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“Kala!”
“Yes, husband!”
My words tumble out in nonsensical, slurred relief as my seed fills her.
I come and come as her muscles milk me and her arms tighten around me.
“Good girl.” I lick into her mouth languidly. Gratefully.
“Good boy,” she breathes, kissing my sweaty forehead, cheeks, and mouth. “Such a good, good prince you are.”
39
Kala
Weeks pass far too quickly before we hear a peep from the palace.
Before everything falls apart.
It’s amazing what happens when we choose how we want to live.
Etienne takes to the orchard like a real farmer, which is the last thing I expected. He trims dead branches and removes diseased trees. He reads up on their care and learns about irrigation and fertilization. We spend long hours walking down the rows, taking our meals from the terrace to the shade of the fruit trees. The woods are equally fascinating for him. One day, I find him hooting excitedly as he uncovers an old footpath leading down to a creek. Another day I find him chopping up a fallen tree and stripping the bark with the intention of building footbridges over the creeks and streams.
His beard grows, and between that and his newfound fascination with the outdoors, it’s all I can do not to tease him that he’s starting to resemble his brother.
He offers to shave, but I rather like it. I like the look of him, all suntanned and shaggy. I have given up the tidy, structured look and opted for jeans, leggings, and breezy casual dresses. Etienne prefers the breezy casual dresses for reasons that make me flush with heat when I think about it. The longer he is removed from his former habits, the lustier he becomes.
And I have zero problems with that.
As for me, I’ve informed the palace that with my income and savings, we no longer need the services of the palace chef. Apart from feeling guilty over using this luxury while Etienne and I are not performing royal duties, I want to cook.
I am not what anyone would call a domestic goddess, but I’ve never been opposed to taking on a traditional feminine role in a household. I don’t mind cooking and cleaning—all of it feels natural, especially when seen in the context of caring for a husband in recovery. I’m not his mother, but handling some domestic duties is my way of coming alongside him and making our space a nurturing environment. I'm happy to do so for a husband who treats me as his equal.
Soon, temperatures begin to drop to the point where I have to insist on taking dinner inside the house.
On this night, as we dine on a surprisingly successful attempt at wild rice and foraged mushrooms, we both hear a noise that makes me sit up straight.
It’s the slightest rush of paper sliding across the stone floor.
Etienne is out of his chair and bounding to the entryway before I ask, “Did you hear that?”
I watch, wide-eyed, as he returns with an envelope gripped in his hands. His knuckles are white.
I see the red wax seal and the Haart family insignia pressed into it. All the air leaves my lungs.
My hand automatically raises in offering. “Want me to read it?”
He shakes his head, then scratches his beard. “No. I’ve got this.”
“I wonder what they want,” I say quietly, suddenly having lost my appetite for the tasty rice and mushrooms.
He slowly breaks the seal and tugs out a folded letter. I watch the hard lines form between his brows as he reads.
“Their Majesties, the King and Queen have requested your presence at a family meeting at 9 a.m. sharp at Haart castle,” he reads.
“So, another breakfast meeting,” I say. “We can go if you want to.”
Etienne tosses the letter on the table. “No. We told them we were isolating for the time being. This is a disrespect of our boundaries.”
