Of Thorns and Beauty by Elle Madison

Chapter Eight

Ifeel the king’s presence behind me, the warmth of his body overpowering that of the fire in front of me.

Slowly, I turn to face him.

With most men, I can immediately tell what they want from me, but I’m finding it difficult to read Einar. The rise and fall of his chest tells me that he’s breathing quickly, but his sharp features reveal nothing. He stands there immobile as a mountain range, looking down on me like he’s expecting something.

He’s too smart to expect me to run. And surely by now he knows I’m not the type of woman who simpers. So, what is it that he is so clearly anticipating?

The way he shakes his head is so subtle, I nearly miss it. He moves toward the sitting chair next to the bed and slowly, methodically unties the laces on his boots. He places them on the floor next to him and stares up at me.

I swallow hard, walking toward the one feature of the room I’ve been doing my best to ignore. I gulp down the remaining contents of my glass just before it slips from my hand, landing soundlessly on the rug beneath our feet.

“Are you drunk?” Einar asks as I sit down on the massive bed that looks as if it was carved from one of the enormous trees we passed on our way here.

The grooves in the wood resemble bark, and the branches at each corner stretch upward toward the ceiling. I run my fingers along the post, marveling at the craftsmanship.

Einar repeats his question.

I turn back too quickly, and the room begins to spin.

“I am never intoxicated.” My eyebrows raise in offense, even as I teeter sideways. “I simply thought it would be less of a burden on both of us if we were more...relaxed. I left you some in the decanter. Help yourself.” I wave a hand toward the table.

He moves to examine the nearly empty container and crosses his arms. Then, he stares down at me like I am nothing more than a fascinating marionette, playing a part he’s not quite sure of while he towers over it all.

We both know what happens next. There is no use in delaying it any longer. I preempt any attempt he might make in removing my clothes and decide to do it myself. I wouldn’t want him to wonder at the carefully concealed weapons stitched into the fabric.

Pushing aside all the reservations that have no place in this moment, I begin by removing the long silken scarf, carefully disentangling it from my hair and letting it fall softly to the ground. I capture his icy blue gaze with my own, noting that it doesn’t waver from where it’s focused on my face. Only my face.

Next, I pull down my heavy beaded skirts, neatly stepping out of them. Again, his eyes don’t falter.

But when I place my hands on the short blouse that covers the only remaining part of me, I swear I hear a sharp intake of breath, though his expression is as resolute as ever.

I slip the top up over my head, shaking my hair out from the ornate beading before I reopen my eyes.

This time, he has let the smallest molecule of that stone façade slip. His gaze is heated, his lips parted, and his eyes find their way slowly down my body.

Content with whatever power I have managed to wrangle from this situation, I shoot him an arrogant smirk. He has his strengths, and I have mine.

What I don’t expect is the way he stalks toward me, closing the space between us until he has all but erased it.

Until I am close to being plastered against the freezing leather of his belt and the warm, rich furs of his cloak.

Until I forget, for the tiniest increment of a moment, that I’m not supposed to want to be here. To want any of this.

I lean toward him, in spite of myself and the way I have done nothing but dread this moment for days. Tilting my head up ever so slightly, my gaze travels from the chain at his neck and up to his lips, which are slowly parting.

“Stop.” The words are not mine, but his.

I pause briefly, any warmth I felt moments ago being once again stolen by this wintry castle and the people in it.

“What?” I ask in a voice that is unfamiliar, even to me.

Did he want to be the one who undressed me? Or is he unhappy with what he sees? I look down to be sure nothing is amiss, and nearly lose my balance.

Einar catches me with steady hands, careful to only touch my arms and nothing else.

"Is something not to your liking?" The whiskey has made me bold and reckless.

"Just put your clothes back on." He clenches his jaw.

I narrow my eyes at him. Surely, he doesn’t mean it. That would be too much to hope for. And it makes no sense.

His frame towers over mine, and I can feel the heat emanating from him once again. Is that why he keeps the fires so low? Because he is his own source of furious, unyielding heat?

I fight down a shiver as my gaze moves from his piercing blue irises to his full, parted lips.

We stand there for a moment, and not even my rapid breaths dare to make a sound. He leans in, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from leaning right back into him, stealing some of his warmth for my own.

But he doesn’t tilt his head downward. Instead, he grabs one of the heavy gray furs piled atop the bed and dangles it next to me.

“If you were freezing earlier, you must be ice by now.” Not unlike his tone.

I stand there, puzzled, abruptly aware of how very exposed I am. Holding the fur in front of me, I back up to brace myself against the tall, plush mattress.

Is he turning me down?

I war with feelings of relief and something else I can’t quite figure out as I voice the question aloud.

"Isn’t this why you chose me?” If Madame’s alchemy hadn’t come into this, my beauty is the only reason anyone would have picked me from a sea of eligible ladies.

I had been called beautiful my entire life. My light brown skin and my wide, almond-shaped, honey-colored eyes were rare in these parts of the world.

Exotic.

I didn’t take any pleasure in it. That’s why Madame had taken me to be part of her macabre family. It’s why I was so useful to her.

And I suspect that’s why the king chose me as well.

Of course, that would mean his features are all his, genetically.I try not to stare at his perfectly chiseled jaw and the unnaturally straight line of his aquiline nose.

He sizes me up with a glance that is almost cursory, crossing his colossal, muscled arms before giving me his answer.

“I didn’t choose you. My ambassador did.” He could be reading a shipping ledger for all the inflection in his voice.

No malice. No anger. Only a calm, collected, factual tone that has me steadily losing my grip on what’s real and what isn’t. Trying to gather my thoughts and utterly unsure why I’m staring this gift horse so directly in the mouth, I speak up again.

“Regardless of what either of us wants,” I begin, my voice going even colder than this stone floor. “Surely, we have to...consummate, at some point?”

I stop just short of saying “produce heirs,” though that’s really what I mean. It’s the main reason I was sent here.

His eye twitches infinitesimally, the first outward sign of emotion I’ve seen from him. I tuck it away for future me to think on, though I’m observing it through my swimming, inebriated vision.

“Tempting as it is to spend this evening — or any — in your delightful company, I’m certain I could find a more appealing prospect elsewhere.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to decide how to respond, but when I open them, he has vanished. There hadn’t been a creak or the clink of the door latch shutting. He was simply gone.

I’m left naked on my bed, confused and unsure, and worst of all, completely unable to escape the dawning horror that this is my life now, chasing after a man who clearly hates me for reasons I don’t begin to comprehend.

And not chasing him isn’t an option I have. Things stand to get much, much worse if I fail to produce an heir.

Especially when Madame finds out.