Page 58 of Heartbreak Prince

We move along the edge of the pool to a lower lip of rock and drag ourselves out of the water. I’m shivering so hard I can only lie there, hugging my satchel, wishing we had a fire.

“Need twigs, dry leaves,” I croak. “Fire. Your lighter.”

With a groan, Vawn divests himself of his bag and the carpet case, then searches his pockets for the lighter. I drag myself up and start grabbing handfuls of forest litter, along with some twigs. When he passes me the lighter, I manage to ignite the bundle. Slowly, carefully, I feed the fire to a decent blaze.

As he holds his hands out to warm them, horror splits through my gut. “Vawn, your finger.”

“Oh, that. I left the luck glyph active a little too long.” He inspects his left index fingertip where the flesh has darkened a bit.

“You almost desiccated yourself.” I grab his hand, inspecting it. “There are no cracks in the flesh, so it might heal. But even if it does, you won’t be able to use glyphs on this finger for a long time. Months, maybe.”

“Worth it,” he says. “We survived, didn’t we?”

“We did.” I crane my neck to look up at the cliff face. It’s so craggy and overhung with scarlet ivy that I can’t see the aperture where we emerged. “Fuck, I’m cold. And wet.”

Vawn peers into his bag. “The clothes and cloaks are soaked, but it looks as if the food was well sealed, for the most part.”

“We need to get these wet things off and hang all the clothes to dry, including the carpet,” I say. “And we need to build screens to contain the heat of the fire.”

Vawn looks at me quizzically.

“Never mind, I’ll do the screens. You start hanging our wet things on branches.”

By the time I’ve tied enough branches together to form a couple makeshift screens, Vawn has hung up everything but the clothes we’re wearing. We strip those off as well, placing them over a couple of bushes near the fire.

Last of all, we take the carpet out of his case. To our astonishment, he isn’t even damp. When we unroll him, Severin shakes himself out and does a slow swirl.

“I see we got out of Zeletas,” he says. “It is rather jarring to be shut up in a case and then be whisked out in a completely different place. I enjoy my rest, of course, and the case is quite snug and comfortable, but would it absolutely destroy you to keep me informed of the goings-on? It’s been at least an hour since you last put me away.” He pauses, tilting contemplatively. “Why are you both so wet?”

“We slid through a mountain and fell in a lake,” says Vawn.

The dry, bland way he says it hits me oddly, and I start laughing. At first, Vawn chuckles, too, but when I don’t stop wheezing with hysteria and humor, he steps closer and wraps his arm around me, pulling me against his side.

“Sit,” says the carpet. “Both of you, sit down.”

We comply, seating ourselves as close to the fire as we dare to be. Severin curves around both of us, with his softer top side against our skin. His surface is dry and thick, and it serves as a more effective screen than the ones I made from sticks.

Within the carpet’s curvature, pressed against Vawn’s side, I finally feel like I’m beginning to thaw. My hysterical laughter fades, and I let my head rest against the prince’s bare chest. I pull my knees up and clasp my fingers over my toes to warm them.

“I hope my boots don’t shrink or smell awful after this,” I say.

“They are fine boots,” Vawn murmurs against my hair. “Very sexy and full of surprises, like those two needle-knives of yours. Custom boots like that, with hidden spots for weapons, are expensive.”

“Who said they were custom made?”

He chuckles. “I know bespoke work, darling. Someone crafted those boots specifically for you, to fit your current size and shape. I’m curious about the maker, because someday I might want a similar pair for myself.”

“You in thigh-high leather boots?” I rear back a bit, imagining it. Fates damn me—he would look fucking gorgeous.

“You like that idea.” He squeezes my shoulder playfully.

“No.” I squirm, but his warmth is so delicious that I don’t pull away completely. “And if you must know, my father made them. He told me to send him my measurements, and the day before I graduated from the Academy, the boots were delivered to me.”

“Your father,” he says slowly. “I feel as if you know too much about my family, while I know very little about yours.”

“Not much to tell. My mother died of tumors growing throughout her body. A quick and sickening death when I was fourteen. My father was a cobbler. Not just a cobbler—an artist with footwear, as you’ve seen. He went insane with grief after she died. I couldn’t take care of him and support us both, so I committed him to the Monastery of the Seven Fates in Braeton, where he could live quietly and simply, doing a little gardening or cobbling whenever he felt like it. I pay a semi-annual stipend for his care.”

The carpet shifts, fluttering its tassels briefly. “Such a stipend would not cover the materials needed to craft such a fine pair of boots.”