Chapter 75 Dessert
Dessert
Iwake before the knock, as if something in me has learned the rhythm of this place.
For a moment I lie still, tracing my breath.
My body aches from the forest, but the usual pain from using my power is gone.
When I reach inward, cautiously, there is no blood waiting at the edge of my throat.
The memory lingers, power moving through me without tearing anything open.
I don’t know if it was mine or something Arven pulled out of me.
When the gown arrives that evening, I study it without resentment. It is exquisite. Silk the color of dark wine, embroidered in silver thread, the bodice structured to hold and lift and control. It is not a trap disguised as beauty. It is beauty made into ownership.
“The path of least resistance is not surrender. It is strategy,” Master Forsamin used to say.
I choose to wear it. The fabric molds to me as though it has been waiting for my body. I smooth my hands down the length of it and catch my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back looks regal and composed, yet something else hums beneath the surface.
The dining chamber glows when I enter, candles arranged with elegance, silver polished to a mirror sheen. Sevrin rises immediately. He drinks me in.
“You look as you should,” he says, voice low and thick with satisfaction.
I curtsy, allowing the silk to ripple around my legs. “It fit beautifully, Majesty. Your tailor is gifted.”
He smiles in approval, pleased not only by the compliment but by the absence of defiance.
He gestures for me to sit, and when I do, the servants begin placing dishes before me.
The table fills with roasted chicken brushed in citrus and herbs, tender vegetables, bread still warm, fruit glazed in honey, wine poured deep and red into my glass.
“How was your day of reflection?” he asks once the servants withdraw.
“Peaceful,” I lie. “I found it clarifying.”
That pleases him. I see it in the way his shoulders ease, in the way he leans back just slightly, as though rewarded.
“Indulge me,” he murmurs.
I take the first bite.
“Chew.”
I do. His head tips back a fraction, eyes half closing, as if the simple act of watching me eat nourishes something in him that no feast could.
I begin to swallow.
“Not yet.”
The correction is quiet. Measured.
I hold the bite in my mouth.
He studies me a moment, then nods once. “Now.”
I obey.
“It is well-seasoned, yes?”
“It is sufficient.”
I say nothing more, beginning to understand he needs the anticipation.
“Princess?”
I stare at him. Then, finally, “I prefer more spice, Majesty.”
He closes his eyes, a low sound escaping his lips. “How intriguing,” he rasps.
“You wounded my soul the other day,” he says then, almost conversational.
I sip my wine before answering. “I did not realize it was so fragile.”
He smiles at that, not offended but entertained.
I reach for the meat on my plate.
“No.”
My hand stills. “Majesty?”
“Bring me your fork.”
I rise, walk the length of the table, and place the fork in his hand before returning to my seat.
“Drink your soup.”
I reach for the spoon.
“Use that one. It is more pleasing.”
I take the smaller spoon.
A servant in the corner coughs.
Sevrin takes my fork and examines it under the light. Remnants of meat cling to the tines. Then he carefully stirs the wine in his goblet before setting it down. “You denied me what was mine,” he says gently, and that is what makes it chilling.
He lifts his goblet and takes a sip.
I am still holding the spoon he chose for me, though I no longer remember whether I am meant to eat, wait, or simply hold it until he says otherwise. “Perhaps there is dessert?”
His face brightens. He signals without breaking eye contact. A bowl of pale ice cream is set before me, delicate and cold against the silver spoon. “This pleases me,” he says.
I nod and lift the spoon.
“Now silence,” he adds softly. “So I may enjoy.”
I eat slowly, feeling his attention crawl over every movement. It should repulse me, but instead something darker stirs beneath my skin. The room holds still around us, broken only by the faint scrape of silver against porcelain.
At one point, a small hiccup escapes me before I can stop it.
He draws in a breath. “Mmm,” he whispers. “So perfect.”
I finish the last spoonful slowly, aware of the way he watches the movement of my mouth more than the food itself.
“Stay,” he says softly.
I lift my eyes. “Majesty?”
“Do not move yet.” His voice remains pleasant, almost lazy, but there is no mistaking the expectation in it. “Sit there.”
“For what purpose?” I ask, though I already know.
He leans back in his chair, fingers loosely intertwined over his stomach, studying me in open, unapologetic silence. “So I can look at you.”A lesser man would blush at such an admission. He does not.
The room falls quiet again. Time stretches. The ice cream melts into liquid. Servants shift position. Guards change watch. I feel his attention counting my breaths. Eventually, he speaks again. “Drink. Just a sip.”
I do.
“The way your throat moves when you swallow,” he says quietly. “It is different when you are anxious.”
“You asked for silence,” I remind him, my voice calm, soothing.
“Yes.” His eyes do not leave my face. “Now give it to me.”
And so I sit. And he watches, as though this is the most natural indulgence in the world. Perhaps it is.