My enemy my lover my king

Chapter eight

The march toward the Iron-Hold’s northern fortress was a grueling, miserable trek through sleet and shadow. To their soldiers, Magnus and Seraphina were the picture of stoic leadership—riding side-by-side, discussing terrain and supply lines with clinical precision. But beneath the surface, every time their horses brushed together or their hands met over a map, the memory of the bathing chamber flashed between them like lightning.

By the time they reached the frozen foothills of the Grey Peaks, the weather had turned lethal. A blizzard had rolled in, making it impossible to see the trail, let alone fight a war.

"We camp here!" Magnus roared over the howling wind, signaling for the vanguard to halt. "Dig in! We move at first light!"

Because of the limited supplies and the need to keep the high-ranking officers close, there was only one command tent large enough to withstand the gale. And, as the fates—or perhaps their meddling siblings—would have it, it was the royal pavilion.

Inside, the tent was a small sanctuary of furs and a single brazier of glowing coals. The space was cramped, designed for utility, not for a king and queen who were trying to pretend they hadn't just spent a night in each other's arms.

Seraphina shivered, her fingers numb as she tried to unbuckle her travel cloak. "This cold... it feels like it’s settled in my very bones."

Magnus was already stripped down to his leather jerkin, stoking the coals. He looked up, his eyes catching the way her breath misted in the air. Without a word, he stood and walked over to her. He didn't ask permission. He simply took her hands in his, rubbing them vigorously to bring the blood back to the surface.

"Your skin is like ice, Seraphina," he murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, familiar heat.

"I told you," she whispered, her heart starting to trip over itself. "The Queen of Ice."

"Not last night," Magnus countered. He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her to share his body heat. The heavy furs of the tent floor were the only thing separating them from the frozen earth, but between them, the temperature was rising rapidly.

Seraphina leaned her head against his chest, listening to the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart. "We have to be careful, Magnus. The men are watching. If they think we’ve grown soft for one another, they’ll lose their edge."

Magnus reached down, tilting her chin up so she was forced to look into his dark, hungry eyes. "Let them think what they want. If anyone thinks I’ve grown soft, they’re welcome to test my steel on the battlefield tomorrow."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a slow, agonizingly soft ghost of a kiss. It was different from the wine-fueled frenzy of the night before; this was deliberate. This was a choice.

"We have one bed of furs, one fire, and a storm that won't break for hours," Magnus breathed against her skin, his hand sliding down to the small of her back, pulling her flush against his heat. "I don't want to fight the cold alone tonight. Do you?"

Seraphina’s response was to tangle her fingers in his hair and pull him down into a kiss that tasted of desperate need and the dangerous thrill of the unknown. The war was just outside the canvas walls, but inside, the only battle was the one they were finally, happily, losing.