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A knock sounds at the door, and Remy stirs.
He blinks slowly, looking sleepy and ruffled until his eyes land on me. Then his features close off, his shoulders going rigid. I let out a quiet sigh, resigning myself to his ire for the foreseeable future.
He says nothing as he leaves his side of the bed, throwing on a robe to answer the door.
Servants bustle into the room, carrying trunks of my clothes. They usher me out of the sheets and into a silk robe of my own.
I hold my breath as I step onto the floor. There’s an undeniable soreness, even with the bandages and tonic, but standing is far more tolerable than it was last night.
After a brief, few awkward moments of the maids blushing over the blood on our blankets and remarking on how my dress wound up in the fireplace, they take their time primping and prodding me into princess-perfection.
I shoo them from my stockinged feet, letting them make of that what they will. Better than if they saw the wrappings, or worse, what lay beneath them.
When they slip my gown on, I realize Mother has commissioned another slew of tight-fitting, useless garments with no slits to access my weapons—not that I have any, right now.
Of course, because this is my job, to be a simpering princess.
It makes me feel strangely vulnerable. Though even unarmed, it isn’t likely that there is anyone who is a match for me within these walls.
Not until Damian comes calling again.
Thinking of him reminds me that my bladed fan is somewhere in this palace, though it’s covered with that useless wanker’s blood. I’ll have to find a way to get it back.
I push the thought away, emptying my mind while the women stuff me into a blue silk gown and carefully coif my hair around a glittering sapphire-studded tiara. By the time they’re finished, there are enough pins in my hair to pick several locks, so at least I’m prepared on one front.
Remy has largely ignored me throughout this entire process, but he holds a hand out when the head maid starts to choose my jewelry.
“That’s been taken care of,” he tells her curtly before dismissing both his staff and mine.
He comes to stand next to me with a box his manservant brought in. His deep blue coat is the perfect accent to mine, completing the image of a picturesque royal couple. If you can ignore his aloof features, and the obvious way he angles his body away from mine.
“Grandmère sent these over,” he says, finally deigning to speak to me. “My grandpère gifted them to her on their wedding day.”
He opens the box to reveal a sapphire pendant shaped like a crescent moon, complete with matching earrings.
I start to shake my head. I’m no stranger to fine jewelry, but this is different. These arefamilyjewels. They have a history, a legacy that does not belong to me.
“It would be an insult for you not to wear them,” he argues, extending the box again. “And as you know, we need to keep up our charade today.”
Of course.That’s all the jewels are. What’s one more pretense in the light of our entire marriage?
“Right,” I murmur, delicately plucking the earrings from the box before turning so he can fasten the necklace.
My eyes meet his in the mirror, long enough to register what might be regret shining from their depths, though I’m not sure what it’s for.
For marrying me? For saving me? For having to see his beloved grandmother’s necklace adorning the neck of a murderer?
The expression is gone before I can read anything more into it.
Without another word, he moves toward the door, gesturing for me to follow. Then we’re off, making our way down the hallway as we cling to each other like a young couple who has never contemplated stabbing one another in the deep hours of the night.
One can dream.
CHAPTERTEN
AIKA
To say that breakfast is awkward would be an understatement of monumental proportions.
