The first words her husband said to her in private, and she didn’t know what to reply.
He opened the door and peered out. “Tea,” he said in that clear, measured voice of his, and tea materialized in an instant, mint with lemon, chilled, with two cups glazed green and white besideit. He poured one for her and she took it, to have something to hold on to.
The swollen red moon hung in the night sky, the faint echo of music seeped through the cracks in the floor. Her room was scrubbed clean, every piece of wood polished, every scrap of material washed. Its austerity now looked almost deliberate, almost elegant. A subtle scent of roses engulfed her in a soft cloud.
They were alone, finally, but as Melia sipped the tea, Ferisa’s words about men made her skin crawl. She’d had a small vial of potion, something to make her numb and sleepy, in the pocket of her wedding gown. She’d been touching it for reassurance the whole day, and yet when the time to swallow it came, she hadn’t done it. She’d been numb for too long; a doll moved by her father’s wishes. She wanted to feel something, even if it hurt.
“What’s wrong?” Amron asked.
His words startled her and she lifted her eyes, looking at him—really looking at him—for the first time. He sat on the edge of the bed, studying her. The candlelight was kind to his fair skin, his golden hair, the clean, sharp angles of his face. The arrogance was gone, and so was the severity. When he smiled at her, he looked young.
She exhaled slowly and put the cup down on the table. “I don’t know how to do this.” Her voice trembled.
He patted the bed. “Come, sit beside me.”
She approached carefully, like a wary cur. He didn’t seem dangerous like the men she knew: rash, violent, cruel. But there was something about him, some heaviness bending the world and everyone in it towards him, that frightened her.
She perched on the edge of the bed.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.
She bit her lip. Was she? “A little,” she admitted.
Someone had strewn rose petals on the bed. She picked one up,crushing it between her fingers. Candles flickered in the warm midnight breeze that blew in through the open window.
“I’m not going to—” He paused, looked up, and brushed a lock of hair behind his ear. “I wanted to say I wasn’t going to hurt you, but what kind of madman would say such a thing? Of course I’m not going to hurt you.” He waved his words away. “You know what happens now? Someone’s explained it to you?”
She swallowed the nausea down with difficulty. “Yes,” she said, and blushed.
The tips of his fingers touched her cheek, outlining her features.
The only person who’d touched her face since her mother died was Ferisa, and her hands were firm, thorough, coarse—nothing like this slow, light touch. She leaned into his hand. He traced the line of her mouth with his thumb and angled towards her slowly until their lips met. His kiss was cautious and gentle, gradually growing deeper until she moved her body to accommodate his.
As his hands slipped under her nightgown, pulled it over her head, and caressed her bronze skin, she felt the slow tide of desire warming up her limbs, pooling beneath her ribs and trickling down her stomach. His shirt followed her nightgown; he was lean and hard beneath, nothing but muscle and bone, a body almost as sharp as hers. No cushioning between them, not even her breasts, so small they offered hardly any yield before his fingers met her ribcage.
He kissed her collarbone, traced the shape of her nipples with his mouth, brushed the soft skin of her belly with his warm breath. She closed her eyes, waiting for the roughness, the pain, but instead he opened her legs with a light push and his fingers slid between them, stroking her. His tongue followed, with a quick, fluttering touch that made her hips rise towards him.
She gasped in shock. It was pleasure without pain, pure andunbridled. It was a betrayal, a lie that left her raw and exposed, her body reacting to him intuitively.
“Please don’t,” she breathed. “Please.”
He stopped, raised his head. “You don’t like it?”
“I—” She liked it. But it was a trick, a ruse to make her vulnerable, to trap her in an intimacy so naked and defenseless there could be no lies, no dark places between them.
“Melia?” His hands rested on her thighs. He had the fingers of a musician, long and skillful, and she wanted them to slide inside her and—
“I can’t,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I can’t.”
He withdrew immediately, rolling to the other side of the bed, grabbing his shirt.
She wrapped herself in the sheet, her cheeks burning. The red petals looked like drops of blood, mocking her. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.
He stood up, somewhat disheveled, but already fully dressed. She expected him to cajole, push, threaten, do anything but retreat with such speed. She stared in wonder as he rubbed his temples and composed himself, becoming the perfectly poised stranger again.
Only then did it occur to her that there might be serious consequences. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” he cut her off. “It’s been a long day and we’re both strained and weary.”
