Chapter 20 #2
“—looks civilized enough in proper clothes, I suppose—”
An elderly lord with silver hair and elaborate robes stopped mid-stride, his expression cycling through shock, distaste, and finally settling on a blank mask.
A child pointed at them from beside a fountain, “—tusks, Mama. Did you see his tusks?” His mother quickly pulled him away, her skirts swishing in her haste.
The fountain’s water trickled behind them, peaceful against the unnatural quiet that followed.
“Beautiful park,” Khaeric said, his voice carrying that careful neutrality he’d adopted with the seamstress.
“It was designed three centuries ago by the architect Caelith.” The words came automatically, a recitation from childhood lessons. “The trees were selected for their longevity and aesthetic value. Some are over a thousand years old.”
“That so?” He didn’t look at the trees. His gaze tracked the movements of those around them—the stiffening spines, the hurried departures, the way a young couple altered their path to avoid crossing theirs. “Ye’re no’ speakin’ like yerself.”
The observation landed with uncomfortable precision. Aeryn’s fingers tightened on his arm. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Aye, ye do.” His voice remained low, pitched only for her. “That voice. The one ye’re usin’ now. All proper and distant. Like ye’re recitin’ from a book.”
“I’m speaking appropriately for the setting.” The words came out clipped, defensive. She focused on the path ahead, on the perfectly arranged flower beds, the way autumn light filtered through leaves that had turned gold and crimson.
“Appropriate.” He let the word sit between them. “That what ye call it?”
Her throat tightened as her nausea returned. She swallowed against it, willing her body to cooperate. “I’m trying to make this easier for both of us.”
“Are ye?”
A sigh escaped her. “Yes.” The admission tasted bitter. “I’m trying to make this easier. For you. For me. For everyone watching us like we’re some kind of spectacle.”
An older woman had paused by a bed of late-blooming roses, her attention fixed not on the flowers but on the orc walking arm-in-arm with a princess of the Silver Bough. Two young elven men in formal attire stood near a marble bench, their conversation abandoned in favor of blatant staring.
“And how’s that workin’ for ye?” Khaeric’s question held no heat, just a quiet observation that somehow cut deeper than anger would have.
Aeryn lifted her gaze to meet his. The mask she’d maintained since entering the park cracked, something sharp and defensive rising in its place.
“I would like to return to the estate.” The words came out flat, cold. She didn’t answer his question—wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
His arm tensed beneath her palm, but she didn’t look away from his face. Let him see the anger there. Let him see the effects of his constant questioning and refusal to cooperate.
“Aeryn—”
“Now.” She released his arm, stepping back.
The distance between them felt like a chasm. Around them, the watching eyes multiplied. More elves had paused in their afternoon strolls. A flash of satisfaction crossed some of their faces—the particular smile of those who witness another’s misfortune.
The walk back felt longer than it had any right to. She kept her chin level, her breathing steady, her composure intact—everything expected of a princess of the Silver Bough.
Khaeric said nothing. He’d pushed and pushed until something in her had snapped.
The gates of the estate appeared ahead, and relief flooded through her. Just a few more steps. Just a few more moments of holding everything together before she could retreat to the privacy of their chamber.
The guards opened the gates without a word. Aeryn passed through, acutely aware of how her hand no longer rested on Khaeric’s arm, how the space between them had grown with each step back from the park.
She stopped at the threshold of the main hall, turning to face the two guards who had accompanied them. Their expressions remained neutral, but she caught the slight relaxation in their shoulders. “Thank you,” she said. “That will be all.”
They bowed in unison, their ceremonial spears glinting in the afternoon light filtering through the tall windows. “Princess,” they murmured before turning to retreat to their posts.
Aeryn watched them go, then turned toward the stairs.
Behind her, Khaeric followed. She didn’t look back.
The corridor stretched ahead, lined with tapestries depicting Silver Bough history—conquests and alliances, marriages and treaties. All the careful political maneuvering that had built this house’s power over centuries. All the compromises and calculated gestures that had kept them relevant.
She’d learned those lessons well. Too well, perhaps.
The door to their chamber appeared, and she pushed through it without waiting for him. The familiar space offered no comfort—the carved furniture, the silk curtains, the bed with its elaborate canopy. All of it felt like a cage dressed in finery.
Aeryn moved to the bed, her movements mechanical. She didn’t bother removing her cloak, just sank onto the mattress and lay back against the pillows.
The bed shifted as Khaeric sat down beside her. Not touching, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him.
She kept her eyes closed. If she opened them, she’d have to look at him, see whatever expression he wore, navigate yet another conversation she didn’t have the energy for.
The silence stretched. She counted her breaths—one, two, three—focusing on the rhythm.
“I shouldnae have pushed ye.” His voice came low, rougher than usual. “In the park.”
She’d expected more arguing, more of that quiet observation that peeled back her defenses.
“No.” The word came out quiet. “You shouldn’t have.”
Another silence.
“But you were right.” The admission tasted like ash. “About the seamstress. I spoke for you when I should have asked.”
The bed shifted again. She felt him move closer, though he still didn’t touch her.
“Ye were protectin’ me,” he said. “Same as I’d have done for ye, if our places were switched.” A pause. “But I cannae be something I’m no’. No’ even here.”
“I know.” She pressed her palm against her abdomen. “I know you can’t.”
“And ye cannae keep bendin’ yerself into knots to please folk who’ll never accept me, anyway.”
She wanted to argue with that, to insist that given time, given proper presentation, the elven nobility would come to see past their prejudices. But the words wouldn’t come. The park had proven him right in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge—every stare, every whisper, every hurried departure.
“Let me help ye relax,” he said, his voice softer now. His hand moved to her foot, still encased in the delicate embroidered slipper that marked her status. “These look uncomfortable.”
They were. The pointed toes pinched, and the thin soles offered no real support. She’d worn them because they were appropriate, because they matched her dress, because a princess of the Silver Bough didn’t walk through public parks in practical footwear.
“They’re fine,” she said, but didn’t pull away when his fingers found the small clasp at her ankle.
The slipper loosened, and he slid it off. His palm cupped her foot, thumb pressing into the arch. The pressure sent relief radiating up her calf, and she couldn’t quite suppress the small sound that escaped her throat.
“Thought so.” He set the slipper aside and reached for her other foot. The second joined the first on the floor with a soft thud. Both hands moved to her feet now, working the tension from her arches with steady pressure.
“Better?”
“Yes.” The word came out breathy.
His hands moved higher, fingers tracing the curve of her calf through the silk of her stockings.
She should tell him to stop. They were still angry with each other, still navigating the impossible space between what he needed and what she could give.
His thumbs pressed into the muscle just below her knee, working out the tension. “Khaeric—”
“Shh.” His hands slid higher, pushing the hem of her dress up past her knees. His fingers traced the edge of her stockings, finding the ribbons that secured them just above her knee.
“What are you—”
“Helpin’ ye relax.” His voice had dropped lower, rougher. “If ye’ll let me.” His broad shoulders pushed her thighs wider, and she felt the fabric of her dress slide higher still.
His mouth pressed against her knee. The sensation shot straight through her, pooling low in her belly.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of her smallclothes, drawing them down her legs with agonizing slowness. Then she was bare to him, her dress bunched around her waist.
The first touch of his tongue made her gasp. He pressed his mouth against her center, and the heat of it, the wetness, sent pleasure spiraling through her. His tusks pressed against the inside of her thighs.
The sound that escaped her throat bore no resemblance to the composed voice she’d used in the park.
His tongue flicked against her pearl again, and the pleasure built with startling intensity.
She’d expected him to draw this out, to tease her until she begged, but he worked her with focused determination.
His mouth sealed around the sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking gently while his tongue maintained that maddening rhythm.
The tension coiled tighter in her belly—heat and pressure and need.
“Khaeric—” His name broke on her lips as the pleasure crested, sudden and overwhelming. Her back arched off the bed, thighs trembling against his shoulders as the release rolled through her in waves.
Finally, he lifted his head. His mouth glistened, and the sight of it sent another pulse of heat through her already-oversensitive body. “Better?”
“Yes.”
The tension that had coiled through her shoulders since the seamstress’s visit had dissipated, replaced by a languid warmth that spread through her limbs. Even the nausea had receded to something distant and manageable.