12. A King’s Appetite #2
A garden terrace stretched before me, all pale stone warmed gold by the sun, bordered by climbing vines heavy with white and violet blossoms that spilled over the balustrades and perfumed the entire space.
Beyond it, the mountains rose in the distance, and birdsong drifted on a breeze that carried no trace of ash, smoke, or war.
In the center of it all, a single table had been set for two, draped in white linen and laid with enough food to feed a small regiment.
And rising from his seat at the sight of me was Atlas.
His gaze traveled over me slowly, taking in the crimson gown, and a slow smirk curved his mouth.
“Be honest,” he said, as I crossed the terrace toward him. “How much do you wish for your combat boots and army fatigues right now?”
I looked down at the elegant disaster I was currently wearing and sighed.
“Well,” I admitted, “I would have been able to run faster.”
The laugh that rumbled out of him was warm and low. He reached for me as I drew near, one hand sliding to the back of my neck, and tilted my head gently back until I was looking up at him.
“Then I prefer the dress,” he murmured.
And kissed me.
It was soft and unhurried and tasted faintly of something sweet, and by the time he drew back, I’d quite forgotten what we had even been talking about.
Then, ever the gentleman when it suited him, he stepped around and pulled out my chair, waiting until I’d settled into it before taking his own again.
Breakfast, it turned out, was a feast.
There were warm breads and soft cheeses, bowls of fruit I didn’t recognize in colors that didn’t seem entirely natural, honey and preserves and little pastries that melted the second they touched my tongue.
I ate like I hadn’t seen food in weeks, which wasn’t far from the truth.
While Atlas watched me with an expression of such open, unguarded contentment that I had to keep looking away before it undid me completely.
“So,” I said around a mouthful of something flaky and divine, “is this how kings always eat? Because if so, I have several complaints about how the rest of us have been living.”
“Only when they are trying to impress someone,” he said.
“And how am I doing?” I asked. “On the being impressed front.”
“You have eaten four pastries,” he observed.
“That isn’t an answer.” Although, yeah, it was, as it was clear I was more than impressed.
“It is the only answer I require.” He reached across the table and brushed a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his thumb, his eyes warm. “You are happy. That is all I wanted.”
My heart did the complicated, unhelpful thing again.
I was also saved from having to respond by the sound of footsteps and a cheerful voice that very much did not belong to a servant.
“Now isn’t this cozy.”
Lazaros strolled onto the terrace, looking considerably better than he had the day before.
The bruised shadows still clung beneath his eyes, and the wound at his throat hadn’t fully faded, but there was color in his face again and a spring in his step that hadn’t been there in the throne room.
He dropped into the empty third chair without waiting to be asked, snagged a pastry off Atlas’s plate, and grinned at me as though we were old friends.
“Lazaros,” Atlas said, with the long-suffering patience of an older brother everywhere. “Was there something you needed?”
“Yes, actually.” Lazaros bit into the stolen pastry and gestured at me with what remained, his handsome face enough to steal breath.
“I’ve come to get to know my brother’s mortal.
Properly, this time. We may have crossed paths yesterday, but between the blood, the grief, and my brother glaring at the world as though he meant to start a second war, I’d hardly call it a proper introduction.
” He turned to me then, eyes bright with mischief, and dipped his head with mock solemnity.
“So. Lazaros. Brother to this brooding one. And a great deal better company when I’m not freshly stitched back together. Charmed.”
I bit back a smile. “Alex. Though I think we managed that part yesterday.”
“Oh, I know exactly who you are.” He leaned in conspiratorially.
“Everyone does. You’re all anyone can talk about.
The mortal who crossed the Rift and ended a war.
The one my brothers apparently decided is the love of his very long life, and never thought to mention until she was standing in the throne room saving all our skins.
You could have at least sent a Rift-crossing carrier pigeon.
” He glanced at Atlas, shaking his head before turning back to me.
“Do you have any idea how insufferable he’s going to be about this?
He’ll be unbearable. ‘My fated did this. My fated did that.’ We’ll never hear the end of it. ”
“Yes, and I’m sitting right here,” Atlas pointed out dryly.
“I’m aware. It changes nothing.” Lazaros propped his chin on his hand and fixed me with a delighted look. “Has he told you any stories about himself yet? Because I guarantee you, they were all lies of omission, and I am here to correct the record.”
“Lazaros,” Atlas warned.
“Like did he tell you,” Lazaros pressed on, utterly undeterred, “about the time he tried to impress a visiting noblewoman by riding into the courtyard standing up on the back of his stallion?”
“Lazaros enough”
“He fell off,” Lazaros beamed. “Directly into the fountain. In front of the entire court. He was so determined to look impressive that he refused to climb out, so he simply stood there, dripping, soaked to the bone, and announced that he had meant to do it.”
A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it.
“You didn’t!” I said to Atlas, delighted.
“I was twelve,” Atlas said with enormous dignity, though I caught the reluctant twitch at the corner of his mouth. “And it was a very convincing recovery.”
“It was not,” Lazaros said cheerfully. “Mother laughed so hard she had to sit down.”
I pressed a hand to my mouth, shoulders shaking, while Atlas leveled his brother with a look that promised retribution, and Lazaros looked entirely too pleased with himself.
And for a moment, sitting in the morning sun with incredible food, two bickering brothers, and the perfume of those climbing vines all around me, the war felt like a distant memory.
It was almost enough to make me forget that it wasn’t.
Almost.
We were still laughing, Lazaros midway through a second, even more incriminating tale about a young Atlas and a stable goat, when a servant appeared at the edge of the terrace and cleared his throat.
“Your Majesty,” the man said, with a low bow. “The training grounds are ready.”
I looked between the brothers, expecting Atlas to rise.
Instead, it was Lazaros who pushed back his chair, brushing crumbs from his front with the air of a man glad of any excuse to move.
“That’ll be me,” he said, catching my confusion. “Your king has more pressing matters this morning, by the look of him. And besides, the bow has always been mine.” He grinned, entirely without modesty. “You’re looking at the finest shot in all of The?kós. It isn’t a boast if it happens to be true.”
“It’s still a boast,” Atlas said dryly, making no move to leave his seat. Then, with the grudging fairness of an older brother, he added, “Though not, I will admit, an untrue one. The bow is the one weapon in which my brother has ever bettered me.”
Lazaros pressed a hand to his heart. “Mark the hour. He confessed it aloud, and there were witnesses.” I giggled at that.
“Put a sword in his hand, however,” Atlas continued, unbothered, “and the natural order of things is swiftly restored.”