Page 16 of How to Claim A Shadow King

Corporeal and brutally handsome, and still wearing that absolutely ridiculous little leather shoulder piece.

“Excuse me, sir⁠—”

“You are excused,” Malakai answers, eyes narrowed.

I clear my throat and begin again. “I thought this evening was a formal affair.” I point at my own blue and black silk confection of a gown, which now I feel incredibly overdressed in. “Shall I change into the riding habit⁠—”

Ter lets out a shriek, then flies down and lands atop my shoulder.

“It is a formal dinner, yes. You are garbed appropriately.” Malakai delivers this judgment with all the interest of a snail climbing slowly up a garden wall.

A strangled noise begins squeaking near my collarbone. Mine. I swallow it. “Yes. I am. And you are wearing… some sort of masculine,” I pause, “leather lingerie.”

Ter clacks his beak.

I carry on, undeterred and gathering steam. “What is the purpose of that, anyway? Is it a necklace? Do you carry snacks in it? Weapons? No, it’s not big enough for either of those functions. Surely it isn’t armor. I cannot see how it would protect you at all.”

I harrumph and sweep past him, my skin warming where it brushes too close to all that exposed skin. “The castle dressed me, but I see you were not given the same care if that is what you have deigned appropriate for dinner with your chosen spouse.”

“It is ceremonial,” Malakai replies stiffly. “Ceremonial battle armor, made from the hide of a great shadow-wyrm.”

“How quaint.” I realize I still don’t know where I’m going and stop in the arched doorway. Deep obsidian tiles expand across the floor in clean, diagonal diamond patterns, polished to a mirror-like shine. Sapphire blue and white rugs glisten with gold thread and soften the space.

“Quaint?” Malakai repeats, and when I glance over my shoulder at him, one dark eyebrow has rocketed into his ink-black hair.

“Mm,” I answer noncommittally, trying to hold in a laugh. I let my gaze drip down his bare chest, ignoring the flutter in my stomach at the sight of all that muscle on display.

He takes a step closer, and another, and I step back, my shoulder blades colliding with the doorjamb. “You think me slaying a shadow-wyrm and making armor out of its corpse is… quaint?”

“Well, it isn’t exactly the height of luxury, is it?” I raise my chin, forcing myself to hold the pressure of his gaze. “Having to slay one’s… idea of a garment.”

“Idea?” he repeats, the other eyebrow raising. “Idea of a garment?”

“It doesn’t cover much, does it? I am fairly sure that is the purpose of clothing, yes?”

“It is ceremonial,” he says, acid dripping from his voice.

“What ceremony are you attending? A bath?”

He makes a strangled noise, and I grin up at him, well-pleased at having the upper hand. “I don’t usually need armor to bathe in, but to each their own.”

Malakai’s eyes darken, and heat rises in my chest and neck as I realize what I’ve said. He takes another step forward, a large hand planting above my head, caging me in. “What do you need to bathe in, then, dear Aveline?”

“Water, of course.” I just barely manage to keep my tone flippant.

His hand drops, and he watches me, the corners of his eyes tight with something that looks like confusion, as I step away from him and the doorway, my heart pounding in my chest.

There’s something between us, and it has nothing to do with ceremonial battle lingerie, whatever that may be.

“I was promised food,” I say archly, casting my gaze away from him and swallowing hard.

“I was promised a bride,” he says, his voice rasping. “And yet you deny me for reasons I do not understand.”

“Because neither one of us has made this an understanding,” I tell him sharply.

He flinches. Or maybe he doesn’t—his face smoothing back to perfection so quickly I think I may have imagined it completely.

“How would this work as an understanding… between us,” he asks slowly, still trailing me as I walk as confidently as I can muster to a location I am not altogether sure of.