Avina watches Thora skip up the steps. When she is entirely alone, her hand flies to her mouth, and she gives a choked sob.
In another life, Sigvid and I are engaged and preparing for our wedding to unite our provinces. Am I finally worthy of someone's affection in this fictional life?
After their evening meal, they all sit around the fire of the central hearth, stuffed to the brim with delicious food. Thora perches upside down in one of the chairs, reading a book, while Avina is curled on the rug, watching the flames lick the logs she just added on.
Sigvid relaxes in an oversized black leather chair with his feet propped on a wooden footstool. He is smoking his pipe and sipping on a glass of Steinlund whiskey while he sharpens his blackwood axes.
“It is getting late, kid. You need to head to bed,” he says, his pipe balanced between his teeth.
Thora groans. “Why do I need a bedtime? I have taken care of myself for four months.”
Avina forces a yawn. “I wouldn’t mind a hot bath and turning in.”
She is exhausted from another day of exploring Blackwood and tending to the farm. Avina’s sudden desire to motivate herself toward bed immediately affects Thora’s demeanor.
“You’re right.” Thora leaps to her feet with a thud as she shuts her book. “I did promise Ingirid I would help her bake bread in the morning.”
“Avina, wait a moment,” He commands her as she stands to leave.
A man's dominance would have usually left her bristling and furious, but with the Salt Prince, it is different. His authority made her feel treasured, as if he would do anything to keep her safe and secure.
Why does that make me feel sexy?
Once Thora has vanished off the staircase to the left, his attention turns to Avina. “We will go upstairs, and I will bathe you. First, you will finish the dishes.”
Did he say, ‘I will bathe you?’
She doesn’t move except stare at the mighty Sigvid Thordsson, who orders her to clean dishes like a commoner.
“I’m sorry,” she chortles, “did you order me to complete a menial house chore?”
He slowly turns to her, his eyes widening. “Did I stammer? Youwillclean the dishes because I have commanded it.”
Snorts echo off the rafters as Avina laughs hard. After several moments of laughing and incurring a stitch on her side, she wipes the tears from her eyes.
“You are hilarious. People don’t talk enough about your sense of humor. You hire some staff tomorrow and have them do it.” She strides to the steps.
He grabs her by the arm, pulling her back to him. “Funny, my little Queen. I am not going to hire staff. We all assume roles in my home to ensure tasks are complete. One of your chores is cleaning the dishes. Something you have conveniently avoided the last two days.” He pushes her back toward the kitchen steps. “I have let this go, considering your recent near-death experience.”
Avina huffs.I have never cleaned a dish, and learning in front of someone will be humiliating.
After annoyingly cleaning the dishes until her fingers became pruny, she crosses her arms and glares at Sigvid, who reclines in an armchair beside the dying kitchen fire. “Have I earned a bath before bed?”
“Come with me.” He tugs her behind his back.
They enter the long corridor of his private wing lit with dying sconces. Sigvid has not allowed her out of his sight to explore the many closed doors, casting dark shadows crisscrossing the floor. Since arriving, she observed a few rooms, including a lavish study and an overflowing library.
The south wing, across the bridge under the A-frame windows, contains the original inn’s guestrooms. Thora has taken over two rooms, even carving her name into the wood grains.
He opens the door at the end of the hall, revealing his bedroom. The gigantic bed remains overwhelming despite her having slept in it while restrained for the past two nights. A massive quilt and a bear and wolf pelt cover the whole area.
“Five people could sleep in your bed!” She blurts out, half-amused and half-annoyed at the prospect.
He shrugs. “It came with the house. Why would I throw out a perfect bed.”
“Yes, but,”shut up, Avina. Keep your insecurities to yourself.
A smirk twists over his lips. “My little Queen, are you concerned with how many people sleep in my bed?” He examines the growing blush on her cheeks.
