Chapter 40 The Escort
The Escort
The palace swallows me the moment we cross its threshold.
Hands catch at my sleeves before I have taken three steps.
Matron Oramin descends the staircase, perfectly well-dressed and smelling faintly of lavender and authority.
“You must be careful,” she says, already guiding me down the corridor.
“Even if nothing occurred, one must behave as though something did. A woman’s body does not distinguish between intention and action. ” I blink at her.
“Aftercare,” she continues in a lower voice. “Rest. Warm baths. You are not to strain yourself.” I am not certain whether to laugh. Emva nearly trips over her own skirts rushing toward me, with Maridale and Brinette flanking her like conspirators.
“Well?” Emva whispers loudly.
Maridale clasps her hands together. “Was he—”
“Gentle?” Brinette supplies.
Three pairs of eyes gleam with scandal and anticipation. I think of rain, of the cave, of cold water at the waterfall and the shock of laughter breaking out of my own chest. “Yes,” I say softly. They gasp. It feels like a lie and a truth at the same time.
The summons for dinner arrives before their questions can multiply. The King requests both Colsar’s and my presence this evening. The King, it seems, has an announcement.
In my chamber a gown waits, gray silk, heavy and fluid, the color of winter clouds before snow.
When I slip into it and turn toward the mirror, something inside me tightens.
It reminds me of him, the quiet severity, the controlled cold.
I smooth my palms down the fabric and hate that the thought pleases me.
I am fastening the final clasp when there is a knock at the door.
When I open it, Colsar stands there. He looks undeniably handsome, his hair pulled back loosely and appearing more blond than white tonight, softening him slightly.
His dark attire is immaculate, his presence filling the doorway without effort.
Both of his strange eyes assess me as though he is reconsidering something.
For a moment, I forget whatever prepared line I might have offered.
He looks composed, as distant as ever, and yet his eyes move over me in a way that is not distant at all.
They begin at my shoulders, trace the line of the gray silk as it falls to my waist, then drift lower before returning to my face.
He does not apologize for it. He does not pretend it did not happen.
“You came to escort me?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I lift a brow. “All this way?”
“All this way.”
I shift my weight slightly. “I was unaware the distance between my chambers and the dining room had become perilous.”
“It has,” he replies calmly. “You are in it.”
I stare at him, thrown for a moment. It almost sounds like he attempted a joke.
I recover quickly. “Was that concern?” I ask.
“That was observation.”
I fold my hands loosely in front of me. “I will not grow accustomed to this.”
“To what?”
“To you appearing at my door like a proper husband.”
“You can.”
His voice is even, and there is something beneath it that is closer to resolve than indifference.
“Should I?” I ask.
He steps closer, near enough that I can feel the heat of him through the thin air between us. I am acutely aware of the way his presence alters the space around me.
“You are my wife,” he says. “Escorting you is not an indulgence.”
“It is not?” I tilt my head slightly. “You have been very clear that this marriage is contractual.”
“It is.”
“Contracts rarely involve… lingering.”
He smiles faintly at that. “I am not lingering.”
“You are,” I counter softly. “And you are looking at me in a way that suggests the contract has acquired fine print.”
His expression shifts, not dramatically, but enough that I feel it in my chest.
“You are more tempting than I anticipated,” he says, as though stating a military fact he would rather not acknowledge.
The honesty of it surprises me.
“Tempting,” I repeat. “That sounds dangerously close to desire.”
“That is precisely why it is inconvenient.”
I cannot help the small smile that forms. “Inconvenient for whom?”
“For me.”
There is no hesitation in that answer.
“You dislike closeness,” I remind him quietly.
“I prefer control.”
“And am I interfering with it?”
“Yes.”
The word is soft, but it awakens something low and warm inside me.
“And yet you are still here.”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of it is almost unbearable.
“If you continue this behavior,” I say, forcing a lighter tone, “the palace will assume we spent the last three days engaged in something far more scandalous than solitude and fishing for trout.”
His eyes shift briefly to my mouth before lifting again. “Let them.”
“You do not care for rumors.”
“I do not care for anyone questioning your place beside me.”
The words shift the air between us.
“You didn’t feel that way before,” I say quietly.
“I feel differently now,” he says simply.
“And my place is where?” I ask.
“With me.”
There is nothing theatrical in the way he says it, just quiet certainty.
“Do you want me there?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His jaw tightens slightly. “That,” he says, “is a different question.”
“And?”
He studies me, not as a prince evaluating an asset, but as a man trying to decide whether he is about to do something reckless. “And I cannot afford to want anything.”
Something in me softens at that. “You speak as though wanting is catastrophic.”
“It can be.”
“Has it been?”
He does not answer.
The silence stretches, but it is no longer cold.
“You are staring again,” I say gently.
“I am allowed to look at my wife.”
“Looking and devouring are different.”
“Are they?”
Heat rises beneath my skin. “If you devour me,” I say lightly, “Matron Oramin will demand grandchildren immediately.”
His mouth lifts just slightly. “The Matron is already prepared.”
“I am aware. She spoke to me at length about fertility and posture.”
“And?”
“And if you intend to maintain this illusion of marital enthusiasm, you might consider limiting how convincingly you escort me.”
His voice lowers slightly. “I am not performing.”
The admission lingers between us. For a moment neither of us moves.
Then he extends his arm. Not rigidly. Not ceremoniously.
Simply there. I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow.
The contact is light, but it sends a quiet pulse through me.
He adjusts almost imperceptibly so that my body aligns with his stride.
As we begin walking, he leans slightly closer. “If you become overwhelmed,” he murmurs, “squeeze my arm.”
I glance up at him. “Is that permitted within the terms of our arrangement?”
“I will amend the contract.”
“Very generous of you, my Prince.”
“I can be.”
The way he says it makes my pulse quicken again.
We approach the dining room doors together, not touching beyond that single point of connection, and yet entirely aware of one another.
I feel him beside me in a way that is no longer merely strategic.
This may have begun as ink and obligation, but something else has entered it, and neither of us is pretending not to notice.