Page 56 of The King's Queen

Still, I quiver beneath him, my headboard slightly tapping the wall behind it. My eyes adjust to the dark a bit more, and I look up to see Rowan’s face tightened with concern as he searches my own for any signs of pain. His knees press slightly into my sides as he leans above me, the bed still shaking. Then I realize it is not the bed that is shaking, but me.

“I-“

“Don’t speak. Just breathe.” He watches as I take three deep breaths, counting and breathing with me, before he rocks back on his heels and allows me to sit up. The bed creaks as I do so, but it helps to be upright.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I shake my head. “Alright.”

We sit in silence, his thumb lazily tracing circles across my knee without any other form of contact. Every fiber of my being seems to focus on where his skin touches mine, where little jolts of electricity shoot through me. It is not an uncomfortable feeling.

“I get them too sometimes,” he whispers. “Nightmares, that is. I suppose it wouldn’t help to say it’s just a dream, but it’s nothing you can’t handle.”

From anyone else, those words would have angered me. I know I can handle it, but from him, that reassurance means everything. Even after tonight, where I failed so spectacularly, he still believes in me.

I swallow thickly. “Light.”

“What?”

“I’m afraid of the dark.”

Realization must have dawned on him, for within the next few seconds, an oil lamp is lit, and I can read the guilt across his features. No mockery or pity, just shame.

“I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell.”

“Fair enough.” He chuckles, his voice laced with mirth. “Scoot over.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “What?”

Rowan sighs and rolls those emerald eyes as if the answer should be obvious, but I perch still as a sentry as he stands before me. And then he hooks one arm under my knees and the other around my shoulders and lifts me up. He walks the three paces between our two beds and plops me down with an unladylike ‘oomph’ before rolling me to the side closest to the wall. Silently, he slips under the covers beside me, leaving the lamp burning on the table next to us.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” I question as he burrows in deeper, grinning like a cat.

“Protecting my ‘wife’ from the dark,” he jokes as he turns so his back is to me. “But don’t worry, I’m a gentleman, and I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

I snort. “You and gentleman don’t belong in the same sentence together.”

“Ouch, I guess the honeymoon phase is over.” I can feel his shoulders shake as he laughs, rattling our shared and small bed. Despite this, he is sure to leave even the tiniest sliver of space between us, and I am sure he must be half hanging off the bed. With anyone else, the situation would have felt stiff and awkward, but here with Rowan, I felt safe and known.

I think of all my dates with Lucius, the anxiety and anger wearing through my body. I had thought at the time I was just nervous. Here was this attractive man not making me fight for his attention. Here was someone who was willing to bow to me, regardless of what I said or did to try and spark something. I can no longer deny my lingering feelings for him, but neither can I continue to deny the fact that we are wrong for each other.

Lucius bows but never challenges me. He views my word as God. And yet, I feel that he still holds the reins.

And then there’s Blaine. Blaine who, even when he loved me, never let me have that freedom I desired. I know he tried. He tried so hard and loved me more than I thought possible until it ended. Until he did it all for me. A pang of sorrow floods my heart for a moment, but I shake myself right. I will not allow myself to feel shame for moving on.

“Turn around.”

Rowan obliges, and his chest presses against my back. He must realize it as well, and shuffles backwards so that he must be leaning half off the bed again.

“You can hold me, you know.” A pause. “Can you hold me?”

The sheets rustle as Rowan shifts closer, and one arm slips under my pillow. The other lazily drapes over my waist. His breath skitters across the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

“Is this okay?” His voice is thick with sleepiness, a drowsy lull in my ears. I can discern his heartbeat through my back, a reminder that he lives. That he’s here. That we are safe. I nod, allowing my eyes to drift closed for a moment.

Creak.

Rowan’s arm shoots from my waist to grab the assailant’s wrist in a second, twisting it with a painful crack. The masked man cries out in pain but still uses his other hand to grab for my hair. As if on instinct, my hand balls into a fist ready to aim, but Rowan is there first, wrapping his arms around the man’s midsection and tackling him to the ground. He lands blow after blow, one sickening and crunching thud after the other until the assailant resembles more like a victim. Rowan stands grimly before turning back to face me, where I still lay in the bed. Utterly motionless and useless in that fight.

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