Chapter 38 The Dinner Surprise
The Dinner Surprise
By the third night of absence, the palace has begun to take note.
The invitation to dinner arrives without apology, written in a hand that assumes obedience rather than requesting it.
I turn it once between my fingers before setting it aside, already aware of what it represents.
Three nights without court, three nights without being seen, three nights in which decisions have continued to unfold in rooms I did not enter.
I stand before the wardrobe and look at the rows of dresses without reaching for any of them. “You choose,” I say, glancing back at Colsar. “I hated when Sevrin did it. I love when you do.”
He watches me for a moment as though weighing the words, then crosses the room with an ease that feels newly his.
Since returning, something in him has shifted into a kind of quiet confidence that does not need to prove itself.
He selects a dress without hesitation and brings it to me, his fingers brushing mine as he passes it over.
I take it, then let my eyes move over him more fully. The deep ruby of his robes is threaded with gold, the fabric heavy and rich, yet worn open without any effort to conceal what lies beneath.
“You have decided modesty no longer applies to you,” I say, my tone light but curious, my attention lingering on the line of his chest. I try to ignore the possessive part of me that wishes for him to cover himself, the thought of anyone else lusting after him making me furious.
A faint smile moves through him. "Siakars run hot," he says, his voice low, close enough that it seems to belong to the air between us rather than the room. "Covering too much feels unnecessary. I prefer to feel the air against my skin. It keeps me aware."
He pauses.
"After almost dying," he continues, quieter. "After almost losing you. I have decided life is too short to be uncomfortable for the sake of appearances."
His hand comes to my waist, drawing me closer. "I am not the prince who hated the world and wanted to be left alone," he says. "I am king of the beasts. Heir of Shalvar. And I am Prince Colsar of Veynar, rightful heir to the throne."
His mouth lowers to my ear. "Kings do not make themselves uncomfortable for the sake of others," he murmurs. "No one matters but you."
A slight pause.
"I am siakar, and I have fyrekin blood running through me. I run warm." His hand tightens slightly at my waist. "And I am done hiding any of it."
My fingers close against him, my breath shifting as I turn just enough to find his mouth.
"Then don't," I say.
His hand slides lower, slow and certain, brushing along my thigh beneath the fabric as his mouth traces the line of my shoulder.
"I will be king," he says against my skin.
I still, listening.
"Not just for revenge," he continues, his voice more intent. "But because I will not be anything smaller than what I am. At every turn they have tried to control us. Use us. Make us easier to manage." His mouth presses once more to my shoulder. "I would rather be the one who makes the rules."
His voice lowers.
"It is my right. And I will not take that from our children."
A brief pause, then closer still—
"A queen should not be married to anything less."
Something pulls low in my body. I lean into him without thinking.
He guides me backward until my hands find the edge of the vanity, pressing me forward until my chest rests against the cool surface. His touch deepens and a sound leaves me before I can stop it.
"I will teach my son," he says, unhurried, as though nothing else is happening, his fingers pressing harder, making it close to impossible to think. "Rule number one. Kings do not make themselves small to accommodate others. Others make themselves small to accommodate them."
His mouth finds mine, firm and patient, while his hand works me toward an edge I can feel building low and insistent. When he pulls back something almost amused moves through him. "Perhaps I should make it law. All men are required to wear open robes."
A laugh escapes me. "A tyrant already."
"Only where it benefits me."
I kiss him again anyway, and it breaks into something else entirely as his fingers find exactly the right place, my body arching against the vanity, grip tightening on the edge.
I come apart against his hand, trembling, a sound leaving me I could not have stopped if I tried.
His hand slows but does not stop, drawing out every last tremor until I am spent and breathless.
He pulls the strap of my dress down, exposing me. His hand, still slick with me, moves slowly across my chest, circling with a pressure that makes me shiver. He lowers his head and I feel the heat of his mouth on me, drawing a sound from my lips, my back arching into him.
He lifts his head and turns me with a firm hand until I am facing the mirror.
"Look at you," he says quietly, his eyes finding mine through the reflection, his body pressed close against my back.
I look.
Lips swollen. Hair loose around my face. My full breasts rising and falling with each breath, still sensitive from his touch. My abdomen curved softly with the life we made. His hands on my hips, holding me steady.
I feel it. What he is seeing.
"Every inch of you," he murmurs against the back of my neck. "Perfect."
Afterwards we readjust my clothing and hair.
I turn back to the mirror and begin to dress, letting him help without resistance.
His hands move with a familiarity that has grown into something instinctive, adjusting the fabric at my shoulders, guiding it into place with a care that feels chosen rather than performed.
When I meet his eyes in the reflection, there is no attempt to disguise what he feels.
His attention lingers on me in a way that is direct and unguarded.
I smooth my hands down the front of the dress, aware of how differently it sits against me now, how my body has changed in ways that alter even the simplest movements.
I reach toward the small box resting beside the vanity, nudging it slightly toward him without looking away from my reflection.
He opens it without question. Inside, there are fine chains and small stones, the kind designed to be worn against the skin.
He steps closer, lifting one and bringing it toward me, his fingers brushing my skin as he places it along my cheek and temple, adjusting it with care.
I watch him in the mirror as he works. When he finishes his hands linger, drifting to my neck, his thumb moving lightly over the pendant and then the ring where they rest against my skin on their separate chains.
My eyes meet his in the reflection.
"I love it on you," he says finally. Low. Certain.
We stay like that, looking at each other in a way that makes me want to forego dinner altogether.
“We are running late,” I say, though neither of us moves immediately.
We leave our chambers together, the corridor stretching ahead in quiet anticipation. The palace always feels like this just before something shifts, as though the walls themselves are listening.
We do not make it far.
Halfway down the hall, I stop and turn toward him, my arm sliding around his neck as I draw him closer, close enough to feel the heat of him, the constant warmth that seems to live beneath his skin.
“I will eat more at dinner,” I murmur, my voice low, meant only for him, “if you give me a reason to be hungry.”
His expression changes in a way that feels immediate and certain, something in him answering without hesitation. “I was about to say the same.”
What follows exists entirely within its own moment.
His breath is on my skin, the hard press of his body pinning me to the wall.
His hands grip my hips, rough and sure, yanking my dress up as he pushes against me.
My belly presses between us, and he adjusts without breaking pace, angling me just enough to make it work.
“You’re mine, Asha,” he growls, voice thick, as he shoves into me with one hard thrust, making me gasp sharp and loud.
“Fuck,” I hiss, my nails digging into his shoulders, the cool marble at my back a stark contrast to the heat of him filling me. Each movement is urgent, relentless, the hallway echoing with the quiet, slick sounds of us.
“Take it,” he rasps, lips at my ear, pace brutal and unyielding. “Take every bit of me."
I’m trembling already, the intensity building fast, my breath ragged. “Don’t stop,” I pant, legs tightening around him.
He doesn’t, driving harder until I’m breaking, a choked cry slipping out as I clench around him. He grunts, low and rough, following right after, spilling into me with a shudder. “My Asha Bear,” he breathes, still pressed close, catching his breath.
It’s over as quick as it started. I lower my legs, smoothing my dress back down, piecing together some semblance of control.
He adjusts his robes, face already schooled into his usual hard, unreadable mask.
No words are needed, just the weight of what we’ve done lingering between us as we move on down the hall.
We continue down the hall with our pace unchanged, the length of it stretching ahead in a quiet that feels arranged rather than incidental, and by the time we reach the dining chamber there is nothing left of what passed between us except the warmth that lingers low in my body and the awareness of him at my side.
The doors open, and I see him.
Hurstinal sits at the table.
He should be in the fucking dungeons. The thought does not pass through me cleanly.
It catches and pulls everything with it, and for a moment I remain where I am because my body refuses to move toward something that should not exist. Anger rises first, hot and insistent, followed by something heavier that presses into my chest and spreads outward, a quiet understanding that this was allowed, that this was chosen, that while I remained behind closed doors, the world beyond them continued without me and decisions were made in my absence.