“Do you trust me?” he asks.
“I want to.”
He dips me backward. Seizing up, I scrabble for purchase, and he offers his other hand, which I grasp with both of mine.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m just washing your hair.”
The panic abates, and he is not wrong. Maxian balances me with one arm behind my back, the other stroking my scalp. Still, I sink my nails into that forearm.
The king untangles my hair, and it floats around me, a weight off my neck. He massages my scalp in slow, gentle circles. The water is so warm, the air so thick, and Maxian is reduced to two tender hands, a strong arm keeping me from drowning.
A sigh heaves out of me. Is this what my mother felt like,puffy-eyed, exhausted but relieved, all those nights we returned to my father? Is this why she let him clean up the rooms, wash our clothes, hold her on their shared cot even after the worst of fights? He was the only comfort around.
Forgive me, Mama,I think.I understand now.
I was arrogant enough to criticize how she did the impossible, but she still did it. She left an abusive partner. But I cannot. Not yet. So, like a river flowing downhill, I concede. Maxian dries me and dresses me in the fresh shirt and a pair of his drawers.
In his bedroom, he waves a hand, and the fireplace roars to life. I dry my hair in front of it, kneeling on a lush carpet, using a comb he hands me.
Fern brings in a platter of fruits and vegetables and various cheeses and bread rolls. I keep my gaze on the fire, refusing to meet her eye. The king asks for more wine, and some water. No, just this platter is fine. When the king dismisses her, I feel the smallest graze of her hand on my back. Then she is gone, too.
Maxian finds his seat next to me on the floor, drawing down pillows, materializing a blanket. He sweeps my hair to one side, kissing my exposed shoulder.
I doubt he will allow me to touch him tonight, wind him undone again, as I did before. And yet receiving from him does not feel like taking or having or indulging. It feels hollow.
So there is nothing to lose. My hand trails up his back and lands on his scars.
The king freezes.
I trace the raised skin, the entire patchwork of wrecked flesh—knotted, deep, each scar as wide as my palm. These do not come from an ordinary torture tool. They come from the official weapon of Reign: the Golden Whip.
He swallows. The orange and crimson and gold of the flames dance before us. I turn my head, taking in the paling face of the king.
“I am sorry this happened to you,” I say, and I mean it.
He lets out a shaky breath, gulping his wine, square jaw working. “It was…a lesson well learned.”
Something in my chest cracks. I turn toward him, and we kneel before each other, knees touching like in the training halls and between our lover’s legs and in the library.
“That does not mean it was well deserved,” I say.
Maxian shrugs. “It taught me discipline, obedience.”
“When did it happen?”
“A century ago.”
A century ago. Where have I known that before?
His mother.
His brother.
Maxian glances at the fire, running a hand through his hair. I never got the full picture, could only draw conclusions from a tapestry.
“Do you want to speak of it?” I ask. “I still have the oath. I could never tell anyone.”
“I should kill you for even asking.”
