is St. Nicholas you shouldn't be. Although. . . you touched the poker when it was hot so perhaps you do have some power. How did you do that, exactly?"

He's trying to sound bored, but I can tell he is intrigued.

"How should I know? I thought I was mortal until earlier this evening. I just didn't want to lose to you, I suppose."

"So, perhaps your power originates purely from your spite toward me. How very you, Joy."

"My spite?" I release my hold on the knife and turn to face him, managing to entangle myself in the moth-eared red blanket as I do. Friedrich's eyes glint. "You've tormented me my entire life, Friedrich. You've been nothing but cruel to me. Why? Why is it that you hate me so much?"

The candles are burning low in their holders, and they flick shadows across his angular face as he frowns. "Is it not obvious?"

"No."

He stares at a spot of damp spreading across the rafters.

"For my entire life, you have been treated with nothing but kindness," he says, finally. "My father, the Great Krampus, gave you everything that your heart desired. While I, his own son, was given nothing but punishment and cruelty."

My eyebrows raise. "You're envious? Of me?"

I could almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Almost. Because the image of his scarred back is seared into my mind. And there is nothing funny about that.

"Yet you have –" I bite my lip. "You have shown me kindness tonight."

He frowns. "All these years I thought you'd gotten away, punishment free. But now I see that my father saved the worst punishment for you, all along." His expression is unreadable as he stares at the ceiling. "Marriage to me."