Chapter seven #2
She stood and crossed the room with ethereal grace, but instead of embracing her son as I expected, her arms wrapped around me.
I barely remembered hugging my mother, but I thought it maybe felt something like hugging Arik’s.
“I am so pleased to meet my son’s beloved,” she murmured in my ear before stepping back and holding me out at arms length.
I blushed again, unsure how to explain that ‘beloved’ might not be quite the right term.
Smiling warmly, she took my arm and guided me to the couch before the hearth, Arik trailing behind us.
Amusement flashed across my mind—his amusement, I realized—and I bit my lip anxiously as the queen settled me next to her and studied my face. “You are pale, though. Are you quite well? Did you have breakfast?”
“Oh, uh—“ I glanced uncertainly at Arik, who had settled in the armchair his mother had vacated, an ankle crossed over his knee as he regarded me.
“We did not,” Arik said, chagrinned.
The queen tsked, shooting an exasperated look at her son. “Magda, please call down for some breakfast.”
Magda curtseyed and bustled out of the room, and I could have sworn her shoulders sagged in relief.
“Now, let me get a proper look at you.” The queen took my hands in hers, and squeezed them as she examined my face. “My, but you are beautiful. Brave and intelligent, too, if my son has chosen you.”
I blinked in surprise. She was so different than she had been in the throne room next to her horrible husband that it was almost hard to believe she was the same woman.
I saw Arik’s beard twitch again from the corner of my eye, but he didn’t move to correct his mother about the nature of our bond.
“Oh, I—“ I swallowed, silently shouting at Arik for assistance.
You have this, Kjaere. His voice was maddeningly calm in my mind. Just be yourself.
I thought a thoroughly inelegant word at him, and his mask cracked as he grinned.
“The dragons actually choose, Your Majesty.” The words came out of me in a rush, and Arik rather unconvincingly turned his chuckle into a cough.
“I see.” The queen’s smile grew as she looked at her son with such tenderness, I wondered why he had so rarely spoken of her.
“Well, I obviously know very little about drage customs, but you must be a remarkable woman if you have made my son laugh.” She squeezed my hands, and I felt a pulse of approval over our mental bridge, as if Arik were proud to show me off.
“But you must call me Ingrid,” she continued as Magda returned with a tray laden with pastries and replaced the queen’s empty teapot with one that steamed gently. “And if I may, I would be honored to address you by your given name.”
“Eisa,” I said, almost fumbling the teacup as she handed it to me.
She steadied the cup for me, then picked up a delicate pastry and put it on a plate decorated with flowers. “Eisa. Lovely. Now tell me, Eisa,” she said, pressing the plate into my lap, “how exactly did you end up mated to my son?”
“Mother.”
The queen gave her son an arch look. “I don’t need the specific mechanics, of course. I just want to get to know you mate. Now tell me,” her voice dropped conspiratorially, “is he as stubborn as he was when he was a boy?”
I choked on the sip of tea I was taking and shot Arik a look. He continued to give me his passive mask, but a mental nudge prompted me to say, “More, I imagine, Your Majesty.”
“Ingrid,” she corrected again. “And are you happy with the…uh…arrangement?”
I nearly spit out my tea for the second time as I turned wide eyes to Arik.
His eyes were steely gray as he met my gaze across the low table, a flash of amusement brightening the irises to silver. Well, Kjaere? If your answer is anything other than yes, then I have some groveling to do.
On your knees? I’m not sure what came over me to say it, but Baldur’s growl was barely contained.
Arik gripped the arms of the chair so tightly, I thought I heard the wood creak.
The image of the ridiculous nightgown from the night before lying tattered across the bedroom floor had hit me with such force, I suspected Baldur had engineered it.
Gladly, Kjaere. My knees, my tongue, whatever you desire.
“Ah. I see it suits you just fine,” Ingrid commented wryly, looking between my face and her son’s.
Idunn purred in my chest, and I was sure I had turned crimson. “I have no complaints.” I glanced back at Arik and gave him a nudge over our mental bridge. “Aside from the stubbornness.”
Cheeky. You’ll pay for that later. Arik’s voice was pure, feral need, and it was taking a great deal of self-control to rein in Idunn as she struggled to reach Baldur.
Arik’s mother is right there. Would you have me take him here and now?
Yes. Idunn’s eyes almost broke through my own, but I pushed her back.
No.
“Are you quite alright?” Ingrid was looking at me with amused concern.
Arik’s shoulders shook with laughter as he remained unhelpfully silent.
“I—“
But I didn’t have to scramble for an answer after all.
One of the adjoining chamber doors banged open as a man, older than Arik by at least fifteen years and wearing nothing but a towel wrapped low around his waist, stepped into the room.
His voice was thickly accented, and he scowled as if Arik had personally wronged him. “About bloody time ye came to say hello.”