I’m about to take a seat at the desk but pause. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I come back?”
“It’s just…” He rubs his jaw. “Well, unlike me, you can come and go as you please. Why you’d choose to ever return once leaving this manor is beyond me.”
“We have a bargain, and I’m guessing there are severe punishments should I choose not to fulfill it.”
“Our bargain states I must provide room and board. It doesn’t enforce you to accept it. I thought perhaps going to town would shock some sense into you.”
I shake my head and lower onto the chair. “All it did was remind me why I despise Vernon and everyone there. It was successful, however. I’ve made appointments with both an interior designer and a seamstress. They should be paying a visit tomorrow.”
“Great,” he mutters and returns to his seat.
I find my list of tasks and add my new ideas about the landscaping. Only once I’ve gotten everything out of my mind and on paper do I remember my conversation with Imogen. I shift in my seat to face Elliot’s chair. “Oh, and I spoke with Miss Coleman today. The woman you’re going to woo. She’s quite intrigued by you.”
He doesn’t look at me, but I see him stiffen, fingers digging into the cloth of his armrests.
I leave the bureau and cross the room, claiming a chair at the other side of the hearth. Once seated, I study him over the small circular table that stands between us. His face seems to have gone a shade paler, eyes unfocused as he stares into the fire. “Are you nervous about meeting her?” I ask.
Slowly, he meets my gaze. This time, there’s no predatory intensity but a hint of trepidation. His voice comes out small, quiet. “Will this…human of yours find me very repellant?”
Something in his tone tugs at my chest, but I remind myself his question comes not from vulnerability but vanity. “Trust me, you find the human form far uglier than we do. Once I have you dressed and cleaned, you’ll be quite…” I pause, seeking the right word. “Presentable.”
He averts his gaze. “I’m talking about…my leg.”
My words are robbed from both my lips and my mind as his question takes on new meaning. It wasn’t vanity after all. It was personal.
To be honest, I’ve already gotten used to the amputated leg, and there’s nothing too repulsive about it. I met several esteemed gentlemen in Bretton who’d fought in wars past and wore their injuries like medals of honor. But Bretton is a country used to luxury and war in equal measure. Its king always seems to be battling with one kingdom or another. Here in Faerwyvae, though, where only two wars have ever touched its soil in thousands of years…
“I don’t know,” I confess, my stomach sinking. “While I think your wealth and status will be enough to sway Imogen’s heart, it might be best to fit you with a prosthetic.”
He looks at me and scoffs. “You mean one of those fake legs? I have one already. It was given to me early on in the curse by…well, I don’t recall. I suppose that’s one of the memories that’s been claimed. But I do have one.”
“You do? Why don’t you wear it? Is it uncomfortable?”
He shrugs. “Comfort or no, why bother?”
I wave a hand at the staff cradled in his arm. “It might be easier than walking with that.”
“Why should I let it be easier? As a wolf, I can manage having one less leg with very little inconvenience. I can stand, run, leap. Nothing is impossible. But this!” He gestures to his lower half. “Human mobility is a menace with only one leg to stand on.”
“I don’t understand why that should prevent you from trying to be as comfortable as possible.”
“What’s not to understand? Haven’t I told you already? It’s that…rouge on a pig thing.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Let me get this straight. You refuse to be comfortable because you don’t think your human body is worth the effort?”
“I’ll still be hideous,” he growls. “A false leg will only draw attention to this repulsive form.”
I rise to my feet and face him, hands on my hips. Torn between indignation and annoyance, I’m at a complete loss for words. I want to rage at him for thinking so rudely about human appearance, for criticizing my entire species based on his perception of how we look. Just as much, I want to correct the errors in his thinking, pull him from this frustrating stance he has about his own looks in particular.
“Your Majesty, I will say this one time and one time only, so listen up.”
He leans back in his seat, eyes wide as he meets my furious gaze.
“You are not ugly,” I say through my teeth. “You are annoying, smug, and irritating, and you may look like a deranged trapper who hasn’t had a bath in a year, but you…you…are not ugly.”
Silence falls between us, our eyes locked. Then finally, he returns his gaze to the fire. “Come, Miss Bellefleur. Not even you believe your words. You’re the one making me cut my hair.”
I curl my fingers into fists, teetering between shouting and laughing. “I’m making you cut your hair because it’s a mess. You clearly haven’t taken care of it. Besides, your hair isn’tyou. Underneath that hair and beard, you have…tolerable features.”
