Page 45 of Prize for the King
“Don’t,” he says, still calm. “You did nothing wrong.”
I want to tell him it’s not true, that everything I do is wrong, but I bite my tongue. No one likes a woman who feels sorry for herself, and all I need to do is try harder. I don’t know why it’s so difficult today. Normally, I have a very good handle on myself, not allowing sad and frightening thoughts into my head for long. Everyone likes the Cheerful Princess, so that’s who I try to be.
Maybe I’m just cranky because of the hangover, or the hardships of travel. I think briefly about yesterday’s bath and how loose and open it made me feel to be touched with so much reverence. Tears burn the back of my throat, and I pull away from Magnar, gasping for breath.
Something broke yesterday. I am broken now.
Ahead, the horn blares. I press my fists to my eyes, determined not to be any more of a nuisance. I just need to get a hold on myself and undo whatever witchery Khay did to me last night. And I’ll be fine. Like always.
“Come here, darling.”
Nimble fingers undo the ribbons of my hat and take it off. I’m surrounded by a pair of strong, masculine arms, my face pressing to the warm leather of Magnar’s vest. He strokes the back of my head, breathing deeply.
“Delay thirty minutes,” he says to someone else, and I want to protest, promising I’m fine to ride, but he shushes me. “It’s my decision and my responsibility. Come inside with me. We’ll sit a while.”
I hide my face in his side as he leads me into a small parlor, where he settles on a couch, quickly undoing the leather straps holding his vest together. When it’s undone, his torso covered only by a dark blue shirt, he pulls me into his lap.
My skin crawls, all those afternoons with my father crowding my memory. But this is different. My father always had me in his lap at his desk, insisting I keep my back straight and studious. Magnar sprawls comfortably, cradling me with ease until I relax. We’re lounging together, not sitting, and that makes it bearable.
With my father, it was always a charade. He pretended to teach me while his hands roamed, and if I spoiled the pretense, addressing his touch, he was cross.
“What do you mean? I’m teaching you politics. Pay attention, my prize.”
Magnar doesn’t pretend this is anything other than what it is—him holding his wife, a woman he has a right to.
“Do you want to cry?” he asks gently, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
My father never tolerated anything but pleased smiles, even whenhis hands crawled up my breasts. Being invited to cry ridiculously makes the pressure of unshed tears lessen.
“I’m afraid if I start, I’ll never be able to stop,” I confess. “And princesses don’t cry.”
Magnar huffs with amusement, bringing me closer until I’m curled against his chest. It seems familiar, being held like this. An ache blooms in my heart, a sorrow I can’t name.
“You’re no longer a princess but a queen,” he murmurs. “And you can cry when it’s just me or your knights. No one can stay strong all the time, so let go with us. There’s no shame in it, my lovely prize.”
I sigh, gripping the front of his shirt. The fabric is soft, warmed by his skin, and it smells like him, of man and cloves. I don’t mind when he calls me his prize, maybe because his tone of voice is different than my father’s used to be.
Or maybe because being Magnar’s prize means something different, only, I’m not sure what.
“Thank you,” I breathe, but no tears fall. I still feel comforted, like some of the weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I try to smile. “I’ll take that under advisement when we have more time. And when you’re not busy, of course.”
“Darling, I’m always busy,” he says with a gentle scoff. “But I need you to know you are important to me. Important enough to drop whatever I’m doing when you need me. Do you understand, Caliane?”
He lifts me higher, his eyes bright silver as they bore into mine. I swallow and shake my head in confusion. No, I don’t understand.
Magnar frowns in thought. “Well, here’s an example. Let’s say someone in the Agnidari court doesn’t treat you with respect, which is likely to happen. You’re human, and we have our prejudices. If a thing like that happens, I want you to come to me, whatever I’m doing, and tell me. And I’ll take care of it.”
I shake my head dubiously. “What if you’re in a meeting with your advisors? I was never allowed to disturb my father when…”
“I am not your father,” Magnar growls, his eyes flashing viciously. “Don’t expect me to be like him. If you need me, and I’m leading a fucking war council while the enemy marches at the keep, you will come to me and know I won’t turn you away. Do you understand?”
I nod once, taken aback by his anger. Magnar has no reason to be fond of my father, of course, but he treated him like a political enemy beforehand, the dislike impersonal. Now… I’m not sure.
“If anyone threatens you or makes you feel unwelcome, you will come to me. If you’re in pain, you will call for me. If you are scared or worried, you will tell me. You can tell your knights, too, but I want you to know you’re important enough for me to personally take care of you. Yes, Caliane?”
“Well…” I begin, needing to ask the question even though it might make him angry. “But what will happen if I don’t?”
Magnar releases a long breath and lowers his face until his lips press to my cheek. I shiver, surprised by the affection.
