I flop over the windowsill like a half-thawed raccoon, smear my ass on the stone, and haul myself inside with the grace of a drunken goat.
The moment I land in Loma's tower chamber, I forget how to stay mad.
It's… comfy.
Rustic, posh, ridiculous—like someone tried to recreate a cabin fantasy based on vague fairy tales and royal delusion. Fire's crackling in a big stone hearth, throwing golden light over a polar bear rug. Real fur. Real dead eyes. Real expensive.
There's a carved wooden bed fit for a baroness, bristling with protective runes and cushions that look fluffier than any man I've ever slept with. Three thick blankets in velvet and wool layers. The kind that smell like lavender and generational wealth.
And then there's the samovar.
Perched smugly on a little table like the absolute monarch it is—glistening, steaming, hissing softly. A plate of warm scones beside it. Preserves. Clotted cream. Gods damn it.
I lunge.
Shove a scone into my mouth so fast I forget to breathe. The pastry is buttery, flaky, and blessed by some pastry goddess I clearly abandoned in my youth. I moan like a heretic and crouch beside the fire, letting the heat slap me back into something vaguely human.
Loma stands near the bed, arms folded, watching me like I'm some wild feral thing that climbed in through her window to gnaw on her finery.
"This place is barbaric," she says.
I choke. "Whaff?"
"Barely liveable," she sighs, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve. "The windows aren't even double-glazed."
I blink at her over the rim of a teacup.
Still chewing.
Still thawing.
Still 98% homicidal.
Loma, bless her, is giddy.
Like, full-on sparkly-eyed, pacing-in-her-slippers, hands-clasped-to-her-chest giddy.
"You have to help me escape," she breathes, grabbing my hands like I'm her long-lost savior and not a half-frozen con artist with icing sugar in my cleavage.
I stare at her.
"Escape?"
"Yes!" she beams. "Now that you're here—we can flee together! You'll help me climb down, right? We'll make a sled from the bedposts. We'll ride through the forest. We'll make it!"
I chew my scone slowly. Swallow. Then raise a single frozen eyebrow.
"Girl," I say flatly, "it's near freezing outside."
She blinks.
"You have a warm bed, a fireplace, an actual polar bear rug, and a goddamn magic snack machine."
She opens her mouth.
I raise a hand.
"And you want to leave?"
"But Saya—"
"No. Shut up. Listen. Reason time. We stay. Here. Until the snow melts, the sun comes back, and my left nipple stops trying to retract into my spine."
She wilts slightly. I press on.
"Come spring," I say, "we might—big if—might consider bolting."
I gesture around at the luxury hostage suite.
"But if everything else fails?" I lick jam off my thumb. "Hell, I'll marry the warlord. For this? I'd sign up today. Warmth. Food. A big dumb man with too much testosterone and a tragic backstory?"
I stretch luxuriously on the rug.
"Best gig I've ever had."
Loma blinks. Her lips part slightly, and her big, earnest princess eyes go full tragic violin.
"You'd… you'd do that for me, Saya?"
I grin, wide and wolfish, licking a crumb from my thumb.
"Sure, sugarbuns," I purr. "I'd take one for the team. Valiantly throw myself on the muscled, sweaty, emotionally constipated grenade that is your horny captor."
She stares at me, stunned.
I toss the rest of the scone in my mouth, already rising from the fire like a smug phoenix wrapped in bear pelt.
"But first…" I yawn. "Now to bed."
She takes a step back. "Oh."
I saunter toward the ridiculously plush, rune-carved monstrosity of a bed, shedding my damp shawl like a weary heroine in the third act of a scandalous play.
"Do you wanna be little spoon or big spoon?"
Loma makes a strange squeaky noise.
I lift the covers.
Pat the mattress.
Wiggle my brows.
She says softly, "Oh."