Page 329 of The Spider Queen
I’d been in the company of a fallen angel, gargoyles, and harpies?Intimidatewasn’t the right word.
Before I had a chance to come up with a diplomatic answer, the door opened again and the servant beckoned us forward.
“I’ll leave you here,” Dorian said with a slight bow.
“Thank you. For everything.” I looked into his eyes and briefly touched his arm. A fissure of sadness radiated through him and into me.
My eyes reflected his pain.
His gaze widened and his cheeks pinkened. “Oh.”
I nodded.
“I—the king. Don’t keep him waiting.” He pulled away from my touch, turned, and fled.
I had that effect on people.
The servant stared at me with calm, patient eyes. I stepped into the room and even though I wasn’t impressed by the fact that I was about to meet a king, Iwasimpressed by his taste in decor.
A long wooden table was covered with a red-wine-colored tablecloth. Platters of food with decadent aromas wafted toward me.
My stomach, with a mind of its own, growled again.
There was the sound of rich laughter. My skin prickled with awareness. I turned slowly.
His face was true artistry, like a sculptor had painstakingly carved his cheekbones and jawline with thoughtful skill. His right cheek was scarred. Angry red blots of ruined skin dotted his face.
He smiled, half his mouth pulling against the imperfection. “Welcome, Stella.”
The king’s voice was warm and friendly. I took in his stature, the athletic build of his body—he wasn’t just a king in title, but also one who battled. How else would he have gotten the scars on his face?
I lowered my walls just enough to assess his emotions, but there was nothing except happiness. No stains on his soul. No blackness he was trying to conceal.
“The dress fits,” he said, ripping me from my thoughts.
I glanced down, suddenly having forgotten what I was wearing. “It does. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
The king strode forward and gestured to the table. “Shall we sit? I’m sure you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” I admitted.
The servant who’d opened the door discreetly moved to one of the high-backed chairs and pulled it out. I took my seat and thanked him when he handed me my cloth napkin.
The king took his chair across the table, his brown eyes on me. He said nothing as the servant made up our plates. Once the wine was poured from a silver jug into two goblets, he quietly left, the door clicking shut.
I was alone with the king.
“Sorry this is so informal. I didn’t want to serve a four-course meal and have our conversation interrupted.” He reached for his goblet. I reached for mine.
“To your stay,” he said.
I raised my glass ever so slightly and then took a sip. The wine was heady and a tad spicy. I set the glass down, picked up my silverware, and then wasted no more time before devouring the food in front of me.
It took all of my willpower not to shovel it in with my hands, to gorge myself like a famished beast. When I was halfway done with my plate, I looked up to see the king hadn’t touched his food. He was watching me with unnatural stillness.
I forced the bite of food down my throat and then reached for my glass of wine. When I’d washed away the taste, I asked, “Is something the matter? You aren’t eating.”
“I’m more intrigued watching you enjoy yourself.”
