To prevent her from choking, I tell myself. Not because I enjoy hearing her say “thank you” every time I lift the pitcher.
“Are you satisfied?” I ask once the taarhorn shank and half the loaf of bread have vanished.
“I mean, sure—unless there’s dessert.”
“What is dessert?”
She blinks at me with genuine pity. “That is the saddest question I’ve ever heard. You don’t have dessert? No wonder your people are so angry and violent.”
I bristle. “You mean the victorious rulers of all we survey.”
She presses a finger to her chin, eyes dramatically shifting in seeming consideration of my correction.
Right before she says, “Nah. I said what I said. If y’all reacted like that to a flower bush, imagine what a few honey cakes could do for your whole vibe.”
She then sips her water as if she hasn’t just insulted an entire kingdom.
I stare at her. Violence and something else I cannot name giving rise within my chest.
I wish to fuck her.
I wish to clear the table with a sweep of my arm, bend her over it, and prove to her—beyond all shadow of doubt—who her sovereign is.
Meanwhile, she sets down her glass and says, “It’s this way, right?”
Without waiting for my answer, she strides down the corridor that, yes, leads to my chambers.
Does her audacity know no end?
I have asked myself this question many times in the single dayspan since I first laid eyes on this insolent princess.
And the answer appears to be: No. No, it does not.
With a steaming grunt, I redouble my steps to catch up with her.
“So as not to appear as if you possess more power than I do,” I inform her, “you may walk either beside or behind me.”
She doesn’t protest the terms, simply adjusts her stride to walk at my side as we continue down the corridor.
But just when I begin to suspect she truly meant what she said about a hot meal being the key to her compliance, she asks, “So, appearances… is that why you’re still keeping me alive for another two nights even though you’re mad at me and we won’t be having sex?”
Not being able to perform an Eryx Sacrifice before engaging Solmane is often blamed for my brother’s untimely death. This Oblation’s dying blood will give my horde the confidence we need to mount a second conquest—first to rule the other half of the lands we occupy, then perhaps the rest of Lunaterra.
I know my duty.
Yet it does not bring me the satisfaction it should, not when she phrases it like that.
I glance down at her. “It is best for things to appear as they are. I am the king, and you are the agreed-upon tribute to our moon.”
“And the king must be deferred to in all things?” she asks.
Not all things. There are rules of law, even for kings. A few remaining boundaries that separate us from chaos. And those rules are the only true barrier between her and the dark thoughtsthat have plagued me since she dared to molest me in my sleeping state.
But instead of saying any of that, I simply reply, “Yes.”
This answer is safer. For both of us.
“Well, I guess you put me in my place,” she replies.
