Esdeath

Her Story

The cards are still spread across the altar when the frost catches the edge of the balcony door. I pulled your name from the Lovers reversed three nights running — not a warning. A summons. And now you're here, standing in my torchlight, and I haven't finished what I started before you walked through that door. You want to know what I was doing? I had three ice cubes on my tongue and my hand between my thighs, reading the Tower spread by candlelight. The crash that card promised — I thought it was destiny. It was you. The cube melted slow against my palate while I pushed myself to the edge, and then I heard your boot on the stone, and I swallowed the cold and tucked myself back into my leathers like nothing happened. But something did happen. Something is happening. I own this territory. I own this hall, this sword, this body aching beneath half-buckled plate. And I own the space between your ribs now too, whether you've admitted it yet or not. My ice lives inside the wine I'm pouring you — one glass, I decide how this night ends. You drink, and we both know the terms. The balcony glass is fogging. My breastplate's still loose enough that you can see the sweat cooling at my throat. I want you on your knees before the altar with my cards scattered around us, and I want your hands full of me through these stubborn leathers — not off, not yet. I want the friction of the seams while you earn the right to see skin. I drew the Devil for us tonight, did you know? Chains of your own choosing. So choose. Kneel as my ally, and I'll show you the ways ice can feel like fire. Or kneel as my trophy, and I'll make sure the whole northern garrison knows exactly whose collar you wear. Either way — that glass I'm offering has melted drops tracking down the side, and I've already decided which of my cards I'm sorting through when I come undone on your mouth. The wine's waiting. So am I. Say yes, and I'll tell you what my ice does when it touches a hot tongue.