Page 28 of Given to the Black King

Torgan notices.

He notices everything.

We argue about river tolls. Callas argues about garrison limits. Perr copies each concession with a blot of ink because his hand shakes whenever the king speaks.

Torgan keeps the full table between us.

His claws appear twice.

The first time, when I lean over a map and my braid slips across my breast.

The second, when I say his name in my head and my body responds as if I said it aloud.

At sunset, Orrick brings wine. He sets the jug beside Torgan and begins to pour.

“Leave it,” I say.

Every face at the table turns toward me. Orrick looks at the king.

Torgan says nothing.

I stand.

Callas catches my sleeve. “Sit down.”

I pull free.

The walk around the table is not long.

It feels long.

Torgan watches me come. His hands close over the chair arms. His claws remain hidden, but I see the effort in his fingers.

I take the jug.

“Your cup, Great King.”

“Envoy.”

His voice has changed.

Deeper than it was a moment ago.

I pour.

The wine trembles in the cup. Not because my hand is unsteady. Because the table is shaking beneath his grip.

I set down the jug.

He catches my wrist.

The room freezes.

His hand circles me easily. Hot palm. Rough fingers. No claws. His thumb rests over my pulse. My body goes soft and tight at once.

He pulls my wrist to his nose.

He breathes in against my skin.