CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Mira avoided Tarquin as well as she could, being confined to her room. He had come to see her just after breakfast on the first day, a plate of food in hand, but she had feigned sleep. He’d left the plate on her table and a kiss on her temple.
He did the same thing after lunch and dinner, but she’d been a coward and done the same thing also. She didn’t know why she was so afraid to face him, but if she didn’t talk to him then he couldn’t tell her that this was all a mistake. He couldn’t tell her that he regretted her and everything she’d done with him.
By the end of the third day he seemed annoyed, letting himself in quickly after knocking and sighing heavily when she didn’t respond to him saying her name.
“I know you’re awake, Mira,” he’d murmured, and she’d almost sat up and grinned sheepishly at him, but had decided to be a coward instead— she kept her eyes closed and ignored him.
The next morning he hadn’t come after breakfast, when he usually did. He didn’t come after lunch, or dinner, either. After a long time of laying in bed and hating herself she succumbed to her boredom and rose to fetch her books. She was thoroughly absorbed, sitting up in her bed to practice her words, when Tarquin strode into her room without knocking.
“You look like shit,” he said, his arms full of something.
She barely had the energy to throw a half hearted glare at him.
He surprised her then by tossing tissues and a small bottle of something on the bed, then turning to her little tea table she'd arranged neatly. He crossed to her sink, kettle in hand, then set it over her dwindling fire. He stoked up the fire, adding several more logs, then came to sit on the edge of her bed. She watched him as he worked, trying not to adore the way his hair brushed his shoulders, trying to avoid admiring the crease on his forehead each time he glanced her way. She tried not to think about the fact that he seemed to be intent on taking care of her.
“Tell me why you weren't at breakfast,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I'm sick.”
“Tell me why you weren't at dinner.”
“I'm sick.”
“Tell me why you've been avoiding me.”
“I love you,” she said. She’d wanted to say she was sick, had tried to say it, wasn't sure how the other traitorous words had slipped out, but they were gone now and she didn't have the energy to try to snatch them back.
He didn't react, just leveled his dark gaze at her for a long moment, then rose to finish making her tea.
He came back and helped her sit up in bed, helped her sip her tea out of the pretty cup with tiny blue buds on it. He set it down on her nightstand when she was finished.
“That tea set was Aurelia's,” he said, the look in his eyes far off. “She loved it.”
“Apparently we have similar tastes,” she said, gripping the cup tightly between her fingers. Apparently nothing could be just hers. She considered breaking it on purpose, but then felt childish for having considered it. “I shouldn’t have taken it.”
He shrugged slightly. “I’m glad it’s not forgotten somewhere.” He paused, staring at the tea pot. “I was very proud of how much she loved it. It was the first gift I ever gave to her. I spent days trying to figure out what she would want, and then hours agonizing over the pattern.”
“That sounds like you,” Mira said.
He looked at her oddly. “Does it? I was just thinking how different I am now.”
“You always do things so… cautiously. Thoughtfully.”
“Not when it comes to you,” he said, his gaze turning dark. “I shouldn’t have— that first time—” he trailed off.
Mira’s cheeks reddened and she shook her head. “It’s fine, I don’t—”
He cut her off. “I’m sorry, Mira. I think about it often. I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, “it’s not as if we haven’t fucked a million times since then.” She laughed her loud laugh.
He just watched her as she laughed, and when she finished, he put his palm on her cheek. She quieted immediately, treasuring his touch again after so long, fighting the urge to shut her eyes and soak in the feel of him.
“It does matter, though,” he said, regret on his face. “We were nearly there, weren’t we? We were getting closer. I even made you laugh your real laugh once. I really thought you could be mine.”
She fought her wobbling chin, fought the urge to look anywhere except for at him.
“But after that first time, you pulled away. I blamed you at first. I thought you were selfish. I thought I deserved all the time in the world because of what had happened to me.”
“You do deserve that,” she said.
“Maybe,” he murmured, keeping his palm on her face. “Maybe, but you shouldn’t have been the one to pay for it. I blamed you because I wanted you, and I blamed you because you weren’t her. But I was never kind to you.”
“You were fine,” she said quietly.
He shook his head and paused for a minute. “I never contemplated tea sets for you. I should have. And now it feels so hopeless.”
“I don’t want it to be hopeless,” she said.
He looked at her for a long minute, his dark eyes full of an emotion she didn't recognize. “I thought you hated me.”
“I do,” she lied.
“You said you love me. You said it twice.”
She just stared at him, not denying the truth which was so obvious and thick in the air she wondered how he couldn't have already known.
He didn’t say anything else, but gently took her teacup from her and set it on her bedside table, before climbing into bed next to her. She didn’t protest as he pulled her to his chest. He leaned to kiss her forehead, and it was so soft and so achingly sweet that her heart hurt from the gesture. She wrapped her arms around him as best she could, and cherished his solid form under her hands, and laid like that silently until she was asleep.
Mira awoke in the midst of a coughing fit, the air around her cold, but the body next to her warm. Tarquin’s arms wound around her once more while she coughed, his hand rubbing her back soothingly.
She sat up and swallowed water from her bedside table, afraid to talk or lay with him again. She didn’t want to scare him off as she’d done before— the moment was too sweet, the future too hopeful to do anything to jeopardize it. So she just sat up for a moment, the cold night air washing over her, until he sat up next to her and leaned against the headboard, and pulled her so she was laying against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, feel his breath moving through him; she wanted to memorize the feeling. He was quiet for a long time, so she was too.
“Aurelia was perfect,” he said suddenly, into the darkness. “Too perfect to be matched with me.”
Mira scarcely breathed, not wanting to do anything stupid that would make him stop talking.
“She was the daughter of a merchant. She came across me by chance, on her first visit to the palace with her father. He was trying to sell tapestries. When I met her I knew there was… something there, but I didn’t know what it was at the time. She was lovely—” he paused and glanced at Mira. “You’ve seen her portrait. But more than that; she was kind, she was sweet. I could feel it radiating out of her right away.”
Mira stared into the darkness while he talked.
“I didn’t like her at first. She was so sweet, it felt like an act, like she’d be kind to you and then turn around and laugh about you. But it wasn’t an act, she really was that good.”
She clasped his hand in hers and squeezed it gently.
He was quiet for a long time, so long that she thought he was done talking when he interrupted the silence. “She was pregnant,” he said. “It was new. Very new. Nobody knew about it.”
“I’m sorry,” she breathed.
He shook his head. “I feel like… like by moving on, that I’m letting the child be forgotten. I miss her, of course, but she has her father and her brothers to mourn her too. But nobody knows about the child except for me.”
Mira was silent, touching him but not sure what else to do.
“I’ve never hated you,” he continued. “Sometimes, when I looked at you at first, I hated myself. I wanted you right away. I was consumed with thoughts of you. But you’re not her, and it— it ate at me.”
“I’ll never be her,” she said, tension settling in her gut and her expression carefully guarded.
“I know that. And you’re not perfect. You’re rough and hateful and you laugh at terrible things, and sometimes you manage to say something that makes the entire room fall silent. You cut your hair when I told you I liked it. You’ve been cruel to me and you kicked me out of your bed constantly when all I want to do is hold you. You’ve questioned me endlessly about my dead mate, not caring that it’s painful, that the reason I don’t want to talk about her, especially to you, is because I feel like I’m betraying her every time I look at you. Because I don’t hate you. I think you’re wonderful, despite everything, because of everything. I want you, Mira— and not just in the ways that I’ve had you. I want you on my arm during the day, I want in my bed at night, and I want you next to me for the rest of my life.”
She stared at him for a moment. “I'm not your mate,” she said. “I never will be.”
“I don’t care,” he replied. “You’re my match. I choose you. I think that counts for something.”
Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. She looked away from him, settling her cheek against his chest once more. “I hope it does,” she said.
He clutched her as tightly as if she’d agreed vehemently with him, and she let him, her mind racing and her soul feeling split in two the rest of the night.