I glance back down at her, and my mind empties. My sudden agitation uncoils. A grin tugs my lips as I study her peaceful face. This is a moment I must savor. Because the truth is, this could be the last time I feel her so close to me like this. In the morning, everything could change.
* * *
The next day,I stand in the parlor, watching the sunrise through the slats of wood crisscrossing the windows. My ears are attuned to every sound, every possible footstep, as I wait with anxious anticipation for Astrid to wake. Only then will I know her true feelings.
Not that they matter,I remind myself for the hundredth time this morning. We have a mission. I’m enslaved to the council. If I fail my bargain, I die. If Queen Tris revokes it, I remain enslaved for another ninety-five years. What do feelings matter when there’s no future for either of us?
Despite telling myself this over and over, I can’t smother the strange spark of warmth that has made its home in my heart since last night. Perhaps it was there before and I just hadn’t been aware of it. In fact, I didn’t acknowledge it until after I coaxed out her pleasure—when she turned to me, uttered my name, and pressed her lips to mine. The kiss held so much tenderness I thought my heart would break. And as she fell asleep on my chest, I couldn’t help feeling that what we’d done hadn’t been only about pleasure. It held something deeper.
Of course, those far more pleasant thoughts fled me the instant I awoke this morning. It was just before dawn, and Astrid had rolled over some time in the night and was facing away from me. The sight of her back and the inches that separated us sent a wave of panic through me. Had she startled awake and regretted what we’d done? Did she feel embarrassed? Ashamed?
My logical side reminded me that she probably shifted positions without any knowledge of my presence at all, but that didn’t stop my mind from spinning. Had I done the right thing by returning to her room and giving in to my aching desire to give her what her body wanted, despite my fears that she wasn’t in a stable state of mind? Was I wrong to have stayed in bed with her afterward instead of leaving?
After that, it was impossible to get back to sleep. Besides, if Astrid did regret anything, I wanted to give her the chance to process it alone before seeing me again. So I bolted out of the room as quietly and as quickly as I could, then went about my daily routine. I checked the grounds, scenting the property for any sign of spies or trespassers.
Now, every minute that ticks by feels like agony. Ineedto know she doesn’t regret our night together.
And—even though I know it’s stupid—I want to know if it meant something more.
Gritting my teeth, I leave the window and stalk around the parlor, in search of anything that will busy both my hands and my mind. I move about the room, straightening the sheets covering the sparse furniture, even though they’re already bloody straight enough. Finally, I reach a lumpy silhouette I don’t recognize. My curiosity offers a welcome respite from thinking about Astrid, so I lift the sheet. Beneath it I find a side table cluttered with a broken vase, an empty picture frame, and a dusty wooden box.
My breath catches at the sight of the last item. It’s a music box, one Father used to keep on the mantle in his study. When my inspection of his study proved it to be mostly empty, I’d assumed the box had been sold after the estate was seized, along with all our other valuable items and furnishing. Now that I behold it for the first time in five years, I realize it probably wouldn’t fetch a high price. While it had been one of my most favorite items in the whole house, it’s hardly more than a simple carved box with chipped polish.
My throat feels tight as I lift it and turn it over. On the bottom, there’s a key. I turn it a few times, then set it upright on the table. A slow tune begins to play from the box, one that fills me with the most peaceful yet painful nostalgia. Even with the song’s occasional mechanical hiccup, it sounds like a symphony to my ears. Father would play it for me when I was sad, especially when I missed being a bear.
As the song nears its end, the lid slowly swivels open on its hinges. Inside, a velvet compartment lies empty, but behind it dance three tiny carved figurines—bears—swirling over a painted landscape of mountains and trees.
I blink away the sudden sting that pricks my eyes.
“Good morning.” Astrid’s voice startles me. I’d been so enraptured by the music box, I hadn’t scented her approach.
I close the lid to the box and whirl to face her, all my anxiety returning in a flash.
She stands in the doorway, fully dressed in a skirt and blouse, holding two kittens. A hesitant smile plays over her face. My first instinct is to rush to her, pull her into an embrace, and press my lips against hers. Isn’t that how one should greet a lover they shared a bed with? Perhaps sharedmorethan simply a bed with?
Then I notice the way her expression shifts in and out from behind a haze. Her magic is creeping forth. Magic I’ve started to suspect she unwittingly uses like a shield.
Does she feel like she needs a shield with me right now?
“Good morning,” I echo back, hating the nervous tremble that infuses my tone. “Did you sleep well?”
A few uncomfortable beats of silence pass. Then, “I did.” Her throat bobs, and the lemon in her scent turns bitter. “And you? Did you…sleep well?”
“Yes,” I rush to say. “I slept very well.”
Her eyes dart from me to the divan I normally sleep on. My pulse quickens. Does she think I spent the night here and not beside her? And if so, is she upset by that? Or relieved? Her scent suggests the former might be the case, so I take a step closer. “Astrid, last night—”
“Yes, about last night.” Her tone has my words stuck in my throat. She sets both kittens down and approaches me with hesitant steps. Her aroma deepens with what I recognize as embarrassment and a hint of shame. “If I…made you…if you felt like…” She bites her lip and wrings her hands. “I’m sorry.”
Her apology echoes through my mind. She’s sorry. She’s sorry about last night. But what about it?
She clears her throat and speaks again. “You said that if I still felt…if I still wanted to…” She shifts from foot to foot. “That we’d talk in the morning.”
“And?” I can barely work the word from my throat.
“And now…” She throws her head back with clear frustration, then gives a strained chuckle. “I’m really not good at this, Torben. Last night, I…well, last night was different. It was easier to express things because of…of how I felt.”
Last night was different.
