I nod, trying to appear as though these "items" are of little consequence. Just another practical matter requiring my attention. But Callum knows me too well.
"That's the third gift this week," he observes, his tone mild but his eyes watchful. "People are beginning to talk."
"Let them." I don't care what my men think of my growing obsession with adorning my wife like the queen she is. Like the woman who deserves everything I can give her.
"They say you're becoming... attached." Callum chooses his words with care, knowing he treads dangerous ground. "That she has more influence over you than is wise."
I laugh, but the sound is hollow even to my own ears. "Influence? She hates me still."
"And yet you seek to buy her affection with silks and jewels."
I rise from my chair, looming over him. Any other man would retreat. Callum merely raises an eyebrow, waiting.
"I don't need to explain myself to you," I say, but the words lack the bite they would have held a month ago, before Fiona.
"No." Callum sighs. "But perhaps you should explain yourself to yourself, my lord. This isn't like you."
He's right, though I'll die before admitting it. The man I was before Fiona—calculating, cold, driven by ambition rather than emotion—would look at me now with disgust. Would see my growing fixation on my wife as a weakness to be purged.
"Where is she now?" I ask instead of responding to his implied criticism.
"In the gardens with her ladies. And before you ask, yes, I've assigned guards to watch from a distance, as always."
The knowledge that she's being observed at all times should reassure me. Instead, it needles at me—the fact that I can't trust her not to run, not to betray me at the first opportunity. Two weeks of sharing my bed, my meals, my life, and she still looks at me sometimes as if calculating the quickest way to put a dagger in my back.
"Have the gifts brought to our chambers," I tell Callum. "I'll give them to her myself tonight."
He nods, turning to go, but pauses at the door. "The border reports came back. There's movement to the south—could be nothing, but?—"
"I'll look at them later." I wave him away, my thoughts already turning back to Fiona.
Once he's gone, I move to the window that overlooks the gardens. From here, I can see her—a flash of gold among the greenery, her blue gown making her easy to spot. She walks with two of her ladies, her head bent in conversation. Even from this distance, I can see the rigid set of her shoulders, the careful way she holds herself.
She never fully relaxes in my presence. At night, when I take her to bed, her body responds to me—arching, yielding, sometimes even meeting my thrusts with a hunger that matches my own. But afterward, she withdraws again, building walls between us that I can't seem to breach with force or tenderness.
I watch as one of my captains approaches her, bowing deep. Too deep. His smile too familiar as he addresses her. My hand clenches on the windowsill, knuckles whitening with the strain of not storming down there to remind him exactly who she belongs to.
Fiona's response is polite but distant. No encouragement, no coy smiles. The possessive fury in my chest eases slightly. Still, I make a mental note to assign that particular captain to a distant outpost at the first opportunity.
Hours later, after a day spent dividing my attention between the business of ruling and thoughts of my wife, I find myself outside the seamstress's workshop where Fiona is being fitted for new gowns. I pause in the doorway, unnoticed, watching as she stands on a low platform while an elderly woman pins fabric around her.
"This blue brings out your eyes, Your Majesty," the seamstress says, clearly nervous to be in the presence of her new queen.
Fiona smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "It's lovely. The king is... generous."
"He wants you to have the finest of everything, it seems." The seamstress risks a small joke. "We haven't been this busy since the last royal wedding, and those gowns were far less elaborate."
I expect Fiona to make some cutting remark about my attempts to buy her loyalty. Instead, she's quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful.
"He's not what I expected," she finally says, so quietly I almost miss it.
The seamstress glances up, surprised. "My lady?"
Fiona shakes her head, the moment of vulnerability passing. "Nothing. Are we nearly finished? I promised to meet my father before dinner."
The mention of her father tightens something in my chest. I've allowed him to retain some dignity—private quarters, freedom to move about the castle, regular time with his daughter. It's more than most conquered rulers receive. More than he deserves, perhaps, given how poorly he protected his kingdom. But I know that taking away what little remains of his status would only drive Fiona further from me.
"Your Majesty." The seamstress is the first to notice me, dropping immediately into a deep curtsy.
