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Theo shrugs. “You’re right, of course. The contract is binding. I agreed to this marriage because, at my age, I’ve found I have less of a taste for bloodshed than I had before. If I can avoid a war with the Vasilevs and still profit enough to maintain the approval of the other Kings, then I would prefer that. And marriage to you achieves two things—that, and gives me a wife to provide me an heir, which the Kings are pressuring me to do.”
I blink at him, a little startled. I hadn’t imagined that he also felt pressured to marry. “I thought being forced into marriage was only something that happened to women in this world,” I quip, and Theo laughs. That, too, softens his face, making him even more handsome.
“Well, I can’t imagine it’s the same,” he says. “But there is a precedent for even the man who commands the Kings to be forced out, if he is found to not be keeping with the traditions and ways that keep us strong. So yes, there has been pressure on me to marry and provide an heir. Our marriage was not something I thought was avoidable, even if you and I did not please each other. But—” he shrugs. “I thought I would like to find out, before the wedding. I thought you might as well. Then, at least, we could go into it with some idea of what to expect.”
I notice, as he speaks, that his accent is lighter. There’s a cultured, careful way that he speaks at times like this, when he’s in public, and I think he wants to seem more sophisticated. I suspect, listening to him, that it’s something he’s worked on over many years.
I also realize that I like his natural accent more. It makes me wonder what would make it thicken, what would make him lose that carefully cultivated elegance that he seems to rely on.
What he said earlier comes back to me—that marriage means something to him. That he’s put it off because he wants companionship. And it makes me wonder how that matches up with what Nikolai has told me.
Would a man who values marriage step into someone else’s? It doesn’t add up.
When dinner is finished, Theo pays the bill, and gets up, offering me his arm. “I think there’s an opera playing tonight at the theatre,” he says. “I don’t know if you enjoy that, but I’ve found it’s a pleasant way to spend the evening.”
I wait for him to make some move in the car, once we’re inside and the driver pulls into traffic. To run his hand up my leg, or slip his fingers into the plunging neckline of my dress. Something to show his ownership of me, how even now, when we’re not yet officially wed, I still belong to him.
But he doesn’t. He’s a perfect gentleman, all the way to the theater, where he opens the door for me himself instead of waiting for the driver to do it. He gives me his arm again, walking up the stairs and up to the box, where there’s champagne waiting for us.
Still, I expect him to touch me in some way, as the night goes on. But he doesn’t—not so much as a hand on my knee, even though we’re sitting very close, side by side. I wonder, at first, if he doesn’t find me attractive. If there’s something about me that he doesn’t find pleasing—that I’m too young or too thin, or if he simply doesn’t like me. But here and there, as I reach for the champagne, I catch his eyes on me. There’s a hunger in them that suggests that hedoeswant me—and the fact that he’s not touching me only makes the tension in the room slowly grow and thicken as the night goes on.
It makes me wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. Every time he reaches for his glass, I wonder if he’s going to touch my hand or my knee, but he doesn’t. Every time he looks at me, I wonder if he’s going to abandon watching the opera below us to pull me in for a kiss, but he doesn’t. Our box is private, well out of sight of anyone else—he could do whatever he likes. But he’s content to sit there, sipping champagne and looking at me as if enjoying the sight of some priceless thing that’s his to look at. As the night goes on, I can feel desire settling into my blood in a way that I’ve never felt it before.
With Adrik—and I feel guilty, even thinking of Adrik as I’m sitting there next to Theo—it always burns hot and fast. The desire is sharp, making certain that whatever foreplay there is feels rushed and urgent, both of us in a hurry to get to the moment when he’s inside of me, chasing pleasure that neither of us is certain will last forever. It feels like every moment has to be snatched and stolen rather than savored.
But with this—
I can feel a sort of heady anticipation settling over me, wondering when he finallywilltouch me, if it’s going to be all the way until our wedding night. Ifthisis what he likes, drawing it out, making me squirm with delayed need until he finally gives me what I want. If he knows right now what he’s making me think about, the shivery heat in my veins, and if that’s why he’s doing it.
If he’d grabbed me, groped me, touched me with the sort of brash possessiveness that I’d expected, I would have steeled myself against it. I would have rolled my eyes and said,Of course, that’s how he is; that’s how all these men are.I had anticipated him taking.
I hadn’t anticipated himwaiting.
And it sends a thrill of fear through me, too, along with the desire, because it tells me more about what kind of man he is.
A man willing to wait for what he wants, to build anticipation instead of taking immediately, a man with patience…
That is a very, very dangerous man, indeed.
Marika
By the end of the night, as we go back to the car, he still hasn’t touched me other than to offer me his arm. He hasn’t tried to kiss me. And by the time we get back to the mansion, I almostwanthim to.
Theo raises an eyebrow as the car pulls up in front of the steps. “As I remember,” he says slowly. “There’s a rather nice garden out back.”
I look at him confusedly, wondering if this is when he’s going to try to suggest that we don’t need to wait until our wedding night. The thought sends a confused twist of desire and fear through me—fear because I’m not prepared to fake my virginity tonight, and a desire that I don’t understand and didn’t anticipate. I’m not supposed toactuallywant him. It’s meant to all be a show. But the thought of his hands slowly stripping away the dress he’d bought me, uncovering everything underneath…
“There is,” I manage, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as strangled as I’m afraid it might. “My mother was a huge fan of gardening, I’m told—or at least designing gardens for others to create. My father paid staff to keep it up, after her death.”
I watch Theo’s face as I say it, waiting for his reaction. There’s none, only a slight sympathy in his eyes and the twist of his mouth. “I remember when your mother passed,” is all he says. “I’m very sorry. That must have been difficult.”
If he did know her better, or feel anything for her, he’s hiding it well. It makes the doubts that I’m harboring about whether or not the story is true deepen—and it frightens me, too. If he is lying—
A man who can lie that well is one who I’ll never be able to tell what he’s really thinking.
“I don’t really remember her.” The car is still idling in front of the steps, but of course, it doesn’t matter. The driver will sit there for as long as Theo wants him to. “Why are you asking about the garden?”
“I’d like to go for a walk with you there, if you’re alright with it.”
