Page 135 of Queen of War and Ruin

“The sun’s setting soon,” Zarek says. “If you wanted to get a little more rest, you could.”

So, that’s it? I’m dismissed? I huff and start to clamber to my feet. Zarek keeps staring at the valley, like there’s something much more interesting out there.

“Fine,” I say. “I— I’ll⁠—”

The words die in my throat. I take a breath and try again.

“I can do watch duty,” I snap.

Zarek turns to me and raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not incompetent,” I say. “Just because I don’t know how to wash dishes or shell peas. It doesn’t mean I’m some helpless princess. I can learn.”

His eyes widen, and I realize what an idiot I sound like. What in the gods’ many names does shelling peas have to do with taking a turn on watch duty? My fingers sink into the soft fabric of my sleeves and curl into fists.

“No one who’s seen you around horses would ever call you incompetent,” Zarek says.

“So why didn’t you wake me up?” I snap. “Why did you let me sleep all day yesterday?”

Zarek opens his mouth, then closes it.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I should have. I—” He glances down at the mossy boulder, then back to me. “I’m sorry for the way I acted. In the palace.”

My cheeks burn. He’s sorry for dropping to his knees in the servants’ passageway? He’s sorry for making my body burn so hot I thought it was going to kill me?

He rubs his hand over his face, then shakes his head.

“It was weak,” he continues, in a low, jagged voice. “You shouldn’t have to see that, to deal with it. I should never have—” He stops, then turns away and starts again. “I— I haven’t been like that in a long time. Not since Gerrart. I thought it would never happen again.”

Oh. Oh, gods.

He’s not talking about the servants’ passageway. He’s talking about Ethiria. About collapsing on the floor and breathing so hard and so fast I thought he was dying.

I sink back down on the mossy boulder and take his hand in mine. His fingers feel cold. He glances at me, then back out at the valley.

“That’s okay,” I say, holding his hand in mine. “Gods, don’t apologize for that.”

He laughs. It’s a dark, bitter sound.

“I was cowering on the godsdamned floor,” he says, in a voice like the edge of a blade. “That wasn’t exactly proper husband behavior.”

I frown. “Then what in the hells is proper husband behavior?”

He shakes his head again.

“No, I’m serious,” I push. “Blayne kept me locked in a room for three days. Is that proper husband behavior? My father had all the portraits of my mother burned in the courtyard after she died. Is that proper husband behavior?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth, but just shakes his head and turns away. I squeeze his hand.

“I’m not—” I take a breath, then push on. “I’m not much of a proper wife anyway.”

He laughs again, softer and lighter this time.

“What do you mean by that?” he says. “What about you could possibly be improper?”