Chapter 19 #2
I’ve had enough of this unsettling celebration preparation, I decide. There are several paths that lead down to the creek; I decide to take one. I’m not sure whether the king will follow me, or whether or not I want him to. But I don’t look back, not intending to reveal my emotions either way.
I hear him give a few final orders to his staff before trailing after me.
We end up walking together for some distance, far enough that the bustling activity at the pavilion becomes nothing more than a soft hum. But the pleasant feeling from our earlier stroll is nowhere to be found. All of my nerves are alight as Gareth’s cryptic warning plays in my mind.
But without the distraction of Arlo, at least I can treat this more like a mission; I know I shouldn’t waste this opportunity to dig my claws more deeply in and see what I can dig up.
“Thank you, by the way,” I say, breaking the silence. “For releasing Briar, I mean.”
“It wasn’t a favor. I was just holding up my end of the deal.”
“Well, I didn’t expect you to do it.”
“…You truly have a very low opinion of me, don’t you?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I smile sweetly.
He shakes his head, dark amusement flickering across his features, but he says nothing to this.
We walk for another minute or so before I can’t help but add: “Let’s not pretend your opinion of me is any higher, though.”
He acquiesces with a shrug. “I think you have a long way to go before you’re worth the time and trouble you’re costing me, that much is true.”
I bite my lip, locking my reply inside.
“And most of my advisors agree.”
Heat prickles across my skin. I feel like I’m back in the arena, all those judgmental eyes looking down on me.
The king’s next words are predictably smug. “You enjoyed your visit from some of them this morning, I trust?”
“Thoroughly. It was a brilliant way to start the day, getting humiliated in front of powerful people—and quite the show for them, I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry I missed it myself.”
“Of course you are. I’m assuming you’re one of those gross men who gets a rise out of watching women be degraded.”
“I wouldn’t even put that in my top five fantasies, actually.”
I almost ask him what his top five actually are, but thank the gods I manage to not blurt out the first stupid thought that enters my head, for once.
Because that information was most certainly not on the list of things I intended to try and pry out of him.
Judging by the little smirk flirting with his lips, I suspect he knows where my mind has wandered to. Probably because my face is flushing hot, giving me away.
I put more space between us and attempt to gather my dignity.
We’ve come to a more manicured spot, a small, paved sitting area with benches facing the creek and a small gazebo in the center.
While Reave leans against one of the gazebo's carved posts, I kneel beside a flower bed and busy myself with picking weeds from between ornamental stones.
“We have a gardener for that, you know,” he says after a few minutes.
“I like getting my hands dirty.”
“Why does that not surprise me?”
I don’t reply, nor do I look his way, but I can feel him watching me.
Another minute passes. Then another. I’ve nearly picked every weed before I lift my face toward him, unable to stand it any longer.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I try to smooth the sharpness from my tone. I’m not sure I succeed.
He just looks amused by it—at least for a moment. Then something darker falls across his features. He averts his eyes and falls silent.
His voice is oddly quiet when he finally speaks a few minutes later. “I was looking at you because I find I have the same question my brother did.” He tilts his head back toward me, eyes flicking over my throat. “It seems like maybe Gareth is being rougher than necessary.”
I brush the words off. “I’ve survived far worse.”
“That’s hardly the point.”
I go back to the dirt, smoothing my fingers through it in search of any weeds I might have missed.
He doesn’t yield. It’s getting irritating, at this point; this obsession he seems to have with my bruises every time we interact.
But then, I suppose it goes back to what Gareth and I discussed earlier—Reave is just like any other royal throughout the messy history of our empire, trying to secure one of the divinely-bound for his own personal gain. So of course he’s concerned about the condition I’m in.
I don’t know why that makes me angry.
Maybe it’s just the idea of being reduced to an object. A weapon. Even if I don’t intend to ultimately serve this insufferable man, it’s still painful to know he’s sizing me up the way one would a battered sword, inspecting for nicks and rough edges that might need to be fixed.
I wish I didn't feel like something broken that needs fixing.
I wish his scrutiny didn't make me feel so exposed.
But more than anything, I wish he’d stop fucking looking at me like that.
“Surely you have bigger problems than me to focus on,” I say.
“I do. But here we are. And we’re alone…” He gestures around us, as though I need a reminder it’s just the two of us. “So this is the problem I’m focused on, for the moment.”
If you think I’m a problem now, just wait and see, I want to say.
Instead, I keep my tone nonchalant, flippantly waving a hand over my bruised throat. “This isn’t even the worst of it.”
Another long pause, then: “Show me the worst of it, then.”
The words—and the quieter tone he speaks them in—catch me off guard. But I manage to hide my surprise, scoffing and continuing to tend to the flower bed. “It’s really none of your business.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“I’m afraid it is not.”
I can sense a subtle, simmering anger coiling around him. Whether toward me, or toward Gareth, I don’t know. I’m not sure why I feel like it matters.
“The law decrees that all those tied to dragons are also tied to the Mouren crown,” he recites. “As such, it’s in my best interest to make sure you aren’t damaged in any way.”
Just as I thought.
I shake my head. “That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? Just property. A weapon for you to use.”
He doesn’t reply—but silence is its own answer, isn’t it?
I breathe slowly and deeply through my nose.
He sets his jaw. “Show me what he did to you.”
It’s a command, this time. One dark and dripping with the royal authority that I know gets him his way the vast majority of the time.
And suddenly I’m so furious about it all—all his secrets, all his smugness, and the endlessly frustrating imbalance of power between us—that I act without thinking, ripping my coat open, jerking my shirt down, revealing the whole of that nasty bruise…
Along with far more of my breasts than I actually meant to.
I’m much too proud to act like I’m mortified by this last part, so I keep my head high and my glare leveled on the king, exposed chest and all.
He stands bewildered for a moment before averting his eyes again. “You know, most women are not nearly this angry about the opportunity to take their clothes off for me.”
“Opportunity?”
“Yes.”
I shake my head. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an arrogant prick?”
“Not to my face, that I can recall.”
“Well, allow me to do the honors,” I snarl, jerking my coat back around myself. “Because you are.”
He doesn’t disagree. He just shrugs, then sits down on one of the benches facing the creek.
I don’t think he’d say another word to me if I turned and walked back to the palace right now. And after accidentally flashing him, the temptation to flee is stronger than ever.
But we’re still alone. He seems unbothered by my defiant mouth, despite the threats he made last night…and I remind myself, again, of what a rare opportunity it is to have him cornered like this.
I don’t sit on the bench, but I do draw a bit closer, settling down on a thick tuft of grass near the water.
I pick a few reeds and start to weave them into a crown.
My mother and I used to do the same thing when I was younger; the river we sometimes explored was far less pristine than my current surroundings, but we usually managed to find enough beautiful flowers and strong strands of grass to make our creations work.
I’m focused on trying to secure a sprig of white blossoms into my crown when the king says, “Some of the scars on your chest looked much older than anything Gareth could have caused. As old as the ones around your eye.”
I freeze.
Why is he bringing these things up?
Swallowing hard, I lay the crown in my lap and press a hand over the largest of the scars on my chest. This particular one came from that encounter with the men who were defacing the gravesites in Halvgate.
There are smaller ones around it that are more souvenirs of Emberfall, like my eye, and still others from various jobs that went wrong over the years.
“Where did they come from?” Reave asks.
“I don’t remember.”
“Most of them don’t seem like the sort one would forget receiving.”
“Trust me: After a while, you begin to lose track of where the hurt is from.”
His chest rises and falls with a deep sigh, but he doesn’t press the conversation.
We sit in silence for several minutes, lost in our own thoughts.
The sun is sinking lower, casting him in a light that seems like an extension of his own body, reminding me of the story he told me last night—of the dragons stealing the fiery colors from the sun.
The glow makes it hard not to keep glancing at him.
I eventually notice the scars on his forearms again, and I think of Arlo and his covered hands, of the dragon-scale accessories that their sister is always wearing…
Are they all covering up similar things?
I frown, considering this for a moment before I glance over at him and clear my throat. “And what about your own scars?”
“I’m afraid I’ve lost track, too,” he says, after a pause. “Funny how that happens.”
“Isn’t it?”
Our gazes meet. Linger. For the second time in as many days, we seem to have reached an impasse—but this time he’s the one that breaks it, getting to his feet and giving me a polite nod.
“Good afternoon, Ashwalker.” His eyes catch briefly on the crown in my lap before he turns to leave.
I toss that crown into the creek as he walks away, watching the current pull it apart and wondering what it will take to finally unravel the King of Mouren.