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My cheeks heat, but I bite my tongue to stop an apology from leaving my mouth. At the time, I couldn’t have known things would degenerate like they have, and the warrior at the river had said the horse was a gift. So no, I won’t ask to be forgiven for naming her.
“A fitting name,” he finally says. “She’s a beautiful animal.”
Surprise sparks some warmth within me. “She is. Her gallop is graceful and quick, like riding the wind.”
He nods with approval. “Over short distances, she easily outpaces a fully-bred war horse.” The pleasure in his voice adds fuel to the new heat inside of me.
“And to answer your question,” he goes on. “She’s a crossbreed of north and south. I believe her southern sire’s bloodline is used to produce racehorses.”
“She has R’hanian racing blood?” I can’t hide my shock. R’hanians are incredibly expensive.
“That sounds right. The First Deve was gifted a stallion by your cousin, and Glory is the offspring.”
The mention of the King douses everything, and from one heartbeat to the next, I’m back to being a bruised and battered woman, starved and forced to sit on the floor in an icy room.
Tension begins to creep up around us when I remain silent, keeping my gaze firmly on the floor.
“I’ve heard your cousin can be a very generous man. Is that true?”
Bile rises in my throat. How such an ignoramus could become the ruler of this realm is beyond me.
“Rina?” He sounds annoyed, something that’s confirmed after another swollen pause. “I asked you a question.”
I’m saved by a male voice calling hesitantly from the hall. “My deve?”
Frowning at me, Luka gets to his feet and comes back with a tray of food. He appears put out when he can’t find anywhere to put it.
He holds the tray out to me. I should accept the offering with a smile and a thank you. Even if I very much doubt I’ll become his wife, perhaps my life will be spared. But my fingers refuse to let go of the blanket, my lips don’t curve, and the gratitude doesn’t form on my tongue. Foolish, I know, but I can’t bring myself to scrape and bow in exchange for the barest of necessities.
His expression hardens. Leaning down, he drops the tray the last few inches to the floor. To his satisfaction, the clang of it against the stone makes me jump. He stomps away and I expect that to be the end of it. But at the door, he turns to me. “I could return the fur I took from you this morning,” he offers, and if I’m not mistaken there’s a hint of shame in his tone.
“In exchange for what?”
He huffs. “In exchange for your civility.”
“Civility? You withhold the basics of life yet it’s me that lacks civility?”
He’s mostly hidden in the shadows of the room as we stare each other down. It goes on for so long that he finally sighs loudly and starts to pull the door closed before I break. “Wait.”
He turns back.
“There is something I’d like to have.”
I almost can’t summon the fortitude to swallow my pride, but the thought of never seeing it again gives me a hard shove forward. “My mother’s ring was sewn into the waistline of the dress I was wearing. If I could have it back . . . I would be grateful.”
He gives me a curt nod and leaves.
♦♦♦
The stew warms me enough that I can move back to the bed where I’m blessedly able to sleep for a few hours before the cold wakes me and forces me to return to the brazier. Yvette finds me curled around its pedestal on the floor in the morning, miserable, trying to absorb what’s left of its almost non-existent heat.
“Oh, my lady,” she cries, rushing forward, dumping a bundle from her arms onto the empty bed. “I’m so sorry.” She reaches for my hand to help me up. “Yesterday, my mother wasn’t feeling well and by the time I settled everything at home, it was dark and I didn’t dare make the trip back to the stronghold.”
I hobble to the bed, my muscles stiff with the cold.
“But I thought the dimwits guarding the door would at least replenish the firewood. Father’s tit, it’s cold in here.”
I don’t have it in me to laugh at her profanity, but I do manage a weak smile when I see Bron in the doorway. “Good morning, Rina,” he says, looking for somewhere to place the tray of food he’s holding. “You look . . . better.”
