Chapter Five
Iver
Iver gritted his teeth. For the past hour, he’d been unable to fall asleep thanks to William’s restless fidgeting. Every time William rolled over, he pulled the sheets off Iver. “Will you stop tossing and turning!”
William whirled onto his side, glaring daggers. “I can’t sleep like this!”
“Like what?” What was his problem? They were in a fine bedchamber, it was dark, quiet, and unlike William, Iver wasn’t causing a disturbance.
“With you here!” William exclaimed.
“I’m lying perfectly still. I might as well not be here!”
“Not be here?” William snarled, propping himself up on his elbow.
“You know what it’d be like if you weren’t here?
A concubine or three would’ve taken care of me, and I’d be sleeping like a log.
A thoughtful spouse would’ve serviced me.
But no, you refuse to perform your conjugal duties on our wedding night, and now that I can’t sleep, you have the audacity to complain about it. This is unbelievable.”
So that was the issue: William hadn’t gotten his dick wet. Having a needy partner could be fun, but… “I’m not going to service you.” Who the hell did he think he was?
“That’s the problem,” William hissed.
“I don’t think kings are in the habit of servicing each other.”
“God, I wish you were a concubine. Then you wouldn’t mouth off. I’d stuff you with my cock and fall asleep right after.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re a prick.”
Iver snorted. That was rich coming from a man who’d just admitted he couldn’t function without having his cock sucked. “I’m not going to trade insults with you.”
William rolled away from him with more force than necessary. “You started it.”
No, he hadn’t, but this was going nowhere. “Go to sleep,” Iver said with exasperation.
It took a long time for William to settle, and when he finally did, it was a relief. But Iver found no rest. His mind kept replaying William and Silenia talking in the hall of ancestors. They’d stood close. What had she said to him?
The scene had painfully reminded Iver of what had happened the one time he’d fallen for someone. His heart ached at the thought of the old wound. It had scabbed over with time, and for fear of tearing it open, he usually avoided thinking about the past.
Iver couldn’t let himself be hurt again.
Thank goodness he wasn’t in love with William.
He didn’t like having Silenia at Silverlight Castle, but for propriety’s sake, he’d invited her to the wedding and the upcoming midwinter festivities.
He’d breathe a sigh of relief when she was gone.
Unlike Ailenor, she wasn’t going to stay as part of this court.
She hadn’t been part of his court in a long time.
Eventually, he must’ve fallen asleep, because when he came to, he was lying on his side, facing a peacefully slumbering William. The room was dark except for the moonlight falling through the windows, but Iver felt it was morning even though the sun wouldn’t rise for another hour or two.
From between his full lips, William puffed out air.
His features were relaxed, every muscle loose.
Without his grating habits, William was easier to bear and a pleasure to look at.
He wasn’t so bad when he was asleep. With his eyes closed and his plush lips parted, he seemed guileless.
He couldn’t be conspiring against Iver. He wasn’t.
Iver knew that. What he didn’t know was why William behaved the way he did.
William’s conduct as a king was bordering on incompetence.
His southern lords had to be under the impression he was abandoning them to the invading orcs.
But he wasn’t. William cared—he’d asked Iver for command over the Winter Court’s troops, something Iver had been reluctant to give and then only in exchange for considerable concessions.
Their marriage had bought William political and military support.
Those weren’t the actions of an incompetent king.
William knew what to do—so why wasn’t he doing it?
Why wasn’t he allocating troops to the south?
Was it fear? Did he have no confidence in his abilities?
Was the weight of responsibility paralyzing him?
William had reveled in the strength the winter faerie fruit had granted him. He’d relished the power, the speed, the vigor. Perhaps it was vulnerability that had him reluctant to take action.
Trying not to disturb him, Iver peeled out of the sheets and slipped out of bed.
The chamber was a mess—granted, moving his belongings into the room hadn’t helped the situation, but the clothes on the floor, the haphazardly piled books and scattered belongings were William’s.
Didn’t the servants tidy up after him? Iver wasn’t going to live in this mess.