Page 109 of Prize for the King
I finger the dress with trepidation while Arvi pushes my flimsy nightshirt up my legs, his breath catching. I let him undress me, and he presses the dress to my front, turning me to a tall mirror by the wardrobe.
“Definitely. And nothing underneath.”
I shake my head, scandalized, but before I can protest, he stands in front of me, bending low so we’re face to face.
“Lady Darbury is far away, sweet,” he whispers, his mouth so close, I taste his breath. “She’s not going to clutch her pearls if you wear fewer than three petticoats. Live a little, hm?”
He brushes my lips in the faintest kiss and pulls away, looking smug as ever. I lift my arms obediently, and he puts the dress on me. I gasp when it slithers down my skin, cool and soft, molding to my body like no garment I’ve ever worn. The bodice is thicker than the flowy skirt, and it doesn’t detach. Arvi secures it tightly with a sash sewn into the fabric, helping me into flat, green slippers, and points at the mirror.
“Look at you. Agnidari queen ready to make her husband happy.”
I stare at my reflection, awed and shocked. The dress is utterly indecent, showing off every curve of my figure. My breasts aren’t as tightly bound as they normally are, yet they are gathered nicely, pushing up against the low neckline. The thin sleeves are long, the skirt deceptively simple. When I turn, the outline of my buttock and thigh is clearly visible through the clingy fabric.
“And hair,” Arvi mutters, combing his fingers through my tangled strands while I gape at the seductive, outrageous nymph in the mirror. “That should do it. Bedhead, but tamed. It’s good enough, and I can’t do better, anyway. Come on.”
I dig my heels in, shaking my head. “I need another dress.”
“Too late. He’ll behead someone any moment,” Arvi says, eyes flashing behind the spectacles. “If you don’t come, innocent peoplewill suffer.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me out of the room. I desperately try to keep up as he leads me through narrow, tall corridors, finally throwing open a black door.
He pushes me inside. Magnar sits behind an enormous desk piled high with papers, his mien thunderous, shoulders rigid. When he looks up, his expression doesn’t change. He neither blinks, nor says a word.
He only stares.
“He’s not beheading people,” I whisper, inching closer to Arvi when Magnar’s expression remains stony, mouth flat. “Let’s go.”
“Sit down and wait for breakfast,” Arvi hisses, forcing me into a wide, tall armchair by the empty fireplace. He moves over to the door, where he pulls a rope that probably has a chain attached at the other end, then retreats into the furthest corner of the study.
Magnar finally looks away, closing his eyes as he leans back in his chair. I take in the room, but it’s pretty bare. All the furniture is heavy and functional, the windows devoid of colored glass. The rug covering the center of the stone floor is black, and there are no tapestries on the walls. It feels pretty cold in here—so different from my bedroom.
“Um, are you tired?” I ask meekly when Magnar doesn’t move, only his chest rising and falling.
“Yes,” he sighs. “And I’ll stay tired until I plow through all this—and my people finally find those traitors who sell our secrets abroad. Have you come to help me with the letter?”
Arvi, who stands behind Magnar, widens his eyes meaningfully and points at his hips, flexing them a few times in a lewd display. He points at the desk and waggles his eyebrows, but there is no way I’ll ever utter the words, “Take me on your desk,” so I clear my throat and nod.
“Yes, of course. I promised I’d help.”
Magnar nods curtly, and behind him, Arvi covers his face with his palm, dejectedly shaking his head. His spectacles are gone. He probably only needs them for reading.
“Let me see, I’m sure it was somewhere in here,” my husband mutters, standing up to shuffle through the piles of papers.
His hair is braided back today, and he’s wearing a dark blue linen shirt and brown trousers cinched with a wide belt with a silver buckle. I catch myself considering how he’d even have me on this messy desk. It’s impossible. Arvi must have been joking.
The door opens and Raduna comes in with a tray. “Good morning, my queen,” he says warmly, putting the tray on a low table by my side. “Porridge with raspberries and nuts. I cooked it myself, and here’s coffee made after the Agnidari fashion. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
I take a sip of the strong, fragrant brew. It’s dark and sweet, and I frown, trying some more. Finally, I smile.
“It’s perfect. Thank you. I’ve had milky coffee a few times before and didn’t like it. This is very pleasant.”
“My queen has excellent taste,” Raduna says, beaming.
I have the porridge next, and can’t keep back a sigh of pleasure. “You are an excellent cook!”
A growl comes from the desk, and I look up at Magnar. His lips are pursed tightly, a document crumpled in his fist. “Found it,” he grits out. “Come here when you’ve eaten.”
I glance at Raduna, who sighs wearily but gives me a reassuring smile. I’d love to ask what exactly is wrong with my husband, but can’t very well do it in his hearing. Raduna leaves soon, anyway.
