“Alas, it is impractical when one must see to the production of heirs.”
“That feels a bit unfair.” It is a function of science, and I know well that science doesn’t care about feelings. Even so.
“It is,” he says. “Life is often unfair.”
I know that, and I’m not generally bothered by it. I’ve worked to make my life the best that I can in spite of the modest circumstances I was born into. I’m well aware that life isn’t fair. That we aren’t all given the same tools, the same resources, the same starting point.
Hearing it from a king—the man who owns this palace, and who now owns me—is grating.
“I’ve noticed,” I say. “Especially when some have all the money and power and others have to scrape the crumbs of it from the floor.”
“Is this how you feel about your own life?”
“It’s how so many people feel about their own lives.”
“Are you anti-monarchy?” he asks, studying me intently.
“I’m too practical for that. The abolition of government is unlikely as long as men want power—and spoiler, I don’t think men will ever not want power. A monarchy is just one of the many imperfect and corruptible styles of government. You rid yourself of one, you only get another. Ask the Romanovs.”
“A philosopher, then, if not an anti-monarchist.”
I blink. “I don’t think so. I’m only practical.”
“Only practical?” he asks. “Is that all you are, little sparrow?”
I think about my life. All the years I’ve spent studying and working hard to get where I wanted to go. Then how I demolished it all when my sister wept.
“No,” I say. “I’m not only practical.”
Sacrificing myself for my sister wasn’t practical.
He moves nearer to me and my breath catches. Then there are footsteps at the threshold of the room, servants appear and clear our plates, and he has not moved away from me, but he doesn’t move forward anymore.
He is frozen and my breath is caught in my chest as my heart tries to burrow its way straight through the front of my chest cavity.
New plates are placed before us, with decadent-looking cakes on them. My mouth waters in spite of myself. I look up at him and my heart begins to race.
No, I’m not always practical. This isn’t practical at all.
I take a bit of my cake, and he doesn’t move toward his. He’s watching me. He keeps his eyes trained on me the whole time. In defiance of that, I don’t stop what I’m doing. I eat every last bite without asking what his problem is or why he’s watching me. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I find him perplexing.
As soon as I take that last bite he moves. He leans in and presses his thumb against the corner of my mouth and wipes away a bit of frosting. Then, without looking away, he draws back and brings his thumb to his lips, licking the traces of sweetness away.
My stomach hollows out and drops into my feet.
“You know,” he says. “I am not a fan of overly sweet things. But this may have changed my mind.”
My brain synapses are firing, sparking, trying to come to some conclusion about what he’s just said. Trying to make it about something other than…sex.
I have no experience with men or sex. Really none at all with attraction that exists outside the secret places in my mind. Fantasy is one thing, but to have a real man looking at me like this, so close, so in control of me, so dangerous to me, is beyond the scope of my ability to fathom.
I say nothing, and then he takes hold of my chin, his thumb and forefinger squeezing tight. “I might be King of Alabria. But I am also your king, sparrow.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” I ask, my voice trembling.
He releases his hold on me and I feel the impact of his ice-cold eyes all the way down to my toes. “No.”
Then he stands, his impossible height dwarfing me as I sit still, my empty cake plate in front of me.
