Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
It’s autumn in Arbinj and nearly time for the Equinox Festival. The leaves in the gardens turn colors, the wind cooler with its kiss. As the season changed, so did the state of my marriage.
Healing in the infirmary has been a balm to Mayah’s soul, returning the brightness in her eyes that I’d dimmed by cloistering her away.
I interrogated Sauzon thoroughly, of course.
His childhood, his life, his marriage. Potential ties to the Rebellion.
Any reason to hurt Mayah. Hours and hours of question after question, and he didn’t lie once.
My heart rests easier knowing she’s safe in the heart of the palace, doing what she loves most—saving lives.
Mayah seems to have truly forgiven me for neglecting her in the early days of our marriage.
Though I still leave before she wakes, we eat lunch together nearly every day, and I make sure to return to our chambers before she falls asleep—which has been both a blessing and a trial like nothing I’ve ever endured.
Sharing a bed with her is the sweetest punishment.
Bright eyes and bare shoulders wear down more of my restraint each night.
And despite falling asleep apart, by morning, our limbs are always tangled together, leaving me painfully aroused.
It gives me some consolation, though, that her patience is also fraying.
“Soon,” I murmured as we lay in bed last night.
“I’ll take you to my favorite tavern. They have the best mushroom stew in all of Arbinj.
” She had laughed, teased me about my odd obsession with the soup, but her voice was breathless, her pupils blown wide.
Unconsciously, she’d inched closer to me until there was scarcely half a foot between us.
I’m just waiting for her.
“…reinforcements to…” Jeyzar’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.
The Rebellion has been quiet lately—still rumbling but nothing major. I can hardly focus on a word he says, droning on and on, and I make an excuse, ignoring my father’s disapproving glare.
“Zevayr,” he calls. Shit. I’d nearly made it to the door. “The Volcan delegation is arriving tonight. Do not miss it.”
I give a curt nod, then quickly leave before he can rope me into staying. Brisk footsteps lead me to the infirmary.
I’ve nearly reached the doors when I hear her lilting voice.
“I would never let him lash you,” my wife says. I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Wonderful,” Sauzon responds. “My fate rests in the hands of a wisp of a princess. Very reassuring.”
Mayah laughs, but irritation simmers in my chest. An irrational spark of jealousy flickers through me at the familiar way he speaks to her.
“Wisp I may be, but I’m persuasive! At the very least, I’d heal your back.”
“What the fuck, Sauzon?” I growl. I stalk through the doorway, hands clenched at my sides. “Did you just refer to my wife as a ‘wisp’?”
The blood drains from his face. “Sire, I meant no—”
“Leave him alone, Zev,” Mayah says, hands on her hips. “I’ll have no friends at all if you keep scaring everyone. Ignore him, Sauzon.”
The medic bows deeply, then hurries to the supply room, muttering to himself.
I playfully narrow my eyes at my wife. “You think it’s appropriate to tell our subjects to ‘ignore’ me?”
She smiles at me, a beam of sunshine in this dismal palace, and I can’t contain the chuckle that escapes me.
In the corner, a small cart is tucked against the wall, laden with assorted food. I ladle a bowlful of vegetable stew before sitting across the cot where she’s perched, crisp white healer’s apron stretch taut across her chest.
I’m aching. Last night, the strap of her nightgown had slid off her shoulder as she reached for her latest book.
I’d damn near lost my mind.
“I’m in need of your services, healer.”
“Oh?” Mayah smiles, eyes twinkling. “And what is troubling you, sir? You seem like a big, strong man.” She giggles, and it heats my blood.
“It’s my wife.” Her eyes darken as I pitch my voice lower. “She’s driving me insane.” I hover the spoon near her mouth until she takes a dainty sip.
“I don’t know if a healer is the right person to help with that,” she whispers.
Another spoonful of soup.
“I think you’re exactly the right person.”
She folds her arms over her chest, scowling. “How exactly does your wife drive you insane?”
“She’s cast a spell on me. When I’m away from her, she’s all I can think about—what she’s doing, if she’s eaten, if she’s happy.” I drop my voice lower. “If she’s thinking about me.”
Another spoonful. Her tongue darts out to lick the edge of the spoon, and my eyes snap to her mouth.
“And when she’s with me,” I continue, gaze still fixed on her full lips, “my heart doesn’t know peace until she’s in my arms. I can barely function. The palace gossips about their inept prince, smitten with his wife.” I’d heard enough whispers yet can’t bring myself to give a damn.
I set down the bowl and raise an arm in invitation. She sits beside me, warm body pressed against mine. When I settle my arm across her shoulders, she leans into me, whether she realizes it or not.
“And you want me to rid you of this spell? So you might have some peace?” She pouts so fucking prettily, I’m tempted to kiss her senseless until she’s arched beneath me, willing and ready.
“Absolutely not,” I rumble, taking a deep, steadying breath. “I want you to help me cast the same spell on her.” I play with a lock of her hair. “Tell me how to make her ache for me. The same way I do for her.”
I lean closer until our faces are scant inches apart.
She’s breathing hard, her pupils blown wide.
“I don’t think you need any help in that regard,” she whispers hoarsely.
No prickles.
She aches for me? The truth snaps the last of my restraint.
Fuck it. I’m going to kiss her.
My nose brushes hers, and she parts her lips, trembling with anticipation, eyes falling shut as her hand rests on my chest. I lean in, closing the distance between us—
Thudding footsteps sound out, and Mayah jerks away, rising up and smoothing her gown, cheeks flaming. A woman walks into the infirmary, then stops cold, wide eyes flicking between us.
“Lightning strike her and her entire—” I growl.
“Wait!” Mayah calls out as the woman turns to leave, mumbling useless apologies. “Have a seat, please. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Disappointment wells in my chest, mingled with irritation and something that feels damningly like hurt that she pulled away so quickly. Like she felt embarrassed at being caught doing something she shouldn’t. With me. Her skiesdamned husband.
I school my expression into neutrality as she turns back, though I can’t contain the sigh that escapes me as I stand.
Patient. I need to be patient.
“I’ll be late coming to bed,” I tell her, tracing my thumb along her jaw. “A delegation from Volca arrives tonight. Don’t wait up for me.”
She clasps my wandering hand and presses it to her cheek. My heart stutters.
“All right.” Her brows are furrowed, lips pursed. There’s something she’s not saying.
“What is it?”
“Have there been any letters for me? From my father? Or anyone?”
My heart aches for her and the hope in her blue gaze. There hasn’t been a single letter. She must read my remorseful expression because her shoulders stiffen, and she says, almost defensively, “It’s a long distance from here to Tundrayn.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Yeah, I’m sure they’re just delayed.”
For a truthwielder, I tell a staggering number of lies.
“Did the princess like the gifts I sent?” Faramir’s voice is uncharacteristically polite. Emerald-green vest, hair styled in neat waves, he’s the picture of Arbinji royalty. My half-brother appears at ease, but the violent pulsing of his energy signature reveals his nerves.
At least he’s taking this meeting seriously.
The three emissaries share a covert glance. Burgundy robes rustle as their leader, a portly man with a long beard, shifts in his seat.
“She did, yes. Our princess sends her gratitude.”
Vicious needles jab the back of my neck, and I grit my teeth against the sensation. Like every other diplomatic meeting I’ve had the misfortune of attending, the last hour has been exceedingly uncomfortable, sharp prickles following nearly every sentence.
“That’s wonderful,” my father rumbles, leaning forward in his chair. “Has your queen considered our proposal? The last letter was rather … vague.”
“Queen Saeren is considering it,” the portly emissary says smoothly, meeting my father’s gaze head-on.
Lie.
“She, too, sends her gratitude for the silks and jewels and … birds. But, King Varad, you must understand—the princess is young. Last month, we only just celebrated her seventeenth birthday.”
The understanding smile that unfurls across Faramir’s face is not one I’ve ever seen. “Of course. Seventeen is far too young for marriage. But, perhaps, we could cement the bonds between our kingdoms with a betrothal. Surely, Queen Saeren would be amenable to that.”
Interesting.
Faramir came prepared. I’ve never seen this … kingly side of him.
“Ah, a betrothal,” the emissary says, crossing his arms over his chest. “It is our understanding that you were recently betrothed to Princess Mayah of Tundrayn.”
Silence descends over the room as all eyes turn to me.
A muscle pulses in my father’s jaw. Faramir’s left eye twitches. Still, his voice is even when he says, “Yes. Perhaps my brother can speak more to that.”
I clear my throat. “After the alliance, I went to retrieve Mayah and bring her to Arbinj. Our party was attacked, and we made the journey back alone. On foot. Over the course of several weeks together, we grew to … care for one another. My father and brother were gracious enough to”—I grit my teeth—“allow a union between us.”
“The power of love,” the Volcan emissary says with a smile. “Congratulations on your nuptials. Though, tell us more of this attack. Who was responsible?”
A sudden rumble of thunder steals the words on my tongue.