Ask me something? My heart is in my throat, and any words I might be able to force past it seem caught somewhere between my mind and my mouth.
The king’s eyes bore into my own as he awaits an answer, yet I realize he hasn’t even asked anything. He simply pinned me here like a barbarian.
Somehow, I swallow and manage a few breathy words. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
What could he possibly want to ask me so badly? And why does he continue to look so angry?
“Why…” His teeth grind against one another as he forms the words. “Why do you smell like that?”
All the breath rushes out of my lungs. Surely, I heard him wrong. “Pardon?” I squeak.
He leans in, his nose hovering over the skin of my neck. A shiver rushes over me as he inhales and releases the breath with a long, low growl. “Why,” he repeats, “do you smell like that?”
“Like what, Your Majesty?”
“Like a cake,” he bursts out, pushing off the wall and away from me. Dumbfounded, I watch as he begins some sort of breathing exercise, inhaling and exhaling with the lifting and lowering of his arms to his chest.
“Is it a perfume?” He grinds out. “If it is, you must—I need you to stop wearing it.”
“The maids may have perfumed my hair,” I stammer.
He shakes his head. “It isn’t your hair. It’s your skin.”
My cheeks are instantly aflame. It’s as I feared in the carriage. He does smell my sweat. I don’t see what else I can do but speak my suspicion aloud. “I—I’m sweating, Sire.”
“Then your sweat smells like cake,” he snaps.
I doubt that, but even if it did, why does he seem so angry about it? Did he not say he liked cake?
“I apologize for offending you,” I say, though in truth I’m beginning to feel a bit offended myself. What kind of man badgers a woman over sweating?
A draconic one, I suppose.
The king pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “You did not offend.” With a sigh, he drops his hand. “Nothing about you offends.”
I simply stare at him, unable to make sense of any of this. “Do dragons not sweat?”
“No,” he says, staring off as if facing some terrible foe. I take the opportunity to smooth out my gown. Tongues will certainly wag if I emerge from here with a red face and rumpled clothing.
My hands pause.
Isn’t that what we want?
Biting my lip, I consider the ploy an instant longer before seizing handfuls of my gown and crumpling them in my fists.
“What are you doing?” the king asks in bewilderment.
“Reinforcing the idea we’re fated flames.” Though I feel my cheeks reddening further, I keep at it, even tugging a lock of hair from the unassailable updo Hiln made atop my head.
Mother would be horrified. Likely, my sisters, too. But none of them are here, and there are barely four weeks until the wedding. I need to lock in my position, especially in light of the king’s volatile ways. If his subjects believe I belong here, perhaps that will carry some weight should their ruler want to send me home for sweating or whatever the day’s misdeed might be.
The ruse complete, I force myself to look at the king.
To my untold shock, his face is even redder than mine.
We stare at one another with wide eyes until suddenly, with a grunt, he marches to my side, seizes my hand, and starts hauling me down the walkway.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To the kitchens.”
“For the evening meal?”
“For cake.”
***
The kitchen we arrive in, though larger than any I’ve seen, is in the same state as any other—a great bustle of noise, smells, and steam. There’s something comforting about the familiarity, and even more so when the scent of warm sugar is added to it.
The head baker greets us with genuine delight, ushering us over to a small table in the corner of the kitchen. A clean cloth is tossed over it, and in moments, the entire surface is piled high with cakes, pastries, and custards, each dessert more beautiful than the last.
The king falls immediately upon the platter of small, glistening cakes that are set in front of him while I stare down at the perfect sphere of ruby red something presented to me.
“It’s flavored with pomegranate juice,” the king says through a mouthful of cake. “Try it.”
“It’s so pretty,” I say, admiring the unfamiliar texture. “May I ask what it is?”
The corner of his lip creeps up. “Just try it.”
His gaze tracks my hand as I bring the spoon to my lips.
“It’s cold,” I gasp, my eyes swelling with delight.
“It’s a sorbet.”
“Sorbet,” I repeat, admiring it anew. “Am I meant to eat this with it?” I point my spoon at a delicate sprig of mint.
“No, it’s garnish.”
“Ah.”
Silence falls between us as we eat, though it’s not an uncomfortable one. It’s almost companionable. The kitchen staff sneaks furtive glances at us, but for the most part, they bustle about as if a king in the kitchen is an everyday occurrence. By the speed at which the spread before us was brought, I wouldn’t doubt it is.
How my sisters would love this, I think as I reach the bottom of my dish. I’ve never seen such delicacies, not even at weddings. Most of my people will never see such at all.
Most of my people are struggling to keep their families fed, and yet they always keep smiles on their faces. Suddenly, the spoon in my hand feels like a leaden weight heaped high with guilt.
“What’s the matter?” the king asks, startling me from my thoughts.
“Oh, nothing, Your Majesty.” Smiling, I glance about the table. “Which of these do you recommend I try next?”
His chewing slows as he observes me. “I sense you are not being truthful, Princess.”
A denial rises to my lips, but before I can give voice to it, he adds, “Forgive me if I’m mistaken.”
The preemptive apology softens me more than I wish, though I can’t say why. I look away. “You are not mistaken, sire.”
He remains quiet, his eyes fixed on my face when I wish he would look elsewhere. I’m not made for lies, and I know this. I don’t like lying. Still, I don’t want to tell him more either. Doing so would only expose weakness, which mother would scold me soundly for.
“It has been a difficult few years for my people,” I say finally, lifting my chin. “I think often of them.” There. That’s simple enough.
The king regards me with a level gaze. “And you feel guilty for indulging when they cannot.”
The astute analysis takes me aback. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. “Yes,” I say.
“You care deeply for them.”
Faces flash before my mind’s eye—old ones, young ones, those of fishermen, and farmers, those of my sisters and mother, each of them precious to me before and even more so now that they’re far away.
“I do,” I say, and to my horror, I feel tears springing to my eyes even as the king watches.
What is the matter with me? I cannot cry here in front of everyone! A kitchen girl stirring the contents of the bowl is glancing my way right now. “My apologies, sire. Perhaps we could speak of something else.” I swipe at my treacherous eyes. “I don’t wish for anyone to think something is wrong between us.”
He pats his mouth with a napkin and rises. “Then let us retire,” he says, holding a hand out to me.
I blink at him. “It isn’t even sunset.”
He shrugs. “The staff won’t expect to see us often out of the bedchamber anyway.”
I’d normally be scandalized by his insinuation, but what can I say? Crumpling my skirt and mussing my hair as I did? In truth, I am tired in body and spirit and retiring early sounds marvelous. Perhaps I can take one of the Tirenthian history tomes brought earlier with me to bed and lose myself in some reading.
Taking the dragon’s hand, I let him lead me through a side door and back into the open air.
***
The king maintains a slow pace so that by the time we reach the building where my chambers are, the sun is setting, the sky lit by all the fiery hues of a freshly-lit torch.
If I were at home, I’d be settling my goats in their stall for the night, scratching each of their heads between their horns. Thankfully, the walk calmed me enough that I can think of them without more tears. I do hope Selena is making sure they stay milked on time. Stella gets cranky if not.
I keep hold of the king’s arm as he escorts me through the main doors and up the marble steps.
“I’ll have your evening meal sent here,” he says.
“Thank you,” I answer, touched and surprised by his thoughtfulness. When I think back on our afternoon spent together, I find it overall pleasant. Well, other than his strange reaction to my scent. Yet another blush creeps up my neck at the thought of him pinning me in place, his eyes somehow both savage and desperate. I didn’t like it, of course. No self-respecting lady would.
No, I tell myself sternly, I didn’t like it all.
I turn my thoughts elsewhere as we move down the hallway. Two silent guards stand on either side of the first door, and here is where the king stops. I glance down the hallway at my own door, currently flanked by double guards as well.
“My apologies, Your Majesty, but my door is the next,” I say.
The king takes hold of the handle. “I know.”
His eyes lock onto mine and hold me there. He leans in. He’s near enough for me to feel the heat of his skin.
“Tonight,” he says, “you stay with me.”