Page 47 of Prize for the King
Bad daughter.
“I have some difficulty deciding what to do now,” Magnar says, his eyes closed, head tilted back. “Maybe you can help me.”
I turn in his lap, alert and surprised. “Are you asking formyopinion? Whatever for?”
His mouth flattens, and for a moment, I’m scared I made him angry, but his expression softens once he cracks his eyes open, shards of silver watching my face.
“For knowing what you think, dear. That’s the purpose of asking one’s opinion, is it not?”
I smile despite myself, shaking my head. The Agnidariarebizarre. Back home, no one ever wanted to know what I thought, as my female views were expected to be insipid and dull.
“So what’s the difficulty?” I ask.
Magnar releases a heavy sigh. His hardness under my bum doesn’t release, and I wonder if he’s suffering. He said as much before.
“I wanted to ride with you today so we can talk. I ought to get to know my wife, and you should get to know me. Trouble is, I expect to be even harder than on the first day. I haven’t touched a woman in years, hoping it would spur me to fight better to win my queen. Apparently, it was a grave mistake, but here we are.”
I try to shuffle away, having the confirmation that he’s in pain, but when his organ jerks in response, I still. Magnar sighs, watching me with a pained sort of resignation.
“I can either give you to Raduna and put off our conversation, or take you with me and suffer. Or I could delay by a day, stay here, and speak with you at leisure. I have letters to write, anyway. Odious chore. I obviously hate the idea of delaying, since you promised to lay with me once we reach the keep. I want to get there as fast as possible.”
Embarrassment heats my cheeks with a blush, yet I don’t look away from his face. His lips are soft, eyes hooded. Magnar’s hands on my waist are light, comfortable, and the kiss we shared still buzzes in my veins like little bursts of light.
I think I finally get his meaning, though, and it settles like a weight in my chest.
“So this is what you mean. You want me to lie with you sooner. I see,” I say with a sigh, feeling timidly excited at the prospect, yet also disappointed. I was right. He doesn’t truly want my opinion. He’s just trying to persuade me so he can get what he wants earlier than promised.
His eyes crease, brows drawing together. “No, Caliane. I’ve resigned myself to the schedule we agreed on. I want to know what you’d like, I suppose. Stay here, walk and speak with me, and delay? Or ride with me in discomfort, since I know it’s unpleasant to you, or maybe ride with Raduna? He’s the strongest of us. You’ll be comfortable with him. And I hate each option for different reasons, so I guess you can choose. Some days are meant to be difficult.”
I shake my head, even more confused. “You’re letting me choose?”
He nods with a faint shrug. “The Tyrant gets tired, too. Choose today’s hardship for me. What doyouwant?”
I straighten, staring at him doubtfully. The only decisions I was ever allowed to make were what to wear or whether to draw or embroider in my free time. I’m not even sure Icanchoose well, though Magnar made it clear each option is bad from his point of view. It sort of makes it easier.
I know what I want—anythingbutconverse with Magnar. I have nothing to say that might interest him, and my skin crawls at the thought that he might waste a day of travel talking with me, and be angry when my conversation turns out dull and exhausting. Besides, there are so many things Ican’tspeak about, and would rather forget.
Also, I should grieve. Magnar makes it impossible, because how can I properly mourn my father when I so treacherously enjoy the company of his killer? Oh, I am disgusting.
“I’d like to ride with Raduna,” I say, clenching my hands in my lap. “I’m sorry.”
Magnar gives me a close-lipped smile and sighs. “No need to be sorry. I understand.”
He urges me off his lap and stands, too, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. When I turn to leave, he grabs my hand.
“A kiss, darling? One more to make this day bearable?”
Oh, I want to. He looks splendid in his leathers, his hair soft, face darkened with the remains of his blush. And yet, I can’t squander any more grieving time, so I shake my head. Magnar closes his eyes for a moment, then smiles ruefully.
“Well then. Let us go.”
As I ride with Raduna, morning sun rays falling through the cracks in heavy, silver clouds, I keep thinking about Magnar’s reaction and what was so strange about it. When we ride over a bridge, horse hooves clobbering over the wood, I finally have it.
Whenever my father wanted a kiss on his cheek or hand, he’d bully me until I agreed. He’d be cross if I denied him my lips, and reminded me of all the things he had done for me until guilt swallowed me, and I caved.
Magnar did none of that. I wonder if it means he didn’t actually want my kiss, but that doesn’t seem right.
Maybe he let me choose again—and honored my choice.
