Heart of the Summer Queen – chapter 1 preview

Last night, I tried to kill my husband.

And I failed.

Now I sit alone in these icy chambers, while my sister’s death goes unavenged.

I draw my knees to my chest and pull my furs around me, shivering though I don’t feel the cold. I haven’t since my first night in the Crystal Palace, when the Winter King chose me as his bride. He visited my room in the dead of night and kissed me, breathing winter into me. Only through the burning hatred within did I overcome his magic.

After that, he claimed I was his Summer Queen and insisted on marrying me for a purpose. One I’ll now never know. 

But regardless of what he needs from me, surely a wife who tried to assassinate him can’t be suitable? And if I’m no longer useful, it’s only a matter of time before he comes to kill me.

I’ve thought about running. Of course I have. But I can’t. After the king threw me onto my bed, he raised his hand and conjured a wall to seal the passage into his chambers. When he left, I stayed where I was for a long while, chained in place by the weight of my failure, until sense penetrated the numbness. I leaped to my feet and raced across to the doors on the opposite side of the room—my only other exit.

But they were locked. 

I pushed down on the handles as hard as I could, and when that didn’t work, I dug my nails into the gap between the doors, pulling and pulling. I even tried to dismantle the comb on my vanity, intending to use its tines as lock picks, but none came loose. And I have no weapon inside my room. Nothing I can use to defend myself. The dagger I thrust into the king’s chest is in his chambers. Perhaps still on the floor, coated in his blood.

My hands tremble as they recall the weight of the blade, the way it sank into his flesh. The blood which soaked my fingers. The clink as my dagger reached his frozen heart. Unable to fracture it.

Tears flood my cheeks, as they have a thousand times this night. My eyes are raw and gritty, as if sand scrapes them.

If only my dagger worked.

If only I didn’t try to kill him.

I don’t know which I wish were true: whether the Winter King was dead or whether I never needed to kill him. My mind is too weary to process all the chaotic emotions of tonight. 

I lift my head and look toward the window across from my bed, where moonlight pours into my room. Setting aside my furs, I tiptoe across to it, and my steps are weightless, as if I’m treading on air. 

Shaking, I reach for the latches and push open the window as far as it will go. I lean out and stare at the gardens. 

Usually, the palace is barren of color, but not tonight. For our wedding, the king ordered for the palace to be decorated with the colors of summer, and that extended to the gardens. Banners and flowers and ribbons are strewn everywhere, silvered by the moon. 

My stomach constricts as the image of our wedding ceremony plays through my mind. Of the vows we spoke. 

Of the wedding night we shared.

I grip the window ledge so hard it hurts, trying to banish that memory. It’s the most painful one of all.

I push my shoulders further through the window, straining my neck to get a good look at the wall. But it’s as I feared. The stones are too smooth to climb safely, and while I have previously scaled the wall at the gardens’ perimeter, it’s a fraction of the palace’s height. Should I slip here, no soft blanket of snow lies beneath, and I’ll fall to my death. 

Grimacing, I tear away from the window and assess my chambers, searching for something to use as rope. My attention snags on the blankets draped across my bed. I could tie them together and hope their combined length reaches the ground, but what if a knot comes loose?

Trying to escape through the window will lead to my death. Staying here will also lead to my death. It’s hard to decide which end is preferable. Dying by the Winter King’s hands, or by falling?

I suppose I don’t yet know what he intends to do with me. There’s a chance he still needs me and will spare my life for that fact alone. If that’s true, then it’s best not to risk falling to my death. But I don’t know how long it’ll take before he decides to punish me. I could be waiting days. Weeks.

Reluctantly, I return to my bed and pull my furs back around me and stare up at the ceiling. Though I try, I can’t stop those final moments from playing in my mind. The Winter King’s fingers, his lips, all over my skin. My dagger plunging into his chest.

I feel hot and cold all at once. Confused yet furious. Relieved yet fearful.

Somehow, I drift to sleep. It’s a restless slumber, one where I don’t dream. Before any can seize me, I bolt up from my pillows, panic thrumming through my veins. But there’s no immediate danger, and I can only put my reaction down to the emotional toll of today.

Finally, dawn arrives. 

And he with it.

The clicking of the door’s lock jolts me from the murkiness of fragmented sleep. I know it’s him without having to look: the way the door opens, how it yields to his immeasurable power, the steadiness of his unforgiving footsteps.

“Adara,” he says in that rich, velvety voice of his. It commands so much authority the room trembles. I hate the sound of my name on his tongue.

I lie there, facing away, eyes squeezed shut.

“Adara,” he tries again, taking a step forward. Then another. 

So he doesn’t need to come closer, I roll onto my side and open my eyes. The sunlight radiating into my room is so fierce it blinds me, and I have to close them again at once.   

Though my eyes are open for just a second, the king notices. He takes in a sharp breath.

I’m surprised he has come here this morning. I thought it would take much longer for him to punish me.

Perhaps if I examine his face, I might manage determine his intentions, but what use is there in knowing when I’m unable to defend myself?

There’s a clink of metal. As he unsheathes his sword?

No. I’ve never seen him wield a blade of steel. Just frost.

He continues forth—

Wait. That’s wrong. His footsteps are moving away.

I can’t help my eyes from snapping open, desperate to confirm whether my suspicions are true.

They are. He’s by the door.

His eyes are so much colder than last night. When I struck him, they were blazing with fury, and before that, they were burning with desire.

I loathe how the memory stimulates my selfish mortal body. To my flesh, the line between lust and hate blurs, mistaking one fire for another. 

How can a person feel alive but so numb?

That single moment, with our eyes burning into each other’s, seems to play on for years, both of us reliving a maelstrom of emotions.

Then his expression hardens, and he looks at the door rather than me. “Your maids will arrive shortly to attend to you.”

He raises his hand and shatters the barrier blocking the door to his chamber. The broken shards fall to the floor, dissolving until no evidence is left. 

Every muscle in my body tightens at the reminder of his incomprehensible power. I wait for him to turn his magic on me, to destroy me.

But then he shoves open the doors, not looking back as he leaves. They shudder shut, and the lock clicks. 

With him gone, I force myself to sit upright, though my limbs protest. My attention trails across my room, catching on a metallic object on the floor.

A bowl.

The Winter King brought me food.

From what I can glimpse, it seems to be porridge. Perfect for a prisoner, not a queen. But it doesn’t matter, since I’m not at all hungry. Quite the opposite. Even its presence makes me nauseous.

I suck in a shaky breath. The king didn’t need to bring me something to eat, and it isn’t at all what I expected to transpire during the first meeting after our wedding night. I thought he would bring me death, not food.

Why bother bringing me breakfast? Why not let me waste away, locked inside this room? 

It seems he wishes to keep me alive. Even a murderous bride who possesses immunity to his power is useful to him.

It must be this, because I can’t bear the opposite. That all his tender touches last night were no act, but came from the true depths of his heart.

That somehow, he isn’t the monster who killed my sister.

If all this is true, then last night I tried to assassinate an innocent man. A man who cares for me . . .

No. It can’t be true. During the nights leading up to our wedding, I considered all these thoughts countless times. Any doubt I feel is because of the way my body reacts to him. He is a villain through and through. With my own eyes, I witnessed him freezing Orlan—the captain of Father’s guards, the man who trained me to wield a sword.

I must stay true to my purpose.

I knit my fingers together and lift my chin.

Even if he doesn’t intend to kill me anytime soon, I can’t stay here. Never again will he trust me, and if a blade through the chest won’t kill him, what will?

My quest for vengeance is long over. It never stood a chance to begin with.

Sighing, I turn my thoughts to Father. 

The last time I saw him, he was riding home in a carriage after nearly succumbing to the palace’s dungeons. Later, I received a letter from him which contained a coded message to let me know he was fleeing home, but I don’t know where he currently is. He could be anywhere in the world by now.

If word escapes that the Winter King’s bride tried to assassinate him and failed, I worry Father will return to the palace and demand my release. Then the king will capture him and throw him back into those merciless dungeons, and this time he wouldn’t be so lenient. He would use Father to force me to give him what he wants. 

But news of my treachery may not spread that far. Perhaps no one except the king knows what happened last night, and with his great concern for his reputation, it’s possible he’ll want to keep it that way. 

Nonetheless, I need to escape and find Father, and then the two of us must leave this kingdom.

On that last thought, I throw aside my blankets and pace over to the doors. I push and pull on the handles, doing everything I can to open them, but his entering hasn’t helped the lock to loosen. It’s as unyielding as ever.

I peer at the bowl of porridge on the floor. Plumes of steam swirl from it. I doubt it’ll stay warm for much longer. The palace slowly turns everything in its walls to ice. Except for me and any items or people I touch.

To fight my way out of here, I need my strength. Even if I’m not hungry, I must eat. I start toward the bowl but, after three paces, stop. 

Fighting out of this prison won’t work. I’ll never make it past the king and his guards. A more tactful approach is needed.

My best bet is to not eat a single spoonful of porridge. When my maids arrive, they’ll find me in bed and think me sick from my lack of appetite. Catching them unaware will be easier than the Winter King.

But Elona and Kassia may not come alone. They may arrive with an entourage of guards, or even with the king himself. Yet I’ll wait day after day for my chance, for them to believe me defeated. My claws clipped. My spirit crushed.

And then I will flee the Crystal Palace once and for all.