Claus

Twenty-Five

         The back of his hand brushed her leg where her shorts did not reach. She didn't pull away.

         "How did you use them?" His words hung in the dark.

         "I don't know," she breathed. "I knew I needed to get across the ice and that I didn't have a choice but to." Maybe Cassian was right about her, and her truest self really was vindictive and only responded to ultimatums.

         "Our powers are different, but maybe I could . . . help you?"

         Faryn bit her lip, sinking lower into the bed, making sure she faced away from the Fata.

         "You don't have to be scared of it."

         "If Jack finds out, he'll only want to kill me more."

         Cassian's hand pressed into the top of her arm, right under her shoulder. The tips of his fingers brushed the skin at her collar. They were cold, but it wasn't unpleasant. Though Faryn should move, she didn't. 

         "Peter and I aren't going to let that happen. You aren't going to let that happen."

         "Don't underestimate the power of hatred."

         His hand slid down her arm. He probably meant for it to comfort her. "You're so warm." There was a tad too much wonder in his voice.

         "You live in a mountain covered in snow. How can you really be that cold?"

         "It's not that. You just feel good."

         He had to still be half asleep.

         "Cassian—"

         "Shh." His hand halted over her wrist.

         She closed her eyes. "You know, I imagine that's what you'd say before you'd kill me."

         Instead of pulling away, his arm encircled her waist. "Why do you think I have any interest in killing you?"

         "I'm an Elf. You're Fae. It's what we do."

It was as if she felt his eyes peering at her. Maybe he really could see her.

"Isn't it the Fae's mission to pay the Elves back for what happened?"

"And isn't the Elves mission to pay back the Fae?" he retorted.

"Exactly." Her throat swelled. The Fae and Elves who were alive but had avoided the massacre vowed to remove the other from the Earth. The massacre—the Great Slaughter, they called it: when the wedding between a Fae princess and an Elven prince ended in blood and the only survivor was an Elf. No one else. And that Elf couldn't even say who had started it. It was so long ago—before Elves even worked in the North Pole—that it was impossible to believe any of the Fae or Elves who hadn't been at the wedding were still alive. But still there were those who believed they must fulfill the vows made by their ancestors. Too many Elves and Fae believed that. "For all I know you're waiting for the perfect moment to strangle me."

         Suddenly, he tugged Faryn against him, his arm moving from her waist to her neck. Her stomach clenched.

"You think I want to strangle you?" His fingertips barely touched her skin, and yet she was hyperaware of each one. "If I wanted to, now would be the perfect time."

         She couldn't find the ability to speak.

         "Well?" They were close enough that when he spoke his lips moved against her hair. Peter could walk in at any moment. So could Clíodhna. And is that what she wanted? For them to save her?