I should be angry at myself for this—for feeling anything but absolute terror and disgust at such a beast. But, as sick as this is, I want him to want me—to feel the flutters that plague my stomach, too.
I want him to want me.
I want to feel his touch once more.
I want to agree to this bargain of his.
Besides, this all might help me survive the next two months here. It could work in my favour. And as the prince’s meal is being prepared to be served in the parlour room later, I watch the map with Terry’s advice playing over and over in my mind, trying to form some sort of plan that will get me home safely—and let me experience him just once, too.
9
Though I carry the tray through the servant quarters to the parlour room, ready to see Prince Daein, I know that it is not the time to strike up a bargain between us. He’ll likely just ignore me. After all, he did say he would ‘come to collect’ when the effects of the white powder fade away.
And that moment hasn’t come yet.
As I walk, my grip is steady on the tray, not a tremble or a shiver in sight, and my legs are strong beneath me. No coughs brew in my breathable chest, and it’s been since before the office trap that I upchucked some blood into my hands.
Though I don’t tremble as I shift the tray onto my forearm, then open the door of the parlour room from the slave’s corridor, familiar tendrils of fear rope around my bones like snares of ice.
I loosen a shaky breath before I edge inside, using the sole of my boot to gently nudge the door closed behind me.
Rebalancing the tray on my hands, I slip through the moth-sewn curtains that hide the slave’s plain timber door and search the room with a swift glance. I spot Prince Daein at the sturdy, red-velveteen table by the ceiling-to-floor window (his favourite spot). It’s a game table, but I’ve yet to witness him fidget around with board games or those playing cards I don’t understand.
He simply lounges in the cushioned wood chair, one arm bent around to pillow the curve of his neck, and his other arm stretched out to the table where his hand rests loosely on a crystal tumbler of linshka (an awful-smelling, throaty type of amber drink).
Even as I advance on the table, with my head tucked downwards, the itch of its scent is already starting to tickle the back of my nose.
My earlier images of the prince prove mostly right now that I’m in the parlour room. He’s dressed in his full official wear. Though his coat his unbuttoned to reveal a unfastened black shirt, beneath which those familiar ink stains mark his skin. His breeches-wrapped legs are spread out beneath the table, and he’s kicked off his boots (not silver-toed, but polished black leather, tougher than the leather found on the furnishing around here, so I suspect it came from the skeletal steeds in the barn).
Coming to the table, I set the tray down on the corner farthest from him. It gives me more space to dish out his meal and coffee in front of him.
I don’t feel the familiar frosty sensation of his gaze on me as I lift the tureen.
Out the corner of my eye, I shoot him a quick glance. As I set the tureen down on the other edge of the table, I see that the prince doesn’t look at me this time. His cheek is turned to me, all ghostly-looking—pale, almost—in the faint firelight flickering from the simmering hearth.
So I was right—he will ignore me until the powder fades from me and brings back my poorly health.
But I wish he would look at me and see the natural healthy flush of my cheeks, the pinkish hue of my lips, the life in my normally weary eyes. I wish he would see what he has done to me.
The main dish and dessert bowl are set out, ready to be handed over to his side of the rectangular table, but as I move for the main dish first, he stops me.
“Sit.”
Hands outstretched, I blink at the potatoes on the plate, then withdraw my hands back to myself.
I look at him, a question in my eyes, my brows slightly furrowed.
“On the table,” he adds, still not looking at me. He has now slid the tumbler from the table’s edge as if to make room for me, and he has it resting on his thigh.
Lines burrow into the space between my eyebrows. My mouth tilts with a frown as I eye the table and look for somewhere to perch myself.
Before I can decide on a spot, his free hand comes up and taps the red velveteen in front of him—between his spread legs.
“Here,” he says, finally sliding his exhausted, lash-heavy eyes to me. Defeat clings to the hardness of his face, as though he hasn’t slept in many Quiets.
I follow his order, but not without unease. It’s an awkward manoeuvre around his knee to stand between his spread legs, then turn to face him. My face is an unsure grimace as I shimmy back to the table, setting my hands down on either side of me.
“Sit,” he echoes, slowly dragging his gaze up from my mid-section, along my bodice strings, up my neck, and to my face. He hesitates on my mouth for a moment before he locks eyes with me, and though he’s wearing a tired look like a veil, there’s always—always—something threatening about him.