He rubbed his jaw. The arras leaf had left him with a foul taste in his mouth. His bride’s cowardly flight had left him with a temper to match.

He rose and yanked on his clothes. He winced a little at the sting of the scratches clawed down his back, then smiled in spite of everything. He’d not been the only one maddened by lust last night. Her passion had been just as wild and overwhelming as his. Not a bad way to start a marriage. His smile disappeared. Then again, her enthusiasm probably owed more to the arras leaf they’d both consumed than anything else. Certainly, the moment her head had cleared of the drug’s effects, she’d fled.

He glanced back at the bed and frowned at the brownish smears on the white linens, recognizing the sight of dried blood. Much more of it than he would have expected from a virgin’s breach. Guilt assailed him as a different explanation for his bride’s flight occurred to him. Had he . . . hurt her?

Wynter put his hands to his head, closing his eyes and trying to remember, but so much of the night was a blur. He remembered bodies, scorching heat, the slick, clenching feel of hot flesh sheathing him with unbearable tightness. Lips . . . hot and gasping. Breasts . . . Winter’s Frost, what br**sts—plump little pigeons, fitting perfectly into the broad palms of his hands, driving him mad with their lush softness and stabbing, hard peaks.

He’d not been kind or gentle. He knew that. The tormenting burn of arras had driven him wild. But . . . hurt her? Had he done so? Had she cried out against him? Had she begged him to stop and he, too drunk on her father’s idiot drug, not listened?

Wynter hung his head in shame and closed his eyes against the silent accusation screaming at him from the bloodstained sheets. Brute. Monster. Rapist.

He was a man of devastating strength, with all the terrible risks and responsibilities that entailed. Even amongst the hard, tough men of the Craig, he stood head and shoulders above most, with bones like Wintercraig granite and rock-hard muscle to match. He had faced a Frost Giant in single combat and emerged victorious. He knew no woman’s strength was a match for him. He knew he could kill with a blow. Always—always!—he kept himself in check when dealing with those weaker than he. He wasn’t above threats—a healthy dose of fear was an excellent antidote to recklessness—but he’d never unleashed his brute force against a woman, and it near slayed him to think the first might have been his wife.

He drew a deep breath and caught his emotions in a firm grip. Too much of his discipline had been torn away, by anger and arras and overwhelming passion. He was a Winterman, King of the Craig. Wintermen were not plump, self-indulgent peacocks like their southern neighbors, who wallowed in emotion and called it sensitivity. Wintermen were disciplined, unflappable, stoic, as any man must be to survive the rugged, unpredictable, and oft-inhospitable challenges of life in the Craig.

Instead of wasting his time worrying, he would track down his bride, discover if he had indeed harmed her, and make restitution if he had. But none of that changed the fact that he had made her irrevocably his. He had wedded her and bedded her, and there was no turning back.

So today, whether she liked it or not—and no matter what sort of brute she thought him—his Summerlea princess would be leaving with him, heading back to the cold, fierce beauty of the Craig. Where, he thought grimly, she would learn to face him with her grievances rather than flee like a thief in the night.

It took Wynter the better part of an hour to track Autumn down. He found her just as she was leaving a chamber tucked away in a remote part of the palace.

She looked shocked and horrified to see him. Those pansy purple eyes had great rings beneath them, as if she had slept nary a wink since sneaking from their bed, but it was the fear that struck him like a blow. The door behind her closed with a snick, and she stood before it as if frozen in place. Her voice shook as she said, “Your Grace—you startled me.”

He raked her from head to toe with a cool, brisk gaze. Her wrists were bare, the dark, creamy skin smooth and unmarred by any sign of last night’s passion. He was sure as often as he’d rubbed his face against her, tasting her skin and breathing in her intoxicating scent, there would be some small abrasion from the edge of his teeth or the rasp of his stubble. Some proof of his claim. Yet her skin remained smooth as rose petals.

“You look no worse for the wear,” he murmured. “I did not hurt you, then.” The relief he felt was immense, even if some primitive part of him found its fur ruffled by how untouched by him she appeared to be.

“I . . . no, you didn’t hurt me.”

“There was blood on the sheets . . . more than I had expected. Did I . . . wound you?”

She blushed and looked everywhere but at him. “No, of course not,” she assured him in a faint voice. “There is a wound on my back . . . it must have opened while . . . er . . . during . . .”

Wynter closed his eyes in a brief moment of thanks. “I am glad to know the cause was not any harm I did you,” he said, “but why then did you leave me? Without even a word?”

She swallowed, and he watched her throat move convulsively. She licked her lips and seemed to be having trouble thinking what to say to him.

“I had hoped to wake beside you,” he told her. “I thought perhaps we might enjoy with clear heads what your father’s drug clouded last night.” He let his eyes warm, watched the flutter of her pulse in the delicate skin of her throat. She was shockingly beautiful. No doubt about it. But where was the hot rush in his veins? Where was the electrifying connection between them? Surely that had not all been the arras leaf?