Chapter 77 Restraint
Restraint
Tonight the silk he sent is deep green, the lace traces my collarbones and wrists. My hair falls loose down my back because I know he prefers it that way, and because I am too tired to resist preferences that cost me only pride.
The nights in the forest have begun to weigh on me. My limbs ache from training, my sleep disrupted by the need to return before dawn, and yet beneath the exhaustion there is a quiet current of control that did not exist weeks ago.
He is waiting when I enter. “Indulge me.”
The rhythm is familiar now. I know the commands before he gives them. I lift the fork, I chew, I swallow, and I feel the weight of his observation.
Tonight is different. After a few measured bites, he finally speaks. “I will dine with you.” The words are delivered with calm satisfaction, and before I can respond he lifts his hands and claps once.
A woman enters. She is dark haired, her figure unapologetically lush beneath a thin gown that clings to her curves.
She sits on his lap with practiced ease, her arm slipping around his shoulders.
He adjusts her with a gentle hand at her waist, guiding her backward until her throat is bared and one thigh is lifted slightly across the arm of his chair.
The intimacy of the positioning is intentional, arranged not only for him but for me.
He bends his head. The sound of his teeth breaking skin is soft, almost intimate. He drinks slowly, and something stirs beneath my skin as his eyes lift to mine. The awareness between us does not break. I understand then this is not about hunger, but about me.
But it is her he touches, her he chooses. I feel it then, a small pull I do not understand, because he has not asked me to feed, has not looked at me that way tonight. Not with the same ease I see now as her body softens beneath his hand and his face eases as he drinks.
When he withdraws, he stills the bleeding with his thumb and leans in, whispering something low against her ear.
She leaves unsteady, flushed, dismissed without a word.
He takes a linen napkin and blots his mouth with quiet precision.
“I do not usually feed in front of others,” he says casually.
“But I remembered how much you enjoyed watching the last time.”
The memory of that night in the brothel feels distant, yet I sense it replays in his mind often.
Color lingers along his cheekbones, his eyes brighter now, something restored in him that tightens the air around us. I should not notice the difference, yet I am aware of the ease in him, the way he looks…restored. He does not look that way after watching me.
A quiet pull moves through me, insistent. A sudden urge I do not trust, to be the reason for it, to be the one who draws that look from him. I do not understand it.
“Watching me does not sate you?” I ask, my voice even.
“I enjoy our dinners,” he continues. “As you know, feeders do not need blood, we survive on human food.”
He sighs. “But in times of war, power becomes necessity,” he says, as if what I just watched were no more than strategy. “When Veynar returns to order, others will lower their guard. I will not.”
I hesitate, measuring the risk of asking. He has been calm tonight, but calm does not mean safe. Remember yourself, Asharin. Princess Asharin would ask what she wants, damn the consequences.
Fuck it.
“Then you expect the ports to reopen,” I say evenly. “If you are preparing for it.”
“Tomorrow,” he says, almost idly. “The ports reopen. They cannot remain closed forever.”
Relief moves through me, though I am careful to let none of it reach my face.
He reaches for his wine, turning the stem slowly between his fingers. “The Baron is still abroad,” he says casually. “A holiday. Borsa. Apparently it is gemstone season there.”
“In the midst of a Thren escalation?” I ask before I can stop myself.
I am pleased with how easily the question comes. How easily the King believes this lie.
“An interesting choice,” he agrees mildly. “Though I suspect distance is the point.”
He studies the rim of his glass rather than me. “I imagine he believes his absence will pressure me into formalizing matters with your sister. A show of displeasure. A reminder of alliances left incomplete.”
I keep my expression composed, thinking not of my father but of the intensity of our lovemaking that day in the basement, when Colsar told me he loved me while my father’s tongue lay on the floor.
“Men enjoy believing they can corner kings.” The candlelight glints faintly at his mouth, a small drop of blood at the corner of his lips. I want to wipe it with my thumb.
I return to my plate.
“Tell me you are disgusted by the feeding,” he says.
“You know that I am not,” I answer quietly.
His expression shifts with interest rather than anger.
“Tell me I am an animal.”
“If you were,” I reply, allowing honesty to guide me, “I would not think less of you.”
“I think,” I add after a moment, “that tonight you wanted me to enjoy watching. You wanted me to understand why you enjoy watching me eat.”
He studies me carefully, wiping the last trace of blood from his mouth. He looks almost luminous, almost fevered, the red at his lips turning his beauty into something indecently alive. The dark fall of his hair frames a face too perfect for the violence it commits.
When his eyes lift to mine, I understand with a jolt that perhaps the most dangerous part of him is not the feeding, but the fact that he is devastating to look at while doing it.
“Who said I enjoy it?” he asks.
“Perhaps you do not.”
He considers that, then exhales slowly. “I am compelled,” he admits.
“There is a difference.” His fingers rest lightly against the edge of the table as he speaks.
“I want to watch you all day,” he says. “The smallest changes in your expression. The way your hands move. The way your mouth forms words.”
“Only me?” For some reason, I need the answer to be yes.
“Only you.” The room is quiet before he continues. “Yet I cannot watch you all day. I am required elsewhere. Councils. Strategy. Threats.” His voice lowers. “So I limit who else may have the privilege.”
His eyes linger on me. “I have never felt this before. Not with anyone. But I have grown accustomed to you, Asharin. To the sight of you in the gowns I choose. To knowing that when you walk these halls, you do so within reach.”
“That is why,” he adds with chilling composure, “when you were wounded and required blood, I was prepared to drain your sister nearly dry if it meant you would live. Even while she carries my heir.”
A pause. “Her hatred of you will never fade for that,” he says thoughtfully.
My stomach tightens, yet I continue eating when he instructs me softly to finish the vegetables on my plate. I prefer the meat. He knows that, and I eat the vegetables anyway. The roast grows cold on my plate. When I glance toward it, he tilts his head.
“You are not hungry tonight,” he says quietly. Perhaps it is a question, perhaps it is not.
I realize, with a faint, hollow clarity, that I do not know if I am hungry. It is a question I have not considered in a long time.
Am I hungry? Do I want the meat, or do I prefer the vegetables?
“I am dangerous, Asharin,” he says after a moment. “I manage that danger carefully. Do you know what urges I wrestle with?”
I meet his eyes and shake my head.
“My brother seeks control. Order. Obedience. I seek possession.” His voice deepens. “I want to consume. To take something beautiful and understand every part of it.”
The admission is spoken with disarming sincerity.
“I want to hurt you,” he says calmly. “Then slowly, meticulously, put you back together.”
“What if it is not you that breaks me?” I do not know why I ask.
A flash of his canines. “Then I will fix you, but not return you.” A pause. “And I will eat the offender, if it pleases me.”
I will my body not to respond. The words should terrify me, yet they do not. We speak in metaphors I do not understand, yet something in me answers to the idea. I do not know what pleasure he takes in finding me broken and reparable, yet I am somehow intrigued by the prospect.
I miss Colsar, my friends, the sunlight.
And yet, I do not want the King to be fed by another. I do not want him to watch anyone chew and swallow but me.
The realization disturbs me, so I push it out of my mind.
He inhales, regaining composure as if he has revealed more than intended. “But I will not,” he adds.
His eyes hold mine.
“I will not.”
I do not look away.
The corridor feels cooler after the heat of the dining chamber.
“Lady Asharin.” The voice is hesitant.
I turn. It is one of the younger kitchen servants. Flour dusts the edge of her sleeve. She holds something wrapped in linen against her chest.
“You may speak,” I say.
She glances down the corridor behind me before returning to my face. “You barely touched the roast tonight,” she says quietly. “And only a little of the bread.”
“I ate,” I say.
“Yes, Highness. But not enough.”
She steps closer and presses the bundle into my hands. Warmth seeps through the linen.
“It is fresh from the ovens,” she whispers. “Please eat before you sleep.”
I look at the parcel without unwrapping it. “I am well.”
Her brow tightens. “They say you no longer take luncheon,” she continues carefully. “That you are not permitted it.”
“The King has moved dinner earlier,” I answer calmly. “And he has nearly doubled the portions.”
“Yes, Princess, but they say he hardly lets you touch the meat—”
“I appreciate your concern,” I interrupt gently. “Truly. But I am quite tired tonight. I would prefer to rest.”
The servant falls silent at once, chastened more by my courtesy than by any reprimand. She lifts her chin. “Highness, they say last night you dined for six hours and were barely allowed the meat.”
Six hours? It cannot be. “Rumors grow easily in kitchens,” I say.
“You look thinner,” she says before she can stop herself.
A faint smile touches my mouth. “Then perhaps the gowns fit better.”
She does not smile back. “Please,” she says again, glancing at the bread.
“I will eat,” I assure her.
Reluctantly, she bows and retreats down the corridor.
I continue to my chambers. Inside, I place the linen bundle on the small table near the window.
The warmth fades slowly into the cool air of the room.
When I undress, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I turn slightly, examining the lines of my body without alarm.
The silk has left faint impressions at my waist. There is a hollow beneath my cheeks, likely deepened by the candlelight.
I extinguish the candles and leave the bread untouched.
I am not hungry.