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My mate is reluctant, but she allows me to draw her inside and walks with me. The murmuring of voices gets louder and louder as we approach the Great Hall.
At the doorway, she digs her heels in and shakes her head. “I can’t go in there with you looking like that. You have a crown on your head. Your armor is gold. I have hay sticking to my old, darned dress, and there’s mud on my apron. Just leave me here.”
I take the golden cloak from my shoulders and wrap it around her. “There. Now we match, and no one can say you didn’t dress for the occasion.”
She touches the silken fabric, hesitating. “I look silly in this cloak over my old clothes.”
On the contrary, it’s perfect. Every single one of my soldiers will see the king’s Omega wearing his cloak and assume that Isavelle begged for something soft and scented of mine to comfort her on an important occasion. That, or they’ll think she’s approaching a heat and needs comfort and my scent for that reason.
Her heat. How I long for the day when she will cling to me, hot, slicked, restless, and needy, and I feel a growl rise in my throat at the thought.
Swallowing it down, I tell her, “It’s perfect for a Maledinni woman, I promise.”
As I enter the hall, still holding tight to Isavelle’s hand, the talking stops and everyone stands up and sinks into bows and curtseys. Long trestle tables run the length of the room and have been placed on the dais as well.
As I walk the length of the hall with Isavelle at my side, the sense of something being missing all day dissipates. With Isavelle’s hand in mine, I finally feel like a king.
A king is nothing without his queen.
We take our seats at the top table, and there’s a rustling of fabric and scraping of chairs as everyone resumes their seats. I pour my mate some wine into her gleaming goblet and notice she’s twisting her dress in her lap, her gaze darting around the room.
“Is something the matter,sha’len?”
“Everyone is staring at me,” she whispers.
I glance around and notice that the dragonriders, wingrunners, and soldiers have expressions of mild interest on their faces as they look at Isavelle. The members of the important families of Maledin, people who had no idea that dragons existed until recently, are staring at Isavelle in shock. I glare at several of them until they drop their gazes and turn to reassure my mate. “Everyone is curious. New people are always of interest, but they will get used to you in a few moments.”
“Kings of Maledin don’t sit at the high table with village nobodies,” Isavelle hisses under her breath.
“They did in my time, and now they are again. The people of this country have a whole set of customs to remember. Are you hungry?”
There are dozens of dishes placed on the table within arm’s reach, and I serve my mate and then myself. Half the dishes I don’t recognize, and I suppose they must be human. I examine something circular with a hard crust. “What on earth…”
“That’s a pie,” Isavelle explains. “Cut it open and you’ll find out what’s inside.”
It turns out to be pheasant and winterberry, and it tastes pleasing. “I wonder why humans hide something delicious inside something secretive and unassuming.”
“It’s cooked that way so the meat is tender and juicy, and it keeps better in the larder. Do your people like to show off when you do everything, even ordinary things like cooking and eating?”
I glance at her in surprise and smile. “And why wouldn’t we? What’s life without a little showing off?”
“The Brethren told us that too much enjoyment and pride are sinful.”
The people eating below at the trestle tables are speaking politely to one another. Plates are being passed around with somber nods. No one is singing or cheering or dancing, and couples aren’t sneaking away to steal kisses and other sweet moments in the corridors.
I barely recognize the place. How quiet Maledin is, but I have no doubt it will liven up as soon as designations start to emerge. Alphas love a celebration, but Betas love them even more as it gives them a chance to demonstrate how their numbers far exceed the Alphas and Omegas put together, and all parties are actually about them. That’s how they see it, at least. Alphas let them have their way as long as things don’t get too out of hand. As for Omegas, they’re so rare that they never lack any attention.
Isavelle has no idea how precious she is. My people and hers still haven’t stopped staring at her, and she still hasn’t taken a bite of her food.
I push Isavelle’s plate toward her. “You must eat. I know the Brethren starved you, and you haven’t been eating properly since you came to the castle. You were plumper not long ago.”
“How do you know that?” she asks in astonishment.
I take a morsel of cheese from my plate, lean closer, and hold it to her lips. Our eyes lock, her mouth parts, and she nibbles the cheese from my fingers. Fuck, that was cute. A hot, restless feeling stirs in my lower belly. “I don’t know how I know. I’ve never had one of you before.”
Isavelle swallows and arches an eyebrow at me. “A prisoner?”
“A mate.” I know she was once rounder. Softer. Happier. It hurts my heart to see how the Brethren have bruised her, inside and out.
