Chapter 48. Frost and Blue - Part 2
The hall was empty when they rose from the table, their footsteps soft over the marble. The air was heavy with the mingling scents of spiced venison and bloodwine, though Clarisse thought the warmth of it lingered more from Chaitav's gaze than the food.
He offered her his arm again, the gesture almost courtly in its precision. She accepted, her pale fingers resting lightly against the gold embroidery of his sleeve. His feathers brushed her knuckles when he moved, their turquoise sheen luminous in the lamplight.
"This way," he whispered, his voice hushed. Lower now and stripped of the feigned mask he wore earlier - dinner's easy charm.
He did not lead her toward the gardens or the music chamber, but into a smaller salon — a room clearly rearranged for privacy. No books, no harps, no maps of kingdoms cluttered it. Only a low divan against one wall, a fire that burned hot and bright in the hearth, and candles whose flames carved shadows across their faces.
Clarisse's first instinct was unease. "We aren't- This isn't—"
"No," Chaitav interrupted gently, tilting his head. His finger placed softly on her rosy lips to hush her, "...it's not a bedroom. Not a trap. Only… quiet."
He released her arm only to step closer. She could feel the heat of him now, the restless energy beneath his polished manners. His eyes, blue as cut sapphire, studied her with an intensity that unsettled her and thrilled her all at once.
"You do realise," he said, a faint smile curving his mouth, "that you look nothing like what they say you are." His arms snaking around her waist as her pink eyes looked up at him in question, as her heart hummed in her chest at the thrill of what may happen... that was inappropriate and she tried her best to continually dismiss those thoughts.
Her heart fluttered. "And what do they say?"
"That you are cursed. A flaw of blood. The frost's mistake." His hand hovered near her cheek, close enough for her to feel the warmth, but he did not touch her yet. "They are fools. They have never stood close enough to see that pale can burn brighter than colour."
Clarisse's lips parted again, but this time she found no words at first. She had been told all her life she was too white, too strange, too much of a reminder of death. And here was a prince, speaking as though she were some hidden jewel. She laughed softly, to cover the quick sting in her chest. "You are skilled at flattery, Your Highness."
"I am skilled," he admitted, "at wanting what others overlook."
The words sank into her, dangerous and delicious. He stepped closer, until the firelight gilded the planes of his face. Clarisse tilted her head, her braid slipping forward over her shoulder, the golden thread glinting like a chain, catching the flicker of the fireplace.
Her voice came out quieter and softer than she expected. "My prince... and what do you see before you now?" It was a question she wanted to ask but was at the same time afraid he would answer like all the others had.
He did not hesitate. His hand rose, brushing her braid aside with deliberate slowness, fingertips grazing her collarbone. "I see a woman who belongs in my garden. White wings among black stone. Frost beside flame."
Clarisse swallowed, heat rushing to her skin. The boldness of his touch startled her, yet she did not pull away. His words, his nearness — they folded around her like silk.
She found herself answering with a smile she didn't recognize as her own. "Do you collect such rare things, my prince?"
His laugh was as infectious and dangerous as his smile. "No. I claim them."
Before she could respond, he leaned in, closing the distance. Not yet a kiss, but close enough that she felt his breath — warm, wine-sweet — against her lips. Her wings, so long held tightly furled, shivered with the instinct to spread.
Her entire body was alive with the possibility of him.
It was then he stopped.
His lips curved, the restraint in his posture as deliberate as his pursuit. "Not yet," he murmured, voice rich with promise. "If I take more of you tonight, my mother will know... know she has already won."
A little disappointed but her heart fluttered altogether once more with the strange admission from the Prince. That admission chilled and thrilled her all at once.
Clarisse blinked, her composure trembling under the weight of his gaze. "Then... why bring me here at all?" she whispered.
"Because," he said, his fingers finally brushing her cheek with reverent slowness, like an artist admiring a fine white marble sculpture, "I wanted to see if I could make frost melt."
Her breath caught. The fire cracked in the silence between them, and she realised her answer was already in her flushed skin, her quickened heart.
She dared to tilt closer, her own coyness finally blooming into courage. "Careful, my prince. Melt me too quickly… and you may find I burn."
The grin he gave her then was not feigned. It was sharp, hungry, alive, and his eyes darkened a little to match.
They remained like that for some time, although nothing more was spoken between the pair.
When she left that room much later, Clarisse knew she had crossed into dangerous, intoxicating territory, but she would never back out now. Not after living a life receiving looks of disgust and mistreatment for how she was born.
When someone like the prince looked at her with a reverence that she had never expected to experience in her life, not by any peacock and certainly not a prince of the royal family.
Her cheek and lips still tingled where his hands had touched her face, and she felt his embrace around her. It had been to brief for her, but it was a taste, she thought, of her life to come.
For the first time in her life, she was not merely tolerated.
She was desired.