Face Me

Fenrir recoiled, doubling the space between them with his own rapid retreat.

‘No,’ his voice was a bark. ‘Any price would have been agreed beforehand,’ he gave a curt nod, ‘as was the case in our arrangement last night.’

‘And yet more than a kiss was shared,’ she clenched her hands at her sides once more, before lifting her hand, adjusting the strap of her bag. She’d found peace. Brief, blissful, delightful peace in a few half-moments in the frigid waters of the rock pool. He’d broken it so easily that it felt like a distant memory.

The cold had her shoulders hunching as she struggled not to shiver. She was soaked with icy water, wearing a shirt that needed to be wrung out. Her hair falling in thick damp ropes over her shoulders.

‘There is no payment for protection, what kind of monster do you think I am?’ He was watching her, his face cold, expressionless.

‘A man,’ she replied. ‘I think that you’re nothing more than a man, who might take advantage of the nearest body he finds.’

‘Is that so?’ He challenged but didn’t close the distance, ‘and what does that make you? Desire was shared, Wynter. Unless you’re a particularly skilled actress, I did not imagine your involvement.’

‘It makes me a fool,’ she replied without hesitation, ‘but worry not, your Highness,’ she swept forward. Bowing in mockery of his station. ‘I’ll not impose such desire upon you again. Nor indulge it willingly.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ He demanded, frowning.

‘That had you any interest in me, beyond some curiosity or some unmet need,’ she grimaced, nose wrinkling, ‘then you might not have vanished into the night.’

‘Trust me, it was for your own good,’ Fenrir countered. He seemed to be struggling to know what to do with his hands. He’d reached out for her, instinctively a number of times and each touch had been rebuffed. She had been clear. She didn't want him to touch her. Yet he wanted to, badly. He wanted to close the distance, to make her remember what it felt to be kissed until her lips felt numb. He ached to tear the revealing fabric from her flesh and warm the skin beneath. To explore the hard tips of her nipples as they poked through the damp shirt.

‘Then we are in agreement.’

‘Agreed on what?’ He was also struggling to keep his mind off of her delightful body and focus on the argument they were having. Her accusations had stunned him, like a blow to a head. How could he convince her that his intentions were honourable, when his body was quick to betray him?

‘That whatever happened between us, last night,’ her words came slowly, laboured. As though it took a great deal of effort for her to share them, ‘was a mistake that will never happen again.’

Fenrir clenched his hands at last, pulling them behind his back. Holding onto his own wrist in an effort to stop him reaching out again. He wanted to shake some sense into her, but what good would that do. He needed her to stay away, before he took her life from her. Despite his own furious desire to bed the woman, he wanted her to be free.

She hated him, he realised and lifted his chin. Perhaps it was something that could work to his advantage. Her voice had trembled, when she’d mentioned his rapid departure. He grit his teeth, pulling on his usual mask of cold indifference. One that the subjects of his region were used to seeing. The deception that she’d encountered in the throne room.

‘Agreed,’ his voice was curt as he nodded, ‘as you have surmised, my curiosity has been sated,’ he hated the way her pale blue eyes seemed to flash with hurt. Like clouds covering a clear blue sky, threatening rain. Pain that was replaced quickly with anger. He could understand that. It was easier to hate him, than be hurt by him. ‘You can be quite assured, that other than my lapses this evening, I have no intention of pursuing you further, Miss Wynter.’

Wynter stared at him, cold through to the bone. Chilled and disappointed by his words. She wanted to challenge him, to fight. But what was the point? She didn’t want to be with him. Did she? No.

No, because he was an arrogant son of a goat who spurned her, the second she refused his advance. Had she wounded his pride, so that he wanted to hurt her in turn? She bared her teeth again before turning. Stomping back through the tree’s towards the lodge that had been offered as a home.

‘Halt,’ his voice was a command that snapped through space between them. The tone, angry and exacting was enough to see real fear twist in her insides. Her shoulders, already hunched from the chill of her clothes, tightened further. She wanted to curl up and protect herself. He was a Prince and she had been rude, obstinate and challenging. She’d threatened him with her sword. Wynter closed her eyes, her back to the man once more.

She bit her bottom lip, trying to rein in the terror that the tone of his voice had invoked. Her memories of Malachi were still far too fresh and close to the surface. Much like some of the bruises that he had left her with. Bruises that Fenrir had inadvertently healed the night before during his quest to free her of rose briars.

It has only been a few days, she promised herself. Yet she was already starting to worry that perhaps the bruises around her heart might never heal.

‘Face me,’ Fenrir commanded again when she didn’t move. It took all of her resolve, not to run from the man. Instead she straightened herself up, and lifted her chin. She wouldn’t let him see her terror. She turned, no longer able to meet his eye, embarrassed and ashamed that her confidence was so easily stripped away.