I was surprised. King Aris had been known as a good and fair ruler before his death. I had never heard that he was cruel.
Before I could ask more, he added, "That's a tale for another time."
His expression was pained in a way that made my chest ache. It only lasted for a heartbeat though, and then his features cleared.
He reached for my sword and tested the edge. "This could use some work. I'll take care of it for you."
I sat cross-legged on the bed and watched him as he shed his coat and began sharpening the edge of the blade propped on his knees. The high, clear sound was almost musical as he ran a smooth stone down the metal.
His dark hair fell across his forehead in that wild, perfect way of his and his brows moved slightly as he concentrated—or perhaps they movedwithhis thoughts.
I wished suddenly that I could ask Rae what she saw in there. I might have given my kingdom for one moment inside his beautiful mind.
He had his shirtsleeves rolled up, and the muscles in his forearms stood out sharply as he worked. I watched his big shoulders move, arms stretching as he slid the stone down the length of the sword. It reminded me of the way his body moved on me. The way his muscles flexed and bunched as he held my hips and slid himself in and out of me.
The swift bolt of desire that ran through me shocked me, even as chills ran from the nape of my neck all the way down my back.
I looked down, heart racing. When I raised my eyes again, his were trained on me as if he had somehow known.
He stared at me wordlessly for several dark, tempting heartbeats. I wondered if he might get up and come to me. I desperately wanted him to—to rise and close the distance between us and…
The thought sent a wave of anxiety through me as I considered him learning what they had done to me—finding me somehow broken inside. What if it had not been a simple healing? What if I was...changed?
The thought of my mangled body clouded my brain so completely that I didn't notice when he slid his eyes back down to the sword and resumed his work in silence.
I realized, too late, that I had not even considered my betrothal in those moments. I had only considered my own feelings and emotions. And perhaps that showed how very little honor I truly had—what a horrible person I was inside.
The sound of stone on metal chased away my rapid heartbeat. My breathing slowed, and I watched him until he finished, using a cloth to wipe the blade. He tested the edge again. "Perfect," he said, shooting me a crooked grin—as though the moment had never happened.
He rose and handed me the sword. I slid it into the scabbard.
My Obeskan sword’s name wasFury.I had named it in a fit of rage after Markus took it away to the armory forsafe keeping.
I decided that my new blade’s name wasHunger, because that was exactly what I felt whenever I was with Io.
Even in the absence of the deep desire for him, there was always hunger. Hunger to have him, to stay with him, to be close to him, to touch him, to smell him, to somehow own him, and be the only one with the privilege in all the world.
The hunger was pervasive. It was enough so that it crowded my waking thoughts with the knowledge that circumstances would never allow it. It made me constantly feel like I was missing out on the life I should have had, setting my teeth on edge, and making my jaw ache with tension bred from the injustice of it all.
I should have had a life filled with the fresh, fiery scent of him, the feel of his warm, smooth skin beneath my fingertips. I should have had thousands of nights feeling his solid body behind me, strong arms wrapped around me. I was starved of the taste of him and burned by the knowledge that I could have no more.
"Let's go down and find our dinner," he said, reaching a hand out to me.
"Yes," I said. "I'm hungry."
We slept just as we had the night before, but the awareness of him behind me was wholly different than the chaste night cradled against him that passed before.
I felt him—all along my body, the heat and pressure of his rigid chest behind me and the legs running along the length of mine. I wanted to move, to slide myself along him like that cat I once imagined myself as, rubbing against him and purring.
But I held myself still after what felt like a feat of indomitable strength and slept.
I dreamed, but they were wicked dreams of him. I woke in the night, my body shuddering and my heart racing.
He didn't wake, or if he did, he didn't stir, and I fell back to sleep quickly.
When I woke again that morning, it was with a feeling that some part of me had healed in the night.
Twenty-Six
