Chapter 42 The Surprise
The Surprise
Dinner ends in tension and raised voices and veiled threats. He does not look at me as he takes my hand again, but he does not let go either.
Instead of returning toward the main wing of the palace, he turns down a quieter corridor. The torches burn lower here. The floor beneath our feet grows older, less polished. I assume we are simply taking a longer route to avoid his brother.
We stop before a set of double doors I have never noticed. He releases my hand only to step forward and push them open. Before he does, something rare touches his face.
A real smile appears there, warm and unguarded. “Are you ready for your surprise?” he asks.
I blink at him. “You actually have one?”
“I do.”
“I thought you invented that to escape your brother.”
“I rarely invent things without follow through.”
My pulse lifts slightly. “Yes,” I say, trying and failing to sound indifferent. “I am ready.”
He opens the doors. The room beyond is warm and quietly inviting.
A dartboard hangs on the far wall, and a low table sits ready for cards, dice resting in a carved wooden bowl.
Shelves hold polished bottles of ale and wine, cushioned chairs gathered around them instead of formal seating, while a hearth nearby still glows from a recently lit fire.
For a moment I simply stare. “Is this…” I step forward, laughter already building in my chest. “Is this a game room?”
“Yes.”
“There’s never been one of these in the palace.”
“I noticed.”
I turn to him slowly. “You had them build this?”
“For you and your…friends,” he says carefully.
I think of Eravic’s words on my wedding day. You have a family who loves you. For a moment the memory twists somewhere deep inside me. What if I do not stay? What if this is only temporary? What if I am meant for somewhere else entirely?
I swallow the thought down and look back at the dartboard, the cards, the dice scattered across the table.
“This is ridiculous,” I whisper, grinning. “Does this mean I get to teach you every game?”
He arches a brow. “Who says I need instruction?”
“I do.”
“Bold.”
“I am very good.”
“We shall see.”
I take a step toward the table.
“Before we do that,” he says, catching my wrist lightly.
“There is more?” I turn back to him, laughing. “There cannot possibly be more.”
He looks almost pleased. “There could.”
He guides me through a smaller door beside the hearth. The room beyond is lit by candlelight alone. At its center stands a narrow dining table. On it—
Cakes.
Three strawberry cakes, frosted in pale pink and layered thick. Chocolate cakes glazed dark and glossy. Vanilla cakes dusted lightly with sugar. More than I can process at once.
I do not move.
“It is a little late,” he says quietly behind me. “But happy birthday.”
The air leaves my lungs all at once. “You remembered,” I whisper.
We step toward the table, my hands beginning to shake. It is absurd. They are only cakes, and yet I have never been allowed to reach for something like this without consequence.
He notices immediately. “Would you like me to cut it?” he asks.
I nod.
He takes the knife and slices into the first strawberry cake with slow precision. He places a piece on a plate and offers it to me.
“May I sit with you?” he asks.
“Yes.”
To my surprise, instead of pulling out a chair beside mine, he sits first and draws me gently down onto his lap, and for a moment I simply blink at him as he lifts the fork.
“Open,” he says.
I do. The first bite touches my tongue and something inside me breaks open in the most unexpected way. Sweet. Soft. Real.
My eyes widen. “Oh,” I breathe. “Oh.”
He watches my face more than the cake. “You approve?”
“Give me the fork,” I say at once. “You are feeding me far too slowly.”
He huffs what might almost be a laugh and relinquishes it.
For the next hour, I taste everything. Strawberry first, then chocolate, then vanilla. I squeal at one with caramel layered between. I declare another superior to all others. I demand he try each one.
He does, dutifully, though it is clear he does not care for sweets.
“I do not understand the appeal,” he murmurs after a bite of chocolate.
“You are wrong,” I inform him solemnly.
“I am rarely wrong.”
“You are catastrophically wrong about cake.”
He watches me with something dangerously close to fondness as I lick frosting from my fingers.
When I finish, I lean back against him, sugar dizzy and glowing.
“Now what?” he asks.
The question surprises me. It implies he does not intend for the night to end.
“Well,” I say, straightening, suddenly very serious. “If we are celebrating properly, then we must get drunk and play cards.”
“Must we?”
“Yes. I love to win.”
“You lost to me in our race.”
“I nearly beat you.”
“You were so slow,” he says dryly, “that I had time to change clothes and remind the baker to finish the cakes.”
I gasp in mock outrage and swipe a smear of strawberry icing across his cheek.
He stills.
I blink. “Whoops. I am sorry. I know you probably don't want to get messy—”
Before I can think better of it, I lift my hand and wipe it away with my fingers.
My touch lingers longer than necessary.
The room quiets.
His breath shifts, just slightly. For a moment we simply look at each other, my hand still against his skin.
“Ready to get drunk?” I ask softly.
He smiles. “Yes,” he says.
And for the first time in my life, my birthday feels like it belongs to me.