Page 108 of Prize for the King
He bares his sharp teeth in a grin and I sigh, my shoulders dropping in defeat.
“I like your smile, too,” I whisper, cupping his cheek in my palm. “And I like the last part. Would it make me a monster if I agreed?”
He shrugs as if it’s of no consequence at all. “You’re married to the bloodthirsty Tyrant and cavorting with his fearsome knights in this very bed. I’d say you’re a monster already—our sweet little beast.”
He smiles and tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. My breath catches, and Arvi pushes his spectacles up his nose, flipping through the book.
“You have your own courting rituals, you know,” he says with a snicker. “There is a whole chapter here. See?“Proper Conduct with Suitors.”It says you should smile with dimples at every young man who brings you a gift, pays you a compliment, and asks you to dance. You are to laugh at their jokes, and use your fan to cover your face a lot to appear mysterious. Oh, and you should never tell a man he’s wrong, or you’ll be called a harridan and die husbandless and alone.”
My nostrils flare when I remember this lesson. Avinia forced it into my head, and I never even had one opportunity to use those skills in practice. What a waste of time.
“Well, Lady Darbury clearly has no idea since I got a husband just fine,” I mutter, throwing the book a baleful look. “And not once did I have to simper.”
“Simper? What even is that?” Arvi asks, turning the pages with a frown.
I fold my hands demurely in my lap, tilt my head just so, and fluttermy lashes prettily, keeping the corners of my lips turned up like I was taught.
“Oh, mister Arvi,” I say in a high, girly voice. “You are such a smart man! Thank you so much for explaining that to me. I’m sure my silly female self would be quite lost without your guidance!”
He stares at me, aghast, then bellows with laughter. “Fuck, please, no! Stop making that face, you look like a creepy doll. Can you imagine doing that to Magnar when he told you to marry him? Oh fuck, he would have run from that priest!”
There’s a sound behind me, but Arvi snatches my hand before I can turn to see. His expression grows mischievous.
“Do it again, please. Show me. How would you have simpered at Magnar when you met?”
I giggle and clear my throat, straightening. I bat my eyelashes at Arvi and fold my lips into a childish moue that Avinia insisted was my only good expression.
“Oh my, how big you are, Mister Tyrant! Of course I shall give you my hand in marriage. I am quite a lost little lamb and need a big man like you to tell me what to do! Oh, shall you catch me in those big, muscled arms if I faint? I am quite overcome by your strong, masculine aura!”
“Keep making fun of me and I’ll show you a strong, masculine aura,” comes a growl from the door behind me.
I turn with a gasp to see Magnar, his forehead lined with anger, arms folded on his chest. His jaw works, belligerent gaze drilling into me. Behind me, Arvi snickers meanly. I glare at him with outrage.
“You knew he was there! You goaded me!”
“Yeah, well, I wanted Magnar to see what kind of a bride he would have gotten if any of the earlier princesses weren’t deceased,” Arvi says, still laughing. “That’s how they teach those girls to speak to men. She wasn’t making fun of you but of this stupid book. Calianeisn’t like that.”
My husband closes his eyes and clenches his fists, exhaling a long, controlled stream of air. I fidget uneasily. I haven’t seen him since we fought yesterday.
“Are you angry?” I ask in a small voice. “I apologize, I didn’t mean…”
“Stop. Don’t fucking apologize to me. I’m not angry.”
“Look down,” Arvi says in a loud whisper, just as Magnar presses his hand to his tented crotch. “Did the simpering trick do that, man? Huh. Maybe that lady was on to something when she taught girls to do that.”
Magnar groans with fury, turns around, and leaves. From the abruptness of his movements, I expect him to slam the door, but he closes it quietly.
“Right,” Arvi says, his smile growing fixed. “Let me get you dressed nice and fast, and we’ll have you take breakfast in his study, hm?”
I snort, watching him bang the doors of my wardrobe in haste. “Are you afraid of him? Really?”
Arvi doesn’t look at me, quickly sifting through dresses in bold, jewellike colors: ruby, amethyst, sapphire, amber… My head spins as the fabrics rustle; even the sounds they make are different from Farneerian dresses. I can already tell the cuts are unlike the ones I’m used to wearing.
“Man’s pining,laruna. He has all this work to do when the only thing he wants is to breed his wife twelve times a day. Are you all better, by the way? If you are, let him have his way with you on his desk. It should lift his spirits right up.”
“O-on his desk?” I shake my head, bewildered, and Arvi turns to me with a wide grin, holding an emerald dress that’s made of liquid silk and black lace.
“Yes. His desk. And wear this.”
