Chapter 30 Melting Point.
The doors open with a deep groan, and the first thing that hits me is the warmth. It rolls out in waves of firelight and candlelight and a faint trace of smoke that never quite leaves the air. The second thing that hits me is how beautiful it all is. Lavish doesn’t begin to cover it. The floor is white marble, veined with gold. The ceiling arches so high it could hold the clouds. Every surface gleams, the mirrors catching light from sconces, drapes spilling down like liquid velvet and roses everywhere. And that’s when I realise that it’s not just decorated. It’s been... prepared. The garlands, the flowers, the tables half-dressed in fine linens—it all looks like a wedding that never quite got to happen. My chest twists. He walks beside me, silent, his shoulders stiff. The echo of our footsteps fills the hall where laughter and music should have been. Every candle burns low, every bloom already wilting. I want to say something...something kind, something to acknowledge the hurt, but the words don’t come. It feels wrong to speak here, in this place that still smells like grief and sugar and endings. So I keep quiet. He doesn’t look at me, and I don’t mention the roses that are half-crushed beneath our feet. We walk for what feels like forever. Corridors upon corridors, staircases that twist like labyrinths. At some point, I realise we’ve passed the same vase three times. I start counting doors. One, two, seven, eleven—no, definitely the same one as before. He clears his throat once, then again, pretending he knows where he’s going.
“Lovely place,” I offer lightly. “Very… circular.”
He pauses mid-step, and I see the faintest flush creep up his neck. He has no clue where he wants to take me. The King of Dragons. In his own castle. It takes everything in me not to laugh.
After another quiet stretch of marble hallway, I decide to save us both from the awkwardness. “So,” I begin, “would you happen to have a glass of water?”
He turns toward me instantly, eyes brightening, almost relieved to have a task he understands. “Yes,” he says too quickly. “We have water.”
I blink at him, lips twitching. “Great. Can I have some?”
He nods rapidly. “Yes, of course. The kitchen.”
“Perfect,” I say, pretending not to notice that he’s now looking around as though trying to remember where the kitchen actually is. After a few wrong turns, two wrong corridors, and what might have been a very fancy broom closet, we finally step into a large, open room filled with the smell of sugar and spice. The kitchen. And it’s chaos.
Not loud chaos—quiet, melancholy chaos. Staff members move slowly, tidying up what must have been an enormous event. Platters of untouched food line the counters. A roast half-carved. A row of crystal goblets that never saw use. And in the centre of it all is a cake. A massive cake. It’s a tower of white icing and gold trim, flowers piped in delicate detail, tall enough to reach my shoulders if it were on the floor. It's beautiful, perfect really and oh so tragic all at once.. Damien stills beside me completely. Every muscle in his jaw tightens. His eyes flick over the scene once, twice. The staff glance up and immediately drop into deep bows. One by one, without a word, they scurry from the room, leaving the two of us alone among the ghosts of celebration. The silence that follows feels really heavy. I glance sideways at him. His expression doesn’t change, but his hands flex at his sides. I can see it—the effort it takes not to let the heat slip through, not to burn what’s left of something that was never meant for him. My throat tightens for him because I heard the whispers, the music, the way the bells stopped. The way he looked standing at the altar, waiting for someone who never came. I shouldn’t feel guilty. It wasn’t my fault. But I do. I can’t imagine the humiliation of it. The heartbreak. To stand in front of an entire kingdom and realise the one person who was supposed to meet you there never would.
He takes a breath, slow and heavy, and turns to face me. “I—” he starts, then stops. His gaze flicks to the cake, then back to me, unreadable. “Would you like… water?”
I nod softly. “Water would be nice.”
He moves, crossing to the counter and filling a glass from a silver pitcher.
When he turns back, he holds out the glass like it’s an offering. Our fingers brush, just for a second, and that’s all it takes. The water flashes over with frost, thin at first, then blooming outward until it’s a perfect, solid block of ice.
“Shit,” I mutter, staring at it. “Of course. My first actual glass of clean water in days, and I turn it into a damn snow globe.”
He blinks down at it, then at me, like he’s half impressed and half… concerned for his kitchenware. The look makes me groan. “I swear I didn’t mean to,” I tell him quickly, frowning at the cup like it personally betrayed me. Then ever so slowly, like I’m a wild thing that might bolt, he covers my hands with his. His palms are so warm it almost hurts. I can feel the magic beneath his skin, thrumming and alive, pressing against mine like it recognises me. He bows his head a little, exhaling softly into the cup. The breath that leaves him is heat and sunlight and dragonfire all at once. It ghosts across my fingers and melts the ice instantly, the water sighing back into itself.
He looks up through his lashes when he’s done, voice low. “Better?”
I swallow and nod, pretending my heart didn’t just do that stupid fluttery thing. “Better,” I manage.
He still doesn’t move. His eyes catch mine, golden again for a heartbeat before they darken back to brown. It’s a very intense way to stare at someone over a glass of tap water.
“Thanks,” I say quickly, if only to break whatever that moment just was.
“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, quiet but steady.
I take a sip of water to distract myself. He watches me like I’ve just rewritten the laws of physics.
I glance up at him again, “You know, I usually only freeze things when I’m nervous. So… maybe next time, just hand me a mug instead of a heart attack.”
That earns me the smallest twitch of his mouth.
“Careful,” he says quietly, eyes flicking to my lips, then back. “You might freeze me next.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” I shoot back, tilting my head. “You run a little hot.”
For a moment, I forget about the ruined wedding, the whispers, the frost. For a moment, it’s just us standing awkwardly in the wreckage of a cake too big for either of us. And maybe that should scare me. Because if he can melt my ice that easily…then maybe I’m the one in danger of thawing.