Chapter 17 Breakfast
Breakfast
Iwake alert and ready, though for what I cannot yet name. Only that something in me has hardened overnight into resolve. I am finished absorbing humiliation as though it is owed.
Maridale dresses me carefully, her hands reverent in a way that still surprises me.
The gown she chooses is pink chiffon, low enough at the bodice to be unmistakable without straying into impropriety.
It moves when I do, floating, drawing the eye.
My hair is coaxed into loose ringlets that fall freely down my back, unbound and intentional.
A touch of color warms my lips. She presses a matching fan into my hand.
“You look…” She hesitates, searching for the word. “Like you know something they do not.”
I smile faintly. “Perhaps I do.”
I am not surprised when word comes that the Prince requests my presence at breakfast. I draw in a breath, then rise. Whatever waits for me there, I will meet it standing.
The doors open and conversation falters. Chairs scrape back as members of the royal family rise in a ripple of delayed courtesy. Aunts, cousins, distant relations whose names I do not yet know but whose judgments are already formed. Everyone rises, except the Prince and the King.
Colsar remains seated, one elbow resting against the table, posture intentionally casual, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth as though daring me to react.
Sevrin lounges at the head of the table, eyes heavy-lidded, expression caught somewhere between irritation and curiosity, his presence filling the room without effort.
I walk to my seat beside my husband and take it without hesitation.
Around the table sit faces I catalog quickly.
A handsome young man in his mid-twenties, posture stiff, eyes wary but kind.
A boy of perhaps ten, staring openly, untrained in discretion.
Several older women dressed in restraint and judgment.
One, in particular, with pale eyes and a long, narrow nose, watches me with unconcealed disgust.
Silence stretches.
I let it. Then, gently, I place my hand around Colsar’s arm. I feel the immediate reaction. The tightening beneath silk, the way his body responds despite himself.
“My love,” I say warmly. “Are you not going to introduce me to your family?”
The pause is exquisite.
Colsar exhales through his nose and begins listing names with clipped efficiency. “Aunt Esmeraldis. Junis. Wyan. Althea. Corren.”
Aunts. Cousins. Branches of the same bloodline. My attention lingers on Junis, the handsome one. Tavern gossip often mentioned him as the royal cousin who preferred working the Vaelor ships over favor at court. He startles slightly when he realizes I am looking at him.
“Junis,” I say kindly, as though we are already acquainted. “What do you plan to do while visiting the capital?”
He blinks. “I—I thought I might attend the theater.”
“How wonderful,” I reply at once. “I have never been. Can you imagine? I was so sheltered as a veiled one. All I have ever wanted is to see the world.”
Esmeraldis, whose long nose tilts upward in open disdain, makes a quiet sound of disapproval. “It would hardly be appropriate for—”
“For what?” I ask, my tone precise now.
She falters.
“For family,” I continue smoothly, “to spend time together? Surely you are not implying something improper, Lady Esmeraldis.”
A few people shift uncomfortably.
From the corner of my eye, I can see Junis choke back a laugh. At the far end of the table, an older woman smiles with practiced sweetness. “Tell us about your mother, dear.”
Mind your business, bitch, is what I want to say. But instead I lower my eyes. I let moisture gather. Just enough.
“Some memories,” I say softly, “are too painful for words.”
Esmeraldis lifts her chin. “I do hope your wedding night was a success. The rumors suggest it was rather… lively.”
Colsar stares into his plate. I cannot tell whether he feels shame or satisfaction. Only that whatever it is, he will not let the room see it.
Sevrin, however, is watching closely now.
I lift my fan, feigning embarrassment. “Oh, cousin,” I murmur. “You do make me blush.”
I lean in slightly, lowering my voice just enough to carry. “We did attempt consummation,” I continue gently. “But the Prince was… unable.”
The intake of breath around the table is collective.
“I am certain it is temporary,” I add kindly. “I would hate to think such a mark”—I let my fingers brush my collarbone and remove the glamour where the Mark of Forizan rests—“would go to waste.”
The effect is immediate. Sevrin straightens abruptly. His attention locks onto my throat with unmistakable intensity. I know with sudden certainty that he has never known anyone with such a mark.
I continue, unhurried. “I took great care last night. I soaked for hours. Oils. Heat. I made myself soft and ready to do my duty for the realm.”
Colsar’s jaw tightens visibly.
“The kingdom deserves heirs,” I say calmly. “And I would never endanger your Majesty’s reign.”
Sevrin’s eyes darken. “Indeed,” he says slowly.
I sip my tea. Then, as if struck by a thoughtful concern, I add, “I do recall a clause in the histories, Your Majesty, where the Crown may intervene should—”
“Stop.” Colsar slams his hand against the table.
Silverware rattles. The boy flinches.
“Enough,” Colsar snaps, breath uneven now. “This is not the time.”
Sevrin turns to him. “The time,” the King replies evenly, “is whenever I decide it is.”
The room goes quiet.
“We are at war,” Sevrin continues, rising. “The Thren King boasts fourteen heirs. Fourteen promises to his people that his line will endure.”
He turns slowly. “And mine?” he asks. “What do I offer them?”
No one answers.
Sevrin’s attention returns to me, and I cannot help but notice how his muscles move beneath his shirt, how his presence commands the room.
“The Baron Dyvarin sends me his coffers,” he says.
“His soldiers. His ships. And then he sends me a golden-eyed daughter, untouched, bearing the Mark of Forizan.”
Murmurs ripple.
“A blessing so rare that most men never witness it,” Sevrin continues. “And yet, the day after her wedding, she remains unclaimed.”
Colsar pushes back his chair. “This is not your concern.”
Sevrin laughs once. “Everything that threatens my crown is my concern.” He steps closer. “I could marry her tomorrow,” he says lightly. “Nullify the contract. Claim the Mark. Open those soft thighs and give the people what they need.”
Colsar surges forward. “Try.”
Power hums, thick and volatile. For a moment, it seems they might actually come to blows.
Then Sevrin smiles. “You forget yourself,” he says quietly. “You are my brother. Not my equal.”
Colsar stops, his chest rising and falling as his eyes fix on me with something raw and unguarded, desire and rage and regret tangled together.
Sevrin steps back, satisfied. “For now,” he says, “this farce may continue.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “A wife is not truly a wife until she has been taken,” he adds. “And a kingdom will not wait forever.” The doors close behind him, and Colsar remains where he is, shaken and undone.
I turn back to Junis as if nothing of consequence has occurred. “So,” I say brightly, “are you taking me to the theater tonight?”
He grins, relief plain on his face. “Yes, Princess.”
I smile. At last, the room exhales and I eat my breakfast in peace.