Page 17 of Burning Her Beautiful
“It will be your place, as consort, to comply swiftly.”
His phrasing drips control. I meet his gaze, tilt my head. “Consort, perhaps, but not puppet. You said you wished my heart beating, not bound.”
I catch a quick flare in his eyes—admiration or desire, perhaps both. Still, he presses. “Defiance before nobles impressed. Defiance before royalty punishes.”
I lean back, consider. “Then teach me to please without subservience. Help me wield words like you wield vines.”
Silence blooms. He exhales, a slow surrender of tension. “Very well. Counterpoint achieved.” He leans forward, elbows on knees. “Your turn.”
I choose a softer tactic. “Last night you retreated, though you could have claimed any reward. Why?”
That vulnerability flickers again. He shifts, gaze sliding to fire. “ restraint tests resolve,” he says, measured, yet warmth creeps under words.
“Or reveals tenderness.” I watch him, noting how his breath deepens. “You fear tenderness is weakness Sarivya can parade. Yet hiding it feeds her appetite.”
He faces me fully. “What alternative?”
“Control what she sees.” I rise, extend hand. He takes it, stands. “We act the consummate alliance where watchers expect cracks.” My heart thunders—am I truly advocating display of closeness? Yes, because strength blooms in softness shared boldly.
His eyes darken, but he nods. “Show me.”
I guide him toward balcony. Curtains part just enough for watchers to glimpse silhouettes. I step into filtered light, glancing at his shoulder—he follows cue, stepping behind me, hands settling lightly on my waist. Outside, roof shadows ripple. I rest back against his chest. He stiffens, then gradually eases, palms spreading across stomach. To watchers, we appear lovers sharing morning hush.
My pulse races, yet calm filters outward. “Speak,” I whisper, though spies might read lips. “Tell me of your sleepless night.”
“I kept company with chaos,” he answers softly. “It offers questions no wine can drown.”
“And answers?” I ask.
“One. The garden display cannot placate Asmodeus forever.”
I nod. “Then we craft next move.”
His breath stirs hair near my ear. “You do not rest either.”
“I rest when wind stills.” I turn within his grip, meeting his gaze. “Perhaps you can teach me calm once charges clear.”
He searches my face, something unspoken carving lines between brows. Gently he releases me. “Enough for spies today.” Curtains swish shut.
My legs wobble faintly; I cross to tea tray, pour a fresh cup, steady hands with practiced ease. He watches, arms folded, then paces toward bookshelves.
“I find your poise weaponized,” he says.
I sip, savor sweetness. “I learned from your example.”
A laugh breaks out, sudden, low, genuine. It shifts the atmosphere brighter. He turns, shakes head. “You twist my own blade with elegance.”
I set cup down, step nearer. “May I ask something personal?”
“Dangerous ground.”
“We tread it already.” I hold his gaze. “Your brand—” I motion near his heart “—does it hurt?”
He blinks, perhaps expecting another question. Fingers rise, tracing the spiral beneath coat. “Constant ache,” he admits. “Like ember pressed to bone.”
“Then each day you bear pain. I glimpse that vulnerability, Varok. Others see only power.”
He exhales, jaw flexing. “Pain reminds me I belong to something greater.”
