She turned to him with a glare, clutching her fork as if she was about to stab him with it. He gave her his frostiest smirk, all trace of discomfort forgotten. Now this felt like home.
But something that Elagbi had said earlier was weighing on his mind. Deciding that now was as good a time as any to bring it up, he leaned in closer to his new bride—even if it did bring him into worrying proximity to her pointy fork.
“Earlier, Prince Elagbi reminded me that you learned the truth of your origins when we were taken prisoner at the Belian range. You were aware that you were his daughter all throughout the last month of the Hurricane Wars. That’s the reason you fled to Nenavar. You knew you’d be welcome here. But why go back to the Continent at all?” Alaric’s tone grew softer in his puzzlement as, in stark contrast, tension rippled through Talasyn, pulling every muscle tight.
She glared at him. “The Amirante said that she needed me to concentrate on the war, and I agreed.”
“You told me that you’d been lonely all your life,” Alaric said with a frown, “waiting to be reunited with your family. And then you were, but you left, and you returned to a war that was already as good as lost by that point. I understand that you must have felt beholden to debrief Ideth Vela, but you didn’t even think to ask her if you could sail back to Nenavar?”
“I had a duty,” she replied, sounding confused as to what his point was. “Of course I had to see it through until the end.”
Before he could argue, Niamha Langsoune approached the head table, all sophisticated grace and pleasant smile and copper robes. “Your Grace, Your Majesty,” she said in a low voice, “it’s time to make your exit.”
Unseen by anyone else, Talasyn’s fingers suddenly dug into Alaric’s thigh beneath the table. They were to leave the Grand Ballroom and retire to her chambers for their wedding night. Granted, it had already been agreed that they wouldn’t actually do anything, but still . . .
As if on cue, Urduja rose to her feet, effectively putting a stop to all conversation. “Honored guests,” she said, holding a glass of wine in her hand, “I thank you for celebrating this historic night with us. Through this union, we have engendered a new age of peace and prosperity for the Nenavar Dominion and the Night Empire. Please join me in a toast to the newlyweds as they embark on the next chapter of their lives together.”
Talasyn thought that she was holding up pretty well, all things considered. She had managed to leave the feast with poise, had even offered Alaric a stiff but polite nod before they were escorted to their respective suites for a change of clothes. Away from the hubbub, finally out of sight of prying eyes, with her hair down and her torturous shoes and false lashes removed at long last, she was feeling more optimistic about getting through the rest of the evening with no added stress. But all that changed when Jie marched out of the dressing room, bearing Talasyn’s change of clothes.
“I am not wearing that.”
“But, Lachis’ka, it’s tradition—” Jie started to plead, but Talasyn cut her off.
“Look at that thing!” She gestured in dismay at the—well, it was hardly even a dress. It was hardly even a scarf, by her standards. True, it had long sleeves and it trailed past her ankles, but that didn’t matter when it was made of material so sheer that she could see through it, with only stylized appliqués strategically positioned to cover her . . . her bits. “Who in their right mind would . . .” She faltered, at a complete and utter loss for words.
“It’s lingerie, Your Grace,” Jie hastened to explain.
“I don’t care what it’s called,” Talasyn savagely declared. “I’m not putting it on.”
Jie appeared disconcerted. Talasyn raised an eyebrow, daring the girl to argue with her.
The standoff was interrupted by the sound of chimes. Alaric had arrived outside her solar.
“Lachis’ka, the Night Emperor is here,” Jie implored. “There’s no more time.”
Talasyn should have put up more of a fight. But Jie wouldn’t understand, because, as far as she was concerned, what would follow was a legitimate consummation. Talasyn didn’t need gossip contradicting that spreading through the court.
“Fine,” she sighed, her shoulders sagging in defeat.
Jie worked quickly to extricate Talasyn from the wedding dress, arrange her hair into a simple braid, and spritz perfume on her pulse points. The chimes sounded again just as the flimsy excuse for a nightdress was being slipped over Talasyn’s head.
Jie winked. “Someone’s impatient.”
Talasyn groaned inwardly. Give me strength.
At last, Jie curtseyed and stole out of the room, dimming the lamps as she went. Talasyn was left alone in a kneeling position in the middle of the canopy bed, absolutely mortified but trying not to let on, her heart pounding as she waited to receive her husband.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The door of the Lachis’ka’s solar creaked open, revealing the grinning face of Talasyn’s lady-in-waiting. Yes, the damnable teenager was actually grinning, the effect not dissimilar to a prettily dressed shark.
“Her Grace is ready for you, Your Majesty,” Jie saucily told him before taking her leave in a flurry of rustling skirts and unabashed snickering.
Alaric breathed out an irritated sigh at the girl’s antics. She was Dominion nobility—female nobility, at that—and thus she wasn’t particularly inclined to act deferential in his presence.
He slowly made his way to Talasyn’s closed bedroom door, part of him still unwilling to believe that this was nothing more than an outlandish fever-dream. He knocked to be polite, and then walked in.
Like her solar, her chambers were disconcertingly feminine, all done up in soft orange and pale pink and rosy peach, starry tapestries hung on the walls and iridescent silk panels draped over the canopy bed. It didn’t strike him as the kind of decor that Talasyn would have chosen for herself; she would prefer bolder colors, perhaps, and furnishings that could be treated with less care.
The curtains had been drawn against the brilliant seven-mooned evening, but the shadows were edged in gold by perfumed candles on the nightstand, providing Alaric with enough light to see the figure on the mattress. His breath hitched as all thought, all wondering, fled from his mind.
Talasyn was clad in a nightdress sewn from the sheerest, flimsiest mesh fabric that Alaric had ever seen. Every inch of the long-sleeved bodice clung to her slim torso, accentuating her narrow waist and the slight flare of her hips, and, gods, it was as if she was wearing nothing, her olive skin clearly visible through the transparent material, obscured only in certain places by an intricate patchwork of embroidered lace. Hibiscus blossoms dripping from leafy vines curled along her wrists and her ribcage and down her thighs; herons were stitched in mid-flight over her chest and the spurs of her hips, as if in some valiant last-ditch attempt at modesty. Her face had been scrubbed clean and her chestnut hair was gathered into a loose braid draped over one shoulder, trailing past her right breast. She was kneeling on the bed, her hands clasped together in her lap. She looked like a summer’s eve and like an offering all at once. She looked . . .
. . . very, very grumpy.