To the memory of her slender body against his, soft in ways that unsettled him, different to everything he had ever known. To the warmth of her pressed against his shoulders as he carried her through the night, the faint brush of her hair against his arm, her scent rising in waves until it seeped into him, until it made him aware—too aware—of her presence.
Her difference.
Her female-ness.
Even now, that scent lingered in his memory, clinging to him like smoke. And with it, something stirred inside him, something barely contained. His lust—like his shadows—pressed at the edges of his control.
If he allowed it, if he let go, it could consume him entirely.
All he had to do was will it.
The shadows writhed, restless, eager to break loose. But he pulled them back, forced them into submission, burying them beneath the iron weight of his will.
The short rest had replenished some of his strength. His body no longer ached as sharply, but hunger gnawed at him, low and persistent. He needed food.
He left the office and stepped back into his sleeping chamber.
There she was.
Sitting in the armchair in the corner, the heavy blanket wrapped around her shoulders like armor. She had pulled the curtain back just enough to peer outside, her profile outlined faintly in the spill of daylight.
Watching. Studying. Observing the movements of his people in the courtyards below.
Radiating displeasure with every line of her body.
She didn't even look at him as he entered.
He saw the line of her neck, pale and smooth in the half-light, the slope of her shoulder where the blanket slipped, her dark hair spilling forward, catching a sliver of sunlight that had fought its way past the curtain.
For a moment, he just stood there, watching her unseen. She was utterly still, a figure carved in quiet defiance.
What are you thinking, little queen?
At last, he spoke. "The inner courtyard is used for morning training," he said evenly. "They'll be starting soon."
Still, she didn't look at him. Her voice was cool, sharp. "I'm not supposed to be seen. Is that what you're implying?"
"I don't need to tell you," he replied, nonchalant, shrugging off her barb. Then, after a pause, he added—a concession, rare for him—"Your anger is understandable. But the war cannot go on. It ends tonight."
He let the words hang, then reminded her quietly, "And remember—it is I who will be stepping into your domain."
With that, he turned and strode toward the door.
The kitchens awaited. He needed food.
Behind him, the queen remained in her chair, still and silent, bound within walls both real and invisible.
Chapter
Seventeen
As midmorning light slanted through the narrow windows, they ate in silence.
He had returned with what passed for an orc's breakfast—strips of dried meat seasoned with herbs unknown in Maidan, figs dark and sweet that must have been traded from southern lands, and a kind of flat bread drizzled with thick amber honey that smelled faintly of smoke. And, of course, the tea—lykal again, its steam curling with that same addictive bitterness. The pottery was simple but elegant, glazed in deep earthy tones that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it.
It was delicious, though she would never have admitted that aloud. And not nearly enough to take away the bitterness curling inside her, the simmering anger that clung no matter how warm the hearth fire burned.
He didn't try to soothe it.
