FROST Chapter 98: An Ex Who Cries in the Moonlight

Caspian sighed. "Could you just move over there? Your breath makes my hairs stand on end."

"Which hairs?" Seravine purred, her voice a teasing whisper just beneath his ear.

Before he could swat her away, she practically slithered under him like so sultry jungle cat on a mission. Caspian jolted so violently he nearly shrieked—and in doing so, almost revealed both of them to the patrol of demons lurking just beyond the thorny brush.

"Could you please?!" he hissed, voice strangled, trying to yank his long hair out from beneath her now very enthusiastic grip. "Your hands are crushing my pride!"

"Oh? Is that what I’m touching?" Seravine cocked her head, and Caspian didn’t even want to look at her expression.

"I swear to the Moon, woman—"

"I promise," she interrupted, voice velvet and syrup, "if you give a child now, I’ll open the gates for you. No questions asked. And then you can forget about . I know soone who erases mories—very clean work. No emotional scarring."

She leaned closer, her breath hot against his cheek. "If you have no mories of us being intimate, you’re technically still faithful."

He could hear the rustle of fabric. His eyes flew shut. His breaths doubled. He tried to recall the Queen’s face—her smile in the morning sun, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, the warmth of her voice when she said his na like it ant ho.

The woman he married not just for her grace and power, but because he loved her so much that he once split a mountain in half just to see her reflection on both sides of a river.

And now... he was in a bush. With a demon woman. Who was definitely naked. And negotiating pregnancy like it was a toll fee.

Caspian opened his eyes with the slow despair of a man who knew exactly what he was going to see—and still chose not to look.

Without ceremony, he reached forward and shoved her away.

Seravine tumbled with a muffled "oof," landing beside him in the underbrush like a very confused, very topless squirrel.

He didn’t even spare her a glance. "This is not how diplomacy works."

Seravine, to her credit, recovered quickly and crossed her arms—still shirtless, still maddeningly unashad. "You are unexpectedly loyal. I don’t know if I should be offended or impressed."

"I’m married," he growled.

"That didn’t stop your heartbeat from doing a tap dance on my thigh."

"That was fear," Caspian hissed.

"Fear and arousal live in the sa neighborhood," she muttered, tugging her top back over her head. "You can’t bla for knocking."

He glared ahead, refusing to dignify that with a response. "You were supposed to help sneak in, not seduce into fatherhood like so cursed fertility rite!"

Seravine grinned. "In my defense, cursed fertility rites are part of my cultural heritage."

Caspian pressed both hands over his face. "Moon, give strength. Or at least a less flirty guide."

She smirked. "Fine. I’ll help you get past the gates. But if you do change your mind..."

"No."

"Just saying! Na the child after . It’s a strong na. Has bite."

Caspian whispered to himself as he crawled forward through the brush, "I swear if I survive this, I’m telling my wife everything. Starting with the part where I rejected a half-naked demon in a bush."

Seravine arched a brow, clearly relishing in Caspian’s spiraling embarrassnt. "And please don’t forget the part that the demon was incredibly seductive, beautiful, horny, and that you had a boner the mont my breath touched your neck."

Caspian slapped a hand over his mouth like he was trying to shove the truth back down his throat. "I—I did not—!"

"Ohhh, you did," she sang, waggling her eyebrows shalessly. "And—oh look!" She pointed ahead with perfect nonchalance. "There’s Mathias."

Caspian followed her gesture and imdiately regretted it.

Erging from the shadows like a walking monunt to bad decisions was a demon—tall, built like a siege tower, and shirtless. Scars, so long and jagged, others like claw marks, slashed across his chest and arms like trophies from wars past. His skin was a warm bronze, glistening slightly with sweat.

His long peach-colored hair cascaded down his back like wildfire tad in silk strands. Two thick, curved black horns jutted from his temples, arching backward like a ram’s, while a scaled tail with a blade-shaped tip flicked lazily behind him, coiling with predator grace.

He wore only a thin cloth tied low on his hips—very low—barely concealing a level of manhood Caspian swore had to be illegal in at least eight kingdoms. The cloth clung like it feared being ripped away by sheer muscle tension.

Purple eyes, glowing faintly, scanned the path like a sentry, cold and sharp, with the exhaustion of soone who’d killed too many things to count.

"That’s your friend?" Caspian whispered in horror.

"Oh, not exactly," Seravine purred. "I slept with him once. Cursed after. Great stamina, though."

Caspian looked like he was about to either pass out or combust. "What kind of friends do you demons even have?!"

"The useful kind," she replied with a grin. "Don’t worry. He only kills strangers with bad intentions."

"And how do I not look like a stranger with bad intentions?"

She smirked. "Easy. Be naked."

Caspian turned to her, deadpan. "You’re joking."

"I’m not," she said sweetly, already tugging at his sleeve. "Co on. Let’s go say hi. And maybe don’t ntion your noble lineage. Mathias hates royalty."

Caspian stared at her. Then at Mathias.

Then back at her.

"I would rather kiss a basilisk’s foot."

"Not off the table," Seravine muttered. "Depending how this goes."

"So, what’s the plan?" Caspian asked, peering through the gaps in the leaves like a very reluctant voyeur. "Talk to him and he’ll just give the key to the gates?"

"Nah," Seravine said casually, her chin propped on his shoulder. "Get naked and he’d do it."

Caspian turned to her in slow, horrified motion, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. "Woman!"

"Probably," she added with a shrug, totally unbothered. "Depends on his mood. And your abs."

"My abs?!" Caspian whispered, utterly scandalized. "This is diplomatic treason!"

"It’s demon politics," Seravine said, winking. "Very hands-on."

"Hands-on?!" Caspian hissed, voice cracking like a teen elf at his first sword ceremony. "I ca here to pass through a gate, not seduce a six-foot mountain with horns!"

"Seven-foot," she corrected. "And he likes flirty types. So just smile. Maybe flex a little. Show off those kingly thighs. You’ve got good thighs."

Caspian grabbed a fistful of his hair in despair. "I hate this mission. I hate this continent. I hate that the High Circle told not to bring guards."

Seravine gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Good news, then. If you do this right, you won’t rember any of it."

Caspian whimpered. "I’m going to die. And not in battle. In embarrassnt."

"Actually, if he really likes you, he might give you a new na and a castle."

"I already have a wife and a kingdom thank you very much."

"Right, right. mory erasure," she said, nodding. "Honestly, it’s the least scandalous way through these gates."

He stared at her, dead-eyed. "Tell there’s a third option."

She thought for a beat.

Caspian raised a triumphant finger. "That! I can do that!"

Seravine turned to him, squinted her eyes as if evaluating a sculpture in a museum, then slowly nodded. "Well... with that face of yours—"

"Here it cos," Caspian muttered.

"—that glassy, fair skin, those long and suspiciously well-conditioned locks, and that fragile, perpetually-pouting expression... yeah." She tilted her head. "If I couldn’t sll emotions, I’d probably mistake you for a grieving widow at a funeral banquet."

Caspian blinked. "Thank you...?"

"You’re welco," she said brightly. "So if you sob just right and whisper sothing tragic about moonlight dances and eternal love, Mathias might cry with you. Then boom—gate key."

Caspian placed both hands on his cheeks dramatically. "My ti has co."

Suddnely, Seravine was already handing him a scrap of black lace from seemingly nowhere. "Here, wear this veil. For authenticity."

He stared at it. "Why do you even have this?"

She winked. "You’re not the first royal I’ve smuggled past a lovesick demon."

That night, beneath a sky painted in deepest velvet and scattered with pinpricks of silver light, the mountain air was cool and crisp, almost too pure for the kind of deception about to take place.

Seravine and Caspian crouched behind a jagged boulder near the summit of Vermilion Peak, the sacred mountain where Mathias, the demon of unrequited love and violent mood swings, made his nightly pilgrimage under the full moon.

True to her word—and to Caspian’s growing dismay—Seravine had been disturbingly correct about Mathias’ routine. Every night at exactly 9 PM, Mathias would appear on the mountain’s flat crest, draped in sorrow, nostalgia, and very little clothing.

But tonight, Mathias was going to see a ghost.

One hour before the grand charade, Seravine had dragged Caspian into a makeshift dressing area behind a rock formation she fondly called "the Demon’s Armpit" due to its suspicious sll.

There, she unveiled her most treasured possession: a pristine, floor-length, corseted white Victorian mourning dress with layers of delicate lace and pearl buttons so tiny Caspian wanted to cry just looking at them.

"You are not serious," Caspian whispered hoarsely.

"I am," Seravine replied, already pulling out a matching petticoat. "And so should you be. It’s showti, drama queen."

Getting him into the dress had been a mission worthy of epic poetry. Caspian cursed, wriggled, and nearly lost a rib to the corset, but eventually stood tall, his posture stiff, shoulders high, looking disturbingly graceful.

Then ca the makeup.

Seravine’s claws were surprisingly gentle as she applied a base of alabaster cream to his face, dusted it with moonlit shimr, and carefully shaped his lashes to unnatural lengths.

A rose-tinted balm made his lips soft and glossy, while his eyelids shimred with silvery-purple shadow—reminiscent of the dead lover Mathias could never forget.

The pièce de résistance, however, was the smoky under-eye illusion, achieved by mixing demon soot and crushed violet petals. For the final touch, she dabbed ghostly chill pepper essence beneath his eyes. Caspian’s eyes imdiately welled up.

"Holy cow—" Caspian sobbed, blinking rapidly, unable to keep the tears from spilling. He looked up at Seravine, betrayal in his glistening gaze. "You said you’d be gentle."

"This is gentle," she said, admiring her work. "You’re breathtaking. Tragic. Like a widow who sings to spiders."

"Fantastic," Caspian muttered, voice cracking.

And then... he stepped into the moonlight.

The silver light poured over him like holy water as he stood at the edge of the cliff, hands clasped delicately, the hem of his dress fluttering. His gaze lifted to the heavens as if communing with a ghost, his eyes shining with capsaicin-induced sorrow.

Far behind the rocks, Seravine watched, munching a demon berry, grinning ear to ear. "Five... four... three... two..."

And then— "L-Lucrezia?"

The sound ca like a thunderclap from behind. A deep, throaty, overly theatrical gasp. Caspian dared a peek over his shoulder. There he was.

Mathias.