There were hints of it even with the camouflage. Her lips were full and defined even naked of lipstick, as they had been. They were naturally rose-colored, lending her mouth a naughty allure that she didn’t even bother to hide.
Her utter lack of effort to accentuate her beauty only seemed to emphasize the truth of it.
Her nose was straight-bridged, with a rounded tip, lending her expressive face an element of forthrightness that offset any urge to write her off as merely pretty.
Instead, she was earnest. Pure.Untasted.
That last thought was unlike him.
And, at thirty-six years old, it was highly unlikely that she remained untasted.
But, shoving that thought to the side, he was willing to acknowledge that it wasn’t fair to say she broughtnothingthe table. She would be lovely when adequately dressed.
Unfortunately, “lovely” was usually only as exciting and useful as the time it took to secure a taste of it. “Lovely” wasn’t reason enough for most common men to marry, let alone a king.
Zayn glanced up at the wall clock in his office to note that she was five minutes late. She didn’t even have the sense to respect the demands on his time. They had a great deal they needed to discuss concerning the terms of their marriage and he didn’t have all day.
He watched the ticking passage of another two minutes before she walked in, head high.
As it had been the day before, her armor—or, more accurately, her schoolmarm disguise—was in place: controlled braid, no-nonsense posture, and a direct stare. Though by now, day two, her suit was beginning to lose its crisp edges. This morning she looked more like a wilting librarian than a roughed-up rigid professor.
Zayn gave her a once-over before saying, “Your clothing is ridiculous. You’ll need to work on that.”
Hurt flickered across her gaze, but she schooled her expression.
She’ll need to work on that, too, he thought.
A queen needed thick skin.
Taking her in, he mentally sighed. Her eyes were slightly puffy and swollen—a telltale sign that she had cried the night before. A queen needed to be prepared for long, thankless days and constant smiling, for being bombarded with hate and never revealing whether she was hurt, tired, ill, or angry. Mina might as well have been a projector screen for the way she broadcasted her feelings to the world.
Zayn added, “As Queen, you are expected to dress at the height of fashion and always be well presented. You have a budget for that express purpose, as it is considered part and parcel of your royal duties.”
Her cheeks darkened but she made no comment to his remark, so he gestured for her to sit down at the desk across from him. The desk had been his father’s before his, and his grandfather’s before that. The very room itself had been the King’s office since the palace’s construction.
And now it was his.
Mina sat, looking around the office as she did so. For once, her expression did not give away her thoughts. Her posture was ramrod-straight as she sat at the edge of the chair, legs primly pressed together, hands in her lap.
It was a small blessing, and, observing her, he could at least find no fault with her there. When his eyes finally moved back up to meet hers, she cleared her throat and opened her mouth.
“I’m not the Queen. We’re not married.”
The words, abrupt and inelegant, hung in the air between them.
Zayn closed his eyes and took a breath before answering. “We are.”
It wasn’t that he hadn’t been expecting her to say something along those lines. He’d merely hoped she would be smart enough to understand that if there had been a way out of the situation, he would have found it.
She shook her head. “There was nothing legal about that ceremony.”
“I assure you, our union is legal and binding.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mina insisted. “You didn’t even know who I was the day before yesterday.”
“Not true. I’ve known who you are for exactly three weeks.”
She looked taken aback by that fact, but pressed on. “You can’t force a woman to marry you. You said it yourself: ‘The King is not above the law.’”