‘Are you hurt?’ he asked again, shaking her ever so slightly to cut through her fear.
‘No. I’m okay. The wood burner,’ she cried, pointing to the cabin, where black smoke was coming out through the door she’d left open.
In three heartbeats he went from relief to fury to exasperated action. He realised exactly what had happened as he launched into the cabin, hating—absolutely hating—leaving the doors open, knowing how much invaluable heat was escaping.
Pulling his jumper up, he covered his nose. There wasso muchsmoke.
She’d let the fire go out—that much was clear. He wanted to curse her, but really he was cursing himself. What would a princess know about keeping a wood-burning stove lit? He hadn’t even shown her where the wood was kept. He eyed the storage box beneath his grandmother’s knitted throw, which contained enough dry wood for two days, and just stopped himself from kicking the wet wood she’d brought in from outside. Fire out, damp wood? Just enough for a backdraught to knock out her attempts to relight the thing.
By the time he’d restarted the fire and ensured the dry wood was catching, he turned, expecting to find her beside him, but she wasn’t. He exhaled a sigh of pure frustration. She was still outside.
Stubborn little princess.
They were going to have to clear the air—figuratively as much as literally—or things could get dangerous.
As commander of over six hundred soldiers, he knew how important communication was. And how deadly it could be when it was unclear. His stomach twisted and a cold sweat broke out on his neck. A sense of creeping panic rose as imaginary flashbangs exploded and screams sounded in his ears, but he willed it all away. Freya was the most clear and present danger at the moment. The ghosts could wait.
Gritting his teeth, he gathered himself for a confrontation that had been eight years in the making. He held back just for a second, watching her through the swirls and flurries of snow. Damn stubborn woman.
He could tell she was freezing from here. Making a quick assessment, he figured she’d need to be inside at least within the next five minutes or she’d be at risk of getting dangerously cold. Thankfully she’d grabbed his military jacket, thermal-lined for sharpshooting.
She was so beautiful, he thought as the snow raged and his conscience screamed at him to get her inside.
‘Freya!’ he yelled, beckoning her inside with a jerk of his hand.
She shook her head.
What was she playing at?
‘Inside, Freya.’
‘No!’ she shouted.
This was not the time for her to be messing around. Her body was shaking and her lips beginning to bleed into blue and still her eyes spat fire.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re mad at me.’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t deny it. He was mad as hell. But it had very little to do with her failed attempts to smoke out his cabin and everything to do with what he wanted to do to her when he got her back in the cabin. None of which involved clothes and every one of them involved using up all this pent-up frustration between the two of them until it burned out completely.
‘I can’t... I just...’
‘Freya, you’re freezing. Just come inside,’ he said, taking a step towards her.
‘I’m n-n-not. I’m f-fine.’
‘Freya, don’t be difficult,’ he said, knowing the statement would rile her.
‘Kjell Bergqvist, do not sp-sp-speak to me like I... I’m a child!’
‘Then,’ he said, reaching her in easy strides, ‘stopbehavinglike one.’
She glared up at him—haunting pale amber eyes flashing like Goldschläger. He could almost feel the alcohol burn his throat. It was enough. He bent his knees, wrapped his arms around her waist and hauled her easily over his shoulder. Spinning in the snow, he marched back to the boot room and kicked the door closed behind him.
‘Are you going to behave?’ he asked, trying so very hard to keep the laughter out of his voice.
‘Howdareyou?’ came her muffled response as her little fists pummelled ineffectually against his back.