Thread of Frost

Ch. 35: The Raven

"He seemed afraid," Penny said.

She was curled up in a knit grey blanket, a mug of steaming peppermint tea clutched in her hands. Outside, snow collected on the windowsill like in clumps of powdered sugar. Grayson stirred a pot of tomato soup; he had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the low wooden beams. The cottage wasn't designed for men of his size.

"Who did?" Grayson asked.

"That man." Penny shifted her tea. "The one that took us here."

He lifted the wooden spoon. "Alexander?"

"Yeah."

"I think a lot of people are afraid of Halson." Grayson stirred the soup. "He has power, and he doesn't always use it wisely."

Penny drew her knees closer. "Are you afraid of him?"

Grayson considered this. His blue eyes were dark, the colour of inky twilight skies. "I don't think we should go back to that palace."

"We have nowhere else to go," Penny said.

She took a sip of tea. A candle flickered in the window of the neighbouring cottage; Maribel must still be awake. Baking bread? Cooking a stew? She wasn't sure. Grayson doled the soup into wooden bowls, frowning as he placed them on the table.

"You look cold," Grayson said.

She snuggled further into the blanket. "I'm alright."

"Come here."

Grayson cupped her hands, raising them to his mouth. His breath was warm and tickly. A shiver slithered down Penny's spine, and heat blossomed in her stomach. She was suddenly aware of his knee pressing into her thigh, of the calloused skin of his palms.

She closed her eyes. "Grayson..."

"Sorry."

He pulled back. She grabbed his wrist.

"No," Penny whispered. "Don't stop."

For a horrible moment, Grayson didn't move. She could hear his ragged breathing in the stillness. Her heartbeat was painful in her chest, knocking at her ribs like a fist on a wooden door. Then Grayson took her hands, raising them to his mouth.

"I'm not afraid for myself." Grayson's voice was low and determined. "But when I think about something happening to Maribel, or to you..." His hands tightened. "I've lost you once already, Penny. I can't lose you again."

She looked up. "I'm right here."

"I know," Grayson murmured.

Candlelight flickered across Grayson's face, catching the gold specks in his eyes. He threaded their fingers together. His warm mouth brushed the back of her hand, sending tingles down her arm.

"Is this okay?" Grayson murmured.

Penny's throat was dry. "Yes."

His mouth dropped to the delicate skin of her wrist. "And this?"

She swallowed. "Grayson?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up and kiss me," Penny said.

Grayson's eyes were dark. She could see every blond eyelash, every freckle on his throat. He was gentle at first, and she pushed closer, impatient for warmth. For friction. Grayson made a low sound in his throat, threading his fingers through her hair; heavy auburn locks tumbled from her ribbon, hitting the bare skin of her shoulders.

"Penny."

The word was reverent. Half-gasp, and half-prayer. Penny kissed him again and again, the movements becoming clumsy. The kiss felt like sinking into a hot bath; the sensation of limbs melting and reforming. Home. That was it.