Page 195 of Prize for the King
I take a shaky breath and put my cup away. It clatters a little, my fingers trembling. I fold them on my lap and face Magnar, who watches me with an expectant frown.
“I think I’ve loved you for a long time,” I say softly. “I’m not sure when it started. But… Things that happened to me… They made me scared. I am not afraid anymore, not of you. I love you.”
He is perfectly still, only his throat working when he swallows roughly. I wait, watching his beloved visage, his silver eyes, the strong features that aren’t any less dear for his bruises or the knocked out tooth. He is perfect, delightful, so blissfully mine.
“Say it again.”
I smile and reach for him. “I love you. Will you kiss me, please?”
He releases a sharp bark of laughter, then he’s on me, his hands framing my face, his eyes locked on mine.
“Again.”
“I love you.”
He kisses me softly, sighing into my mouth as his shoulders sag, and his body softens. I embrace him, and we spend a long time like that, finally resting, finally whole.
When Khay comes back, his eyes are swollen from crying, but his grin is huge, face beaming.
“I helped them get settled,” he says, his voice thick with tears still lingering in his throat. “All three of my sisters are alive and well. I have two nieces. It… It will take time. But they are coming home. They will be safe.”
We all end up on the floor, a pile of my men and me, crying tears of relief, laughing for joy. We talk of things large and small, Khay’s nieces’ names, the colors of their eyes; the enormous rats Magnar saw in the dungeon, and how Sidonius jumped with excitement when he thought no one saw him after the coup.
We eat, we nap, we eat again. Magnar asks me to confess my love to him time and again, and every time he hears it, his smile grows wider and toothier. When Khay tries to put his finger through Magnar’s new gap, my husband snaps his teeth at him and accidentally bites off Khay’s claw.
When we wake from another long nap, the room lit only by the soft amber light of one lantern, Magnar presses me to him, his breath even, body relaxed.
“Will you tell me, love?”
I am silent for a while, gathering my thoughts. I think he must know already after my pointed questions during our night vigil, but I need to tell them, anyway. It’s my last monster to slay, and I’ll conquer it by making it known.
“My mom died when I was nine,” I begin softly, and my knights stir and open their eyes, all listening, all quiet. “My father never remarried. I don’t remember that time well. I was sad a lot. My days were filled with lessons. My horse, Snowdrop, was my only friend. My father isolated himself for a time. I suppose he was grieving. Then... I turned twelve. I had my first bleeding.”
I fall silent, smiling sadly at the ache in my chest, the memory of that shame and fear. No one had explained to me what happened to girls’ bodies when they grew up. I thought I was dying, and all mygoverness did was scold me for staining the linens.
“My father emerged from his shell. He began spending a lot of time with me. I was glad. I was no longer alone. At first… We went riding together, we had picnics outside, he read me books or told me stories. Sometimes, he would bring in musicians, teach me dancing. He… It was subtle. His hand would stray a little, an honest mistake, nothing to worry about. He would seat me in his lap a lot. I remember it made me feel embarrassed, like it was not quite right, but no one ever said anything.”
I take a deep breath and press myself into Magnar’s heat when my body begins to chill and numb as the monsters come out of their hiding nooks and dance in my head, phantom hands caressing me until I can’t feel.
“When I was fourteen, he started teaching me politics. Three afternoons a week, like clockwork, I was in his study, seated in his lap at his desk. He showed me maps, taught me some history, not much, and gave me problems to solve.‘If the annual yield of wheat in Farneer is X, and our usual needs are Y, how much can we trade and what price should we set?’They grew more difficult with time. And when I answered, or recited something he had me learn by heart, his… His hands would roam. He would squeeze my waist, touch my cheek, my neck. Innocent at first.”
Magnar’s breathing is faster, but he’s perfectly still, his hold warm and solid. I swallow my nausea, swallow the tears, and plow on.
“Then my thighs. My arms. If I stuttered or got distracted, he made me repeat the lesson. I quickly learned I wasn’t allowed to comment on what he did. I tried at first. I asked what he was doing, if he could stop. He grew cold and condescending, and it hurt, it was rejection, so I learned not to ask. By the time I was fifteen, he was touching my breasts, trying to stimulate… my nipples… through my clothes. It… It always made him frustrated. Now I understand why, he wanted my body to react, and it didn’t. I… I was frozen when that happened. My body was like ice. I barely felt it.”
“You balked when I tried to pull you into my lap in that inn,” Raduna says, his voice hoarse. “Now I see why.”
Magnar clears his throat. “I… Love, I made you sit in my lap a lot. Did you…”
I shake my head. “No, it was… With you, it was fine. Sometimes, I was reminded of him. Um. I hated it at the Table of Kings. It was a… Formal setting, just like my lessons. And all those old men, his friends.”
He releases a long, shaky breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice.”
“I forgive you.”
I gather my thoughts once more, and my men wait. I smile sadly.
“When I was fifteen, I asked my governess if it was normal that my father touched my breasts. I… In hindsight, I think I knew it was stupid. I wanted to see what would happen. Well, she went to my father and reported on me. I was there. She wasn’tconcerned, asking what the hell he was doing. She tattled on me. And he was livid. Oh, you should have seen it. My father didn’t get angry like most men. He grew cold. Like ice. He looked at me with all that wrath, and said I needed to learn a lesson.”
