Page 25 of Wicked Queen

She shrugged. “It’s fine. Not like I’ll stay. I’m old now. Don’t you have to gift me a house or something?”

“One step at a time,” he suggested. “Will you stay for dinner tonight?”

“I assumed I was. I invited a friend,” she said, flashing her teeth. “I hope that’s okay.”

My eyes flickered to my husband as I set my shoulders and forced a benevolent nod. “Any friend of yours…”

After putting Elizabeth down for a nap, I sought the sanctuary of my bedroom. I was flustered, completely overwhelmed by Sarah’s sudden appearance, but if I was being honest, being around Alexander had more to do with how wound up I felt. He’d avoided our family’s private quarters entirely since I’d agreed to let Sarah come home. For all I knew, he’d taken up residence in another wing of the palace. Seeing him had its usual effect. It was hard to be strong and gracious and fucking regal when the person who made my knees buckle was in the room.

“I’m sorry.” His smooth voice startled me, and I whirled around to see him sitting in a chair by the fireplace. The curtains were drawn against the afternoon light, and Alexander had found the shadows in the corner—his natural habitat.

“For what? Scaring the shit out of me?” I rubbed my chest, sliding my hand down to soothe the baby who’d begun to kick with annoyance at being woken so rudely.

Alexander leaned forward, half his face coming into the light. He frowned and shook his head. “For springing this on you. I didn’t know she was coming.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” I leaned against the wall while I waited for my heart to settle. Then I realized it wouldn’t —not with him here. That was what he did to me. Sometimes, he didn’t have to be present at all. I might catch a hint of bergamot or cloves in the air and find my body aching for him, recalling how his skin smelled when it was against mine.

“You’re not mad.” There was strangled relief in his tone. He stood, backing slowly toward the door. “I’ll leave, then.”

“Don’t,” I said suddenly, then bit my lip, feeling a bit too needy.

He froze in place and we studied each other for a moment. It was there in the space between us—a spectrum of feelings: anger and fear and hope and want. It only had one name: love.

“Have you thought…” he began slowly, clearing his throat and starting over. “Have you thought more about what I suggested?”

“Does your whole family speak in riddles? I already had to put up with the Cheshire Cat for twenty minutes. What are you talking about?” This was going well so far. We’d barely begun speaking to each other and we were already fighting.

He crossed his arms over his broad chest and my eyes zeroed in on how the seams of his jacket strained against his muscles. Nothing could contain him. He was more powerful than anyone or anything on earth. I could never resist him and I was getting tired of trying.

“I looked,” he continued with some hesitation, “into our family estates. There are several within an hour that would suit you and Elizabeth. Some are more up to date than others…”

My heart plummeted, reminding me painfully that it was still there, splintered and in pieces. Every time I thought we were past this, I was proven wrong. I’d opened myself to him the day he’d told me to leave, showing him what that thought did to me. I’d thought he had seen that it was impossible—that we had to find a way through this together. Then, he left the room, telling me otherwise and leaving me confused again. When he’d included me on the decision about Sarah, I’d thought…

Maybe it wasn’t a rational thought at all, but stupid, blind hope. I’d once clung to hope. I’d believed it was an inexhaustible resource but now my supply was dwindling. Soon there would be none left at all.

“Stop,” I whispered as he continued with his plans. By some miracle, he heard me.

“We need to discuss this. The baby will be here soon. You should be settled, be—”

“I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to leave.”

“You want to leave. You don’t. You want to talk. You don’t. What do you want, Clara?” he demanded.

“I don’t know. I’m stressed and pregnant and horny—” I tried to swallow back this last confession but it was out of my mouth. I hid my face in my hands. How could I be embarrassed to admit that to a man who’d memorized every inch of my body?

“You’re…” I heard the strain in his tone as he processed this. When I finally dared to look at him, he stepped back into the shadows. After a moment in which he didn’t speak and I prayed I was about to wake up from this humiliating nightmare, he turned to the chair. With deliberate movements, he slid his jacket from his shoulders and laid it over the chair back. It was dim in the room, but I’d watched him do this a hundred times. He unknotted his tie and slid it free from his collar. He dropped it onto the abandoned suit coat. Then, he walked toward the nightstand, popping his cufflinks free one at a time.

“What are you doing?” I knew, but suddenly I wondered if I was dreaming.

He stalked toward me, unbuttoning his shirt as he came nearer, then tossing it to the floor.

“I can’t take care of everything. I can’t answer all your questions, but I can take care of that.”

“I didn’t mean…” I shook my head as my thoughts began to swim with the heady rush of his nearness.

“Shhh. This is what we’re good at, Poppet.” He drew his index finger down along my cheek, tracing my mouth and plucking my lower lip slightly. My mouth opened with expectation. “Tell me what you need. I can take care of you.”

In that simple, self-assured statement I heard what he was really saying. He needed this, too. He needed to show me he loved me the only way he thought he could. As much as I needed this, he needed something more from me. We needed each other. And maybe we were slipping into an old cycle, but I was tired of fighting it. The last time we’d been together, on the floor, it had been short and desperate. It’d been over too soon. I needed more. He needed more.