First, I thank the Maker of Stars that he’s clothed.
Second, I wonder why it feels as if my heart has suddenly migrated to my throat.
I’ve already seen him shirtless—an image I banish as quickly as possible from my mind—so I can’t imagine why a loose shirt and trousers should elicit such a response, but here I am, breathless and staring at the way the thin fabric clings to his still-damp skin as he tousles his hair with a towel, the dark horns gleaming in between.
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting, Princess,” he says, seemingly oblivious to my gawking at him. “Was the meal to your satisfaction?”
The meal?Themeal. I dive into my food with all the enthusiasm of someone who hasn’t eaten in days.
“Oh, yes,” I say before cramming in another bite. “Delicious.”
He stays where he is a moment more before moving to the bed. When the rustle of blankets hits my ears, I nearly leap from the chair.
“I’ll take my bath now,” I say, and wiping my mouth, I dart toward the bathing chamber.
“Would you like me to call someone to help with your gown?”
I whirl around. “What?”
Contrary to what I thought, it isn’t the blankets he’s adjusting; it’s the mountain of pillows on his bed. He seems to be arranging a number of them into a pallet on the floor.
“Your gown,” he says, not looking up from his task. “Don’t you need help to—” He studies the pillow in his hands with immense interest, finally clearing his throat to finish with, “to remove it?”
I tuck my hands behind my back to hide how I’m twisting them together. How to tell him? “I did try asking, Your Majesty.”
His head jerks up. “Did someone refuse you?”
A spark lights in his eyes, and panic has me saying, “No, of course not. They seemed to be under the impression you would help me, and I didn’t correct them considering this fated flames business…”
My words dwindle off as he continues staring at me. The only reaction he offers is a prolonged blink before returning to his pillow arranging.
“Do you wish for me to help?” he asks.
Of course not, is on the tip of my tongue. Appearances for the sake of his court is one thing. Actually asking him to assist in something so intimate is quite another.
And yet what if I tear the dress trying to loosen it on my own? The staff may think me ungrateful, or they may wonder why the king didn’t help me like they assumed he would.
No, they’ll likely assume he tore it himself in a fit of passion, which would be far more mortifying.
Worse than all, though: What if he takes my request as an invitation? I know what is expected of me after theceremony, of course, and I’m willing to fulfill my duties, but…
“Princess?”
I startle from my trance. How long have I stood here staring at him?
“I’m not sure,” I answer finally, because despite years of tutelage, I can’t think of anything more clever to say.
The king straightens slowly, his expression opaque. Have I offended him? I suppose it’s not every day that someone questions his help. Kings are used to hearingyes.
“Many have reason to fear me, Princess,” he says at last.
I swallow as he meets my eye with deliberate calm.
“My queen never will.”
With that said, he picks up another pillow and studies the floor for the proper placement.
Again, an intelligent response eludes me. I stand there, silent and perplexed.
