Page 9 of Jilted By Jack Frost

I step further into the room, inching backward toward where Cora pointed.

“You, Cora, are like a gift from the gods after everything that’s happened.”

“Hold that thought until you’ve tried the elixir.” She wrinkles her nose. “It tastes like manure, but I’ll bring something to wash away the taste.”

I press my palms together in mock prayer. “Please say you’ve got chocolate cake.”

“We wouldn’t be much of a winter palace without it, even with all this unseasonable heat going on.” She tugs at her collar, clearly uncomfortable in the strange warmth.

My mouth floods at the mere thought of cake. “Then I meant what I said—you’re the best fucking thing that’s happened to me since I got dragged into this frozen hellscape.”

“Such high praise.” Her lips quirk up as she backs toward the door, giving a little wave before disappearing.

I turn and practically sprint for the bathtub. A warm soak is exactly what I need to rid my bones of Jack’s frigidness, which lingers with me even now.

Part of me wonders if I could use the feeling of that iciness to track him wherever he goes—and therefore use ittoavoidhim wherever he goes. Which, yes, is a wild thing to wonder—but Iswearit feels like it’s alive. It’s like it stretches with the distance between us, contorts to follow us when we move. It’s hard to explain, and maybe it’s all in my head, but I feel it nonetheless.

I am seriously fucking hoping itisall in my head. Because if it’s not, and I could follow Jack Frost with the ice he’s coated my heart in, then I can only assume he’d be able to do the same to me. With me.

As the clawfoot tub fills with steaming water, I survey the bathroom. It’s larger than my first apartment was—though it was a shitty studio just off of campus. Still, it’s absolutely massive for what it is. No surprise, really, given how gargantuan this entire palace looked from the outside.

The bathroom is decorated in hues of cool blues and varying shades of white, the floor beautifully checkered with white and deep, soft gray tile. It’s achingly beautiful—the sort of beauty that’s nearly impossible to find in modern America. There’s a large mirror leaning against the far wall, the glass tinted and speckled with age.

I stare at myself in it for a long moment, clothed in a heavy coat and scrubs. I’m so clearly out of place here. Nothing about me looks like I belong in this world—but there’s something about that fact that thrills me, even as I try to deny it, to ignore how full my heart feels.

It’s when I’m studying myself in the mirror, when my eyes glance over my thick coat and see the thin outline of something in my pocket, that I remember—

My phone. Quickly, with a strong hope that perhaps I might still be tethered to my world, even a little, I yank it out of my pocket and tap on the screen.

Nothing happens. Probably because it’s devastatingly cracked. Even a little bent in one corner. Apparently, my fall into this world wasnota graceful one.

With a sigh, I toss it onto the bathroom vanity before I peel my clothes off, turning the faucet off, and sinking down into the tub. I have to stifle a moan at how good the water feels against my chilled skin.

I take my time in the bath, letting my muscles lose all the tension that’s wound them up so tightly, the smell of the minty soap left on the ledge of the tub filling my nostrils as I lather myself with it before moving to my hair.

Even after I’m clean, I linger long enough for the water to become cool enough for gooseflesh to erupt before draining the water and climbing out of the tub. I wrap myself in a large, sinfully soft towel and dry off, trying to keep my body from giving into the shiver that’s desperately trying to fight its way out of my body.

When I’m dry enough to stop dripping water onto the tile floor, I make my way out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom.

Instantly, the smell of warm chocolate fills my nostrils. I inhale deeply, eyes immediately spotting the neatly folded pile of clothes sitting on the edge of the large bed, next to a tray with the most stunning slice of cake I’ve ever seen, along with a small, cloudy white glass with a cork in it.

The elixir. The one that will keep me from fighting the cold every minute I’m here. I grin and quickly stride for the bed.

I don’t waste a single second before uncorking it and downing the liquid like a shot. The taste hits me instantly, and the regret hits me like a train as I’m suddenly fightingthe urge to throw up whatever the fuck I just drank. Instead, I reach for the fork and stab into the chocolate cake. It’s impossible to get it to my mouth fast enough.

Cora warned me it would taste bad, I suppose. Though she didn’t mention it would taste like a dumpster fire of dog shit. The chocolate cake is so sweet and fudgy, so moist, so fluffy and dense all at the same time that it instantly relieves some of the ass water taste from my tongue.

I chew, swallow, and fork another bite into my mouth before sighing deeply and setting the fork down. Already I feel the warmth seeping into my bones—or maybe it’s the cold seeping out.

I can also tell that frost around my heart that the little frost fucker gave to me will remain, no matter how warm the rest of me might be.

I’m grateful to see that the clothes Cora grabbed for me will be comfortable—the second this cake is gone, I’m diving under the covers and sleeping until my eyes refuse to stay closed.

The pants are a soft blue, with flowing, silky fabric and a stretchy waist. The shirt is soft white, overlaid with snowflake patterned lace. The detailing is beautiful. Far better than anything I could find anywhere on Earth. It almost seems a shame to sleep in it, but I’m too tired to do any of the tourist-ing I promised myself I’d do tonight, anyway.

I’ve just finished the cake and am about to peel back the covers when a knock sounds at the door. I assume it’s Cora, probably back to check and make sure I’ve settled inokay, so I shout, “Come in!”

I turn around just in time to catch the vaguely familiar male lean against the doorframe and smile at me appreciatively, eyes running along my body. I can’t tell if he’s calculating what I might look like beneath them or if he’s merely trying to decide what kind of problem I’ll be while I’m here.