Chapter 25 Paeonia #2
She glanced at him. Her thoughts clogged.
“You don’t want this marriage. It’s better if he treats it this way.”
Castor looked after Rowan as he stormed down the hall. Castor hadn’t known what just occurred in the observatory. That she had actually desired the kiss.
She nodded. “Right.”
It was beginning to grow dark, the sun halfway set, as Paeonia stood in the dining room. Some of the Stoneborne had sat in with them during the celebratory dinner. She had feasted. Had looked at Rowan and smiled, but he never returned the gesture, always lost in thought.
Eventually, the Stoneborne in attendance had dispersed, cleaning the tables, putting things away. Rowan and Paeonia stood alone in the dining room, and all she could think about was the kiss. Her first kiss with someone other than Barth. Her first kiss where she enjoyed it.
She hated the silence. Hated how he refused to speak. “Am I to stay with you for the night?” she finally mustered asking.
He glanced at her. “No. I told you, now that we’re wed”—something flamed in his eyes—“you must keep yourself locked in your chambers when the sun goes down.”
Her voice went quiet. “When you shift.” Her body warmed.
He gave her a curt nod. A softer gesture than usual.
“And is my door enough to stop you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Why would this be different than any other night?” she inquired.
His tongue moved across his teeth. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a mate, let alone married her. I am not sure how it will go when I shift into my wyld glamour.”
He seemed almost shameful. Embarrassed that he didn’t know how his feral side would behave.
For seemingly no reason at all, Paeonia didn’t think he’d ever truly do anything she didn’t want—wouldn’t hurt her—even in his wyld glamour.
She was foolish to put so much faith in him, but that didn’t stop her.
They walked side by side in silence as they left the dining room.
When they passed by one of the parlors, the piano inside shaded in dust apart from the keys, she asked him to play.
She didn’t know why she felt the need to spend more time with him.
And she figured he might ridicule her. But to her surprise, he strolled into the parlor and sat before the piano.
She quietly sat in one of the settees as his fingers flexed over the ivory keys. Then he played. It was a dark tone that filled the room. Made it swell in gold. She couldn’t help the dreamy cast that shrouded over her at his tune. The tiny smile that edged onto her lips.
When he settled, his hands falling to his lap, his back to her, she spoke quietly. “Beautiful. You play beautifully, Rowan.”
He peered at her over his shoulder.
She shrugged, twirling her fingers together. “I’ve always wanted to play an instrument.”
“What stopped you?”
She approached him to gain a better look at the gorgeous instrument. “Where would a farmer find a piano to play? Let alone someone to teach her,” she teased.
He was silent for a few beats, like he was contemplating something, before he grabbed her waist and tugged her onto his lap. Her eyes widened in shock. He held her so her back was to his chest, her front facing toward the keys. Her heart pounded in her ears, her entire body heating.
He reached around her, his fingers gently tapping the keys, just lightly enough so no sound played. After stilling his fingers for a brief moment, he began to play an easy melody, one he repeated before spreading his hands apart so she could mimic his notes.
She hit a few keys, just as he did, but the rhythm was not the same. He replayed it, then gave her another moment to try. Her mind was distracted as she gave it another attempt, Rowan’s breathing in tune with her own, his chest expanding as his lungs filled, pressing flush against her back.
When she hit the last note, his hands moved to play the melody further, his fingers brushing hers as she pulled back just enough to grant him room. Her hands hovered as he played, their skin brushing against each other.
Again he stopped, giving her room so she could try. She mirrored where his fingers had just laid and pushed down so the resonant tune danced around them. She tried to focus, but being plastered so close to him, his breathing in her ear, she jittered with nerves.
“You should hate me,” he mumbled in her ear.
He placed his hands on hers, guiding them to where he wanted. Showing her which note to play and when.
His hot breath made her back straighten slightly. “W-what do you mean?”
His fingers slid between hers so he could press the keys, waiting for her to mimic after him.
“The other day, in the gardens. I held you down. Touched you in ways you—” She could tell he shook his head, his words caught in his throat.
She summoned an unsteady breath, her hands pausing.
“I should hate you,” she solidified. “But a part of me—perhaps a foolish part—thinks it’s all a front.
I don’t think you dislike me as much as you say.
And I don’t think you mean the foul things you do.
” She figured she only had the courage to speak this truth to him because she could not see his face.
“And I know you think that naive of me. Maybe part of it is. But I don’t think it’s wrong to find the good in others. ”
He shifted his legs so she moved about his lap, her back pushed flat against his chest as he edged forward. “Hmm,” he hummed, the sound vibrating through her ribs. “Then why do I do these things to you? Why do I desire to torture you?”
“I,” she began, stuttering. “I don’t think you do. I think…I think you’re lonely. Lonelier than you even realize.”
She braced herself for him to shove her away, to throw her off his lap. But instead, his arm slid around her waist, drawing her closer than she thought possible.
“There is something about you, Paeonia,” he murmured after a long, quiet moment, his lips brushing the curve of her neck. His breath raised gooseflesh along her skin. “Something that makes me feel more alive. Something that makes me want to be good.”
She rested her hand over the arm he had wrapped around her waist, relishing in the steady warmth of him. Slowly, he turned his palm upward and threaded his fingers through hers.
“I’m not good for you. I’ve done terrible things. And yet you still—” His words dissipated, lost in the evening air.
She thought she might be sick from how fast her heart was racing. “Tell me. Tell me every awful thing. Tell me everything that should make me hate you. And then let me care for you anyways.”
He was abrupt in his movement, standing, pushing her to the side. He ran a hand through his hair before guiding her out of the parlor.
“Come. I’m taking you to your rooms,” he said sternly.
She followed in a daze, ascending the stairs, and fiddled her hands together, his heat still stinging her skin.
It was like she wandered in a daydream, for all of a sudden, they appeared in front of her chambers. He cocked his head, calling her to attention. “Pae.”
She met his gaze.
“Let us converse a little longer while the day still shines.”
He watched her like a predator tracking its prey as he slipped into her room. She lingered in the hallway, the door left slightly ajar. Then, with a sharp breath, she crossed the threshold.
He stood at the desk in the far corner, his back to her.
She waited—silent, uncertain—while the space between them thrummed with unspoken intent.
Finally, “Will you tell me now why you needed me to marry you?”
“No.” He faced her.
She went to claim indignation, but he thwarted her argument.
“I will tell you tomorrow. This, I promise. But let us not hate each other for a little longer. Let me enjoy one peaceful evening with my wife.”
She wasn’t sure which part of his confession to focus on: The part where he implied he wanted to reside in her company in harmony, or the fact that whatever it was he needed her for would spark hatred.
Perhaps even how the word ‘wife’ slipped so effortlessly off his tongue, sending a shiver through her.
She clutched her arm against her chest and nodded.
Foolishly, her mind wandered, her body still hot from his contact in the parlor. And she wondered what it would be like to truly be with her husband, to consummate her marriage as she always thought she would. For it to be pleasurable, as Sybil had told her.
Ask him, Sybil’s voice rang in her mind.
He moved about the room, and it was so odd to see him in here. In her quarters. Where she slept every night. Where she dressed and spoke with the Stoneborne.
“What did you want—?” she began, asking him how, exactly, he planned to enjoy her company. But he interrupted her.
“Ask me,” he commanded.
Paeonia blinked several times, almost physically drawing backward. “Ask you…what?”
Rowan kept their gazes locked but remained silent.
Paeonia’s blood boiled, burning her from the inside out. Sybil’s encouragement rattled inside her mind. She twirled the ring around her finger.
“Would you—?” Her breathing slowed, her speech slipping. Shame washed over her. What if she asked, and he rejected her?
His eyes narrowed, and that only made her words linger further down her throat. She shook her head in defeat. Pathetic. She couldn’t ask him. Wouldn’t ask him.
Rowan growled in his chest like she had upset him. She kept her head low and bit her lip.
He let out a strained breath before speaking, as if he had been waiting to see if she’d elaborate—but when she never did, he took it upon himself. “Let me touch you,” he mumbled.
Her lips parted, a soft breath escaping. “W-what?” She expected him to reprimand her for always struggling to be honest, to speak her mind clearly.
The energy around him flared dark before he paced a few steps closer. “Just a bit.”
Her blood thrummed loudly in her ears, her body tense.
“To take the edge off.”
“T-the edge?” she clarified foolishly.
He rolled his neck. “Were you not going to ask that of me?”