“Since when does it matter what I want? You are the one who told me I’d never have what I want from you.” That statement shocked him enough that his mouth hung open a moment.
Climbing down the ladder, I pushed past him to pick up the blanket I’d discarded earlier. After wiping off my inner thigh, I slung the too-complicated dress over my shoulders and tried to tie its impossible fabric around myself.
Out. I needed out of this library before I admitted more to him.
All the pleasure he’d dealt me crashed away with the realization that I’d just done something so incredibly stupid. He may be able to separate desire from caring, but I couldn’t do the same. Entangling myself with him more than necessary served neither of us any purpose.
“Wait, please,” he said and held my wrist, drawing closer to me. His scent nearly broke my resolve to be angry—his sweat mixed with spice, smoke, and desert rain.
He carried on, “Stop, Sybilla. Just slow down.” He released my wrist to push a stray curl behind my ear.
Fighting had been my go-to defense for years. Vulnerability wouldn’t rear its ugly head now even when he offered me that soft expression.
“It matters what you want—greatly,” he continued. “When I saw you dancing with Ryn and realized what it meant, it excited me more than it should have. I expected it to be the North King, expected to be in a piss-poor mood the rest of the night because of that.”
I crossed my arms over my chest since the dress did nothing to cover me after my frantic attempt at assembling it myself. “So, you came after me to treat me like some illicit tryst?”
“Did I?” he snapped back.
There was the bite I needed.
“Yes!” I huffed out. “I know what you have to offer me.”
His voice grew rasped and his expression pained as he retorted, “Oh, I see. So, you were just fillingyourtime with another rollick with a prospective husband. How many notches are on that list again? Am I simply another one? Because I don’t want to be.”
My mouth hung open. “Oh, fuck you, you arrogant bastard. That’s especially rich coming from a man who still hasn’t gotten over his late wife. Who is too guilt-stricken to consider any other. What in the Sources were we thinking? We’re not fit to be anything more than—”
“Stop that!” he barked.
His outburst caused me to take an outraged breath.
He growled, running his hands through his hair. “Stop shooting daggers at me. Sleep on this, Sybilla. A good friend once advised me not to make rash decisions without sleeping on them. I’ve lost enough by not listening to him.”
My arms fell to my sides as he backed away. Disappointment settled in my stomach that he would not keep sparring with me.He dressed without another word before he ascended the steps. My cheeks were hot, and my mind battled itself.
It occurred to me I wasn’t even sure what I’d been mad about or what we were fighting for.
I didn’t know if you were ready.His concern echoed in my mind. My anger stemmed from the truth in his fear.
I’d always considered an heir a necessity—always imagined children. Without any good model to act as a benchmark, it seemed impossible to know if I’d fail at the role. My throat constricted at the thought.
Even if the realm depended on it, I didn’t know how to prepare. Krait’s doubt left me reeling.
The ground seemed to shift beneath my feet, changing the paths I’d once seen myself traveling. Yet it had been unfair to throw the weight of those expectations onto him in the form of snide comments and insults.
I’d just properly squandered my fourth betrothal.
Chapter 42
Krait
Sipping amber liquor, I sat in a supple leather chair by the fireplace, watching Sybilla as she slept. She seemed so at peace, tangled up in my red silk sheets—no signs of the fire she’d been breathing in my direction just this evening.
What in the Sources were we thinking?Her jabs wracked my mind.
But other words did too—her admission that she wanted something more than I offered her. I had myself to blame for that frame of thought.
I’d leave before morning. Hearing her sleep was torturously tranquil and comforting. The faint whistle of a snore calmed me because, despite her anger, she was there. She had not left. Yet.
