This Mary and Charles are devouring my brain.
There...I said it. They get to me. They make me write. They tease and goad me, they lead me down alleys I hadn't expected, they tell me secrets I never knew.
If you are reading this tale, let me send you a huge hug and thank you kindly for your support. I am rather amazed at the number of notes I have received about it, all of them very positive. :) (Thank you again!) For those of you who have reviewed-I send extra hugs! Please know how much every review and/or private message means to me!
To my two conspirators in Bacon Blake madness, miscreantrose and Cls2011, I cannot possibly express how much I adore you two or how very thankful I am for our friendship and your amazing support! To thefoodofloveismusic who created the most incredible photo to go with this story, I send loads of hugs and coffee chats. :) If you haven't seen her photo on tumblr, you really should check it out. It is on my blog with a link to this chapter. :)
I don't own Mary or Charles, you understand, I just enjoy messing with them a bit and allowing them to manipulate my imagination. I hope you enjoy their antics as their tale deepens and progresses, this saga of the Ice Queen and the Ogre. Cheers, and happy Friday!
Is my lady remaining immobile upon her throne like a good little monarch?
It is the third text he has sent since leaving but half an hour ago to fetch crutches and an overnight bag. She sighs into empty space, begrudgingly touched by his concern.
Stop annoying me, Lord Ogre, and get on with whatever it is you're doing over there.
Just packing the necessities, my lady.
He is staying over—Charles Blake—at her flat—a man she barely knows and finds more attractive than she should. A part of her is relieved, another part terrified, and all of her is more than a little miffed he assumed she would agree to his suggestion with a simple cock of his brow and a flash of white teeth.
God, he has some nerve.
And he will be here—with her—alone—all night. An odd cocktail of anticipation and unease speeds across her limbs, making her tingle before she chastises herself for her own foolishness. Her knee is the size of a water balloon. If that isn't a deterrent to unadvisable attraction, she doesn't know what is.
This little monarch will freeze your nether regions if you dare disturb her rest again, Lord Ogre. I suggest you sever this line of communication immediately.
A small smile turns into a grimace as she adjusts her position, her injured knee throbbing in spite of her ice pack.
With all due respect, your majesty, there are areas of an ogre even an Ice Queen is powerless to freeze.
If he only knew.
Try me.
She realizes too late what her response implies. What the hell was she thinking? She holds her breath, anticipating his comeback, wondering how far he will dare to press this exchange.
Sounds like a rather slippery business to me. I shall employ my largest ice pick to make certain I am up to the task.
Her mind strays where it shouldn't, making her all too aware of her own body.
And if you should start an avalanche, Lord Ogre?
Her face warms decidedly. God—what is she playing at encouraging this line of conversation?
Then I shall find myself buried to the hilt, I suppose.
Damn.
Watch your step, Lord Ogre. Approaching an Ice Queen inevitably leads to a downfall of great magnitude.
Then it's a good thing that this ogre is well-equipped for the job.
She laughs into emptiness, silenced by an unexpected stab of pain that squeezes her eyes shut. It pulses and pierces, and she shifts slightly again, moving her leg in a delicate attempt to appease its anger. She breathes in and out until the worst subsides, allowing her torso to ease back into the cushions one muscle at a time.
She wills herself to breathe in evenly, exhaling in an unvoiced tempo. There—that's better. That's better.
Braggarts rarely live up to their own accolades, you know. I haven't met a man yet who is as well-equipped as he claims to be.
Her knee seizes yet again, making her double over, panting desperately for relief. She counts to ten, numbering each breath, despising the fact that she is in such a vulnerable position.
It is then she remembers why she fled to the park in the first place, the park where her knee was injured—the park where Charles had actually saved her from a far worse injury.
Today is his birthday—Matthew's birthday. Her head begins to pound in time with her knee. One wound is more than enough.
She has called Matthew faithfully on this date over the years, even before they started dating, crooning a ridiculous dirge rather than the traditional birthday song, teasing him relentlessly about being older than she. But today, today he is on his honeymoon, with his new wife. There will be no more birthday phone calls, no more silly dirges, no more good-natured admonishments that he didn't deserve such teasing, especially from her.
She feels something precious wither up inside, something she still isn't certain she can live without, as if a part of her spirit has been severed away. But she has to go on—there is no choice in the matter.
Thank God Charles is bringing that pain medication. Thank God she won't be alone tonight.
Her phone vibrates, but she can't look just yet, needing her wits about her when she takes up his gauntlet, wanting a sharpness of mind lost in the burrows of pain. Jagged angles wane into dull throbs, and she closes her eyes yet again, purposely relaxing her limbs in an attempt to wade this out.
She can handle this. She has to handle this.
It vibrates again, and she stares at the screen, knowing Charles may be getting worried, wanting to salvage what remains of her pride. She stares at the screen, viewing both messages at once.
Your observations are true about mere braggarts. But you should know that ogres always live up to their claims.
And then the second:
Are you alright? You didn't throw a knife at me for that remark, and that has me concerned. You haven't moved off of your perch, have you?
Her heart pounds a bit too loudly for comfort.
Don't be so dramatic, you presumptuous idiot. Just because I don't bite every time you beckon doesn't mean anything is wrong.
Why she just can't offer him a simple thank you is beyond her at the moment.
There's my Icy Monarch. If you're doing that well, I may shower while I'm home.
Take a bloody bath, for all I care. Staying over is all your idea, anyway.
She bites her lip as a wave of nausea hits her out of nowhere.
Which is why it is ingenious, my lady.
She drops her phone on the table, fearing she is about to be sick. Her head falls into her hands, her arms shaking as a cold sweat peals across her upper lip and forehead.
She has to get to her toilet immediately.
The very act of trying to stand nearly makes her vomit on the spot, and she makes it up on one shaky leg, praying she can actually hop to her final destination. The loo seems light years away, and she now wishes she had asked Charles to come back immediately.
What in God's name had possessed her to tell him to take his time?
Just one step at a time, she instructs herself, fighting down dual urges to both cry and heave. She can do this—she must do this.
The first hop is terrifying. The second make her wince all over. The third knocks her flat.
She hits the floor with a thud, crying out audibly as a crippling pain shoots up her leg. Teeth bite into her lip, drawing blood as tears flow stubbornly down her cheek. She tastes bile pulsing up her throat, and she pushes herself backwards with her arms, scooting towards the toilet with the speed of a wounded turtle.
Her stomach makes her pause, and she is certain she is going to become ill all over herself. She concentrates on breathing, on holding whatever wants to come out inside, on scooting herself slightly closer to her goal.
That's when her phone vibrates again.
It is out of her reach, and she cannot go back, not when each centimeter is a struggle, each movement a hard-earned victory.
She hears it again. He is getting concerned. She is both thrilled and mortified at the prospect of his imminent return, knowing she needs him, hating the notion of him finding her in such a state.
"Move," she instructs herself audibly, grunting with each push as tired arms begin to tremble.
She backs into the loo, feeling cool tile under palms, breathing a silent prayer of thanks that she made it this far. Her fingers grab cold porcelain, and she tugs herself closer, leaning her face over the rim as best she can when sitting on her knees is not an option.
She made it…just in time. And that's when it all goes to hell.
Mary is not replying.
Something is wrong, he knows it as well as he knows his own name. Charles stares at his phone, willing a text from her to appear on his screen, waiting for whatever insult she will hurl at him next.
But it doesn't come.
He curses under his breath, tugging his discarded shirt back over his head before sliding back into his shoes. His shower will have to wait until later. She needs him—he is certain of it. God only knows what sort of idiotic maneuver she attempted as soon as he walked out the door and left her to her own devices. Why does she feel such a need to prove herself to him, to make certain he doesn't think her weak or even the slightest bit vulnerable? Never mind that those attributes could be used to describe himself perfectly. He just hopes that she hasn't injured herself further.
That damned stubborn streak of hers.
He chuckles at the irony of it. She is the one person who can challenge him on this front, and he's rushing to her aid, understanding she may not respond well to his sudden appearance even as he pulls his door shut. Well, that's just too damned bad. He's not going to let her wallow in self-pity or suffer further injury on his watch. No—not on his watch.
How the hell did he come to feel so responsible for a woman he has known a mere week? God, he's losing his bloody mind. But she still isn't replying.
Damn.
He is in his car within seconds, speeding towards her flat, wondering just what he will do if she is simply ignoring him. It is possible, he knows, she who describes herself as an Ice Queen and claims to devour men. But he recognizes bravado when he sees it, and he can't quite get over the nagging sensation that there is much more to this woman than she shows to the world.
It still doesn't explain why he has become so attached to their conversations or has appointed himself her impromptu guardian. Chocolate eyes and velvet lips may have something to do with it, as could porcelain skin and a sharpened wit that keeps him on his toes. He has never felt so challenged by a woman, a fact which both intrigues and attracts him much more than it should.
This odd attachment is probably not a good idea for either of them. But God, he is attracted. Too attracted.
He leaps out of his car, sprinting up her stairs with crutches in his hand—trying to catch his breath as he knocks with force.
"Mary!"
He pounds on the door repeatedly, hearing nothing in return, cursing himself for not insisting upon a key before he realizes he never locked the door in the first place. He tries the handle, both relieved and terrified when he feels it give beneath his touch.
If something has happened to her…
"Mary! Are you alright?"
He bursts into the flat, panting audibly, half-panicked to see she is not on the sofa.
"Mary!"
"I'm in here."
The voice is weak but steady, and he rushes towards the sound, his relief at seeing her unharmed tempered by her appearance. She is half-lying on the floor next to her toilet, her complexion paler than usual, her eyes red and puffy.
"God," he breathes, rushing to her side and dropping to the floor beside her. "Are you alright?"
She refuses to look at him, keeping her gaze fixed on her shoes, rubbing her forehead in a slow, circular motion.
"I've been better, thank you," she manages, attempting to steady her voice, despising that it's a nearly impossible feat.
"I'll get you some water and a cool cloth," he insists, dashing off to the kitchen with lightning speed. He returns nearly as quickly as he left, laying the cloth on her forehead, pressing the glass into her hand.
"Drink," he insists, noticing the tremor in her hands as she obeys without question. The fact that she hasn't the will to argue concerns him further.
"Has your stomach recovered yet?"
His question finally draws her gaze.
"I think so," she answers, pushing herself up on wobbly arms, resting her back against the wall. "But I can't swear to it."
"That's very wise," he returns softly. "It's been my experience that whenever I've sworn upon anything, fate sets out to prove me wrong."
He sees her mouth twitch.
"What's so amusing?" he questions, watching her lick her lips deliberately.
"Nothing," she answers. "It's just that I would assume you were used to being proven wrong by now."
"There's the dagger buried in my chest," he quips, his voice still gentle as he dares to touch her arm. "I knew you couldn't keep it hidden for too long."
"I should hate to disappoint my chief ogre," she voices, her tone still gravelly and weak.
"This ogre deserves a lashing for leaving you as I did."
She stares at him earnestly, and he sees something new there, something deceptively fragile fortified with steel.
"No, you don't," she responds. "You don't have to be here with me at all, Charles."
His heart does an odd somersault.
"Of course I do," he tosses back, unsure of what to do about a sudden unsteadiness seeping into his veins. "I'm the one who knocked you flat in the first place, remember?"
"Ah, that's right," she half-grins, her eyes still partially-drugged. "Remind me to see to that flogging when I'm quite recovered. I want to do it properly."
"As you wish, my lady," he breathes, his eyes dropping to the floor, his hand still on her arm. "Shall we get you to bed now? You need some rest."
"I can't," she protests feebly, staring down at her soiled top in disgust. "I need a shower. I'm filthy."
"I can fetch you a clean shirt for now," he offers. "And you can clean up after a nap. I daresay you need one badly."
She swallows audibly, daring another sip of water, hiding her eyes from him again.
"I'm sorry you have to see me this way," she states, her unease spanning the short distance between them.
"I've seen you worse, actually. Remember?"
That remarkably instigates a grin, and she shakes her head.
"I must have been in a dreadful state if it was worse than being covered in vomit."
"I wouldn't say, covered," he corrects, tilting his head. "Perhaps crusted would be a more appropriate choice."
"Ugh," she grimaces, making him worry she is about to become ill again. "Why does that sound even worse?"
"No doubt because it came out of my mouth," he answers with a flash of his brows.
He hears her exhale, her direct gaze boring under his skin.
"I'm certainly adept at making an impression, it would seem."
The truth of her assertion nearly causes him to stumble over his own thoughts.
"You have no idea," he replies, scooting in closer in spite of his better judgment.
She stares at him hard.
"Why are you even here, Charles?"
The question cuts through marrow and bone, punching him squarely between the ribs as realization he is not ready to handle begins to settle in.
"Annoying you has given my life a renewed purpose," he grins, brushing aside thoughts that press in too close, watching her smirk at his answer. "I was in need of a productive hobby, and you kindly provided me with one."
"Did your mother ever drop you on your head?" she shoots back, making him laugh audibly.
"Only once or twice," he retorts with a shrug. "She thought it might improve my disposition."
"If this is an improvement, you must have been born an orc," she replies, closing her eyes as her knee cramps yet again.
"Urukai, actually," he tosses back, allowing her to squeeze his hand as her body contorts and clinches. "I've come further than you think. Perhaps I'll make toad status yet."
She grits her teeth, leaning into him as he lays his hand on her back.
"That's it, Mary," he instructs softly into her ear. "Breathe your way through it. It will pass. I promise."
Sweat breaks out across her neck and forehead, and she allows him to pull her in closer, to support her, to inhale and exhale in time with her until she finally leans her head back against the wall.
"Thank you," she whispers, giving him an odd look, one that makes him uncomfortable in all the wrong places.
"Don't thank me," he insists. "I'm the one who caused this injury, remember?"
"Ah, yes," she manages, speaking with less conviction that she has in the past. "What else can I expect from an ogre?"
Her eyes pin him squarely to his spot.
"How about transportation to your bedroom," he puts forth, moving up on to his haunches to break whatever spell she is unknowingly casting. "I'm certain you're ready to get off of this floor. Can you wrap your arms around my neck?"
"Does this approach towards women actually work for you?" she returns, wincing as his arms move under her knee.
"Only with partially-crippled Ice Queens," he quips, heaving her off the floor and moving towards what he assumes is her room. The feel of her against him opens a chasm he had sealed off, and he ignores the smell of recent illness, breathing in the soft lavender of her hair, wishing he could take away her pain.
He could easily get lost in this woman. And that's something he cannot risk again.
He deposits her gently on the edge of the bed, helping her adjust her body into a position that will allow her to change, cramming unsteady hands into pockets as he puts on his best face.
"Where can I find a replacement?" he questions, following her pointed finger to a tall chest of drawers.
"Second drawer down," she instructs, biting her lower lip as he rummages through her things.
"A Bon Jovi t-shirt?" he observes, watching her shrug in response.
"Does that surprise you?"
"Somewhat," he answers, pilfering through other tops. "I would have pegged you as more of a smooth jazz kind of girl."
"I'm full of surprises," she retaliates, giving him a look he can't quite read. "You should know that by now."
"Speaking of surprises, how about this one?"
He cannot help but smile as he holds it up for her approval, watching her roll her eyes in his direction.
"You would choose Mickey Mouse," she observes flatly.
"There's something deliciously ironic about seeing the self-proclaimed Ice Queen being adorned in mouse-ears," he returns smoothly with a wink.
"Try to contain your excitement at the prospect," she quips, shifting slowly. "It doesn't become you at all. And hand me the damned shirt, for God's sake."
"As you command," he drawls, tossing the shirt to her before moving towards the door. "Yell at me when you've changed."
"How kind of you to grant me permission," she tosses back tartly.
"Kindness is my middle name," he asserts, making his exit before she can formulate a reply.
Pent-up air is released as he shuts the door behind him, and he runs a hand across his scalp, seeking answers from a well of confusion. What is he playing at here? And why does he continue to circle around this woman as a moth does a flame, he who was nearly charred to a crisp only months ago?
He who knows better.
The last time he let a woman get too close, he married her, and God knows how disastrous that turned out. He is better off keeping Mary at arms-length, regardless of how gorgeous she is, no matter how her wit lights up something inside him that has been dormant for too long. Letting this get out of hand is not a good idea…it's a horrible one, in fact.
But she is quickly becoming an addiction, a delicious compulsion he knows he will not give up easily.
"Idiot," he chastises himself, biting his lower lip as he turns his gaze back to her bedroom door. "You're a bloody idiot, Blake."
He shakes his head at his own folly, locating a banana on the counter, searching for a napkin when he hears her call his name. His body's response to the mere sound of her voice gives him a moment's pause.
Get it together, man, he instructs himself, knowing his admonition is falling on deaf ears. Damn—this is not going to be easy.
She just might prove to be his personal downfall.
"Yes, that is much better," he muses with forced ease as he enters her room, unable to keep from grinning at the picture she makes. "Disney suits you well."
"Perhaps you can hand me my magic mirror," she retorts, flicking her brow in a mock warning.
"Along with your poisoned apple?" he inquires. "Don't worry. You're still the fairest of them all, even with a swollen knee."
"And with a smiling rodent on my chest," she muses as he helps her maneuver under bed sheets. "Now I know you're toying with me." He props her knee upon a stack of pillows, handing her the banana before fetching her water glass from the loo. "Watch out, Lord Ogre, or I'll demand your heart be delivered to me in a box."
"Don't tell me you keep a huntsman hidden around here," he quips in an attempt to quell a well-aimed dart.
"Huntsmen, orcs and ogres," she states. "A girl can never be too prepared."
"And not a prince in the lot," he notes, trying to keep conversation at a safe level. "Rather unusual for a queen."
"Princes can't be trusted."
Her tone bites, her eyes daring him to venture any closer.
"They're the ones who hand you your heart in a box, you know," she continues, her edges softening imperceptibly. "Huntsmen are actually harmless."
Pain of another kind glares from lines of her face, lines he resists caressing to ease their burden.
"And ogres?" he dares, watching her eyes refocus. "Are we harmless as well?"
"Hardly," she voices, looking more vulnerable than he has ever seen her, stealing his retort before it ever reaches his lips. "Ogres are unpredictable."
Palms begin to sweat as his pulse pounds against his neck.
"How so?"
He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth.
"They appear so untouchable and boorish, at first," she confesses, her eyes flitting from restless hands to his face. "But they have a gentle side, a loyal side." She pauses to clear her throat and adjust her features. "When they're not being arrogant assholes, that is."
He releases a breath had hadn't realized he was holding.
"Just to clarify," he returns with a nod.
"Just to clarify," she echoes before her face scrunches tightly yet again.
"I thought you might like something for the pain," he offers, producing a pill bottle from his pocket. "But you must eat the banana first. There's no way I'm allowing you to take one of these on an empty stomach."
She nods weakly, accepting the banana without a word.
"Alright. I'll manage."
The fight is seeping out of her—he sees it in how she drops back onto the pillows and wrestles with weighted eyelids. He waits quietly until she finishes eating, helping her steady the water glass in her reclined position, watching her settle in for a rest.
"I'll be just out here," he assures her, unable to take his eyes from her as she grants him a weary smile. "In case you need…anything."
She won't allow herself to need him, he understands. Wounds are still too raw, her pride still lies in shambles, and she is just that stubborn. He shouldn't allow himself to form a need for her, but weaknesses usually evolve into needs.
And she is already a weakness.
"Try not to make a mess," she breathes as her eyes drift shut. "Andromeda wouldn't like it if you did."
"Me—antagonize Andromeda?" he whispers, gazing at her a moment too long. "Perish the thought."
A hum of acknowledgment resonates from her chest, her brows tossing him an unspoken touché as he slides from her room. He stands motionless, staring at walls, rubbing his jaw, taking emotional inventory. He is in danger of drowning in a whirlpool of quicksand, one that titillates and teases as it devours him, one from which he has no will to escape.
"Idiot," he whispers yet again, staring hard at the blasted cat before reluctantly retrieving his laptop and forcing himself to get down to work.