CHAPTER SIX
Tarquin was injured, that much was obvious. He was shirtless, and although it looked like it had been hastily mopped up, his back had been shredded open. Mira’s hands came up to her mouth as she studied him from across the room, and as if sensing her gaze, he found her face and glared at her.
He was ushered away— up to the infirmary, she assumed. Only then did Mira notice Helias— the king, she supposed, although she’d never known him as that— following close behind. So he had survived. Ingrid was under his arm, clinging to his side, and Mira felt a small rush of relief for her not-quite-friend. She looked so very tiny there, not the formidable woman who’d managed to put everything in order since Mira had arrived.
Mira started behind them, curiously, until Tarquin looked over his shoulder at her and seethed at her. So she stopped, ignoring the hall full of urgently gossiping courtiers, and turned back to her room.
She bolted the door behind her. She’d been relieved, so relieved, to see him. He was alive, and although his injury looked painful, it hadn’t been so bad that he couldn’t walk. She hadn’t known she’d been worried about him until the moment she saw him again, but all at once she understood the odd dread that had settled over her since he’d left.
She threw open the doors to her terrace; the stale inside air was threatening to suffocate her. She sat in her little chair there, clenched her fists and stared out over the vast flat land before her. The look he’d thrown her had hurt her. That bothered her more than she wanted to admit, because— no. He was mated. Just because his mate was dead didn’t make him available. Just because his mate had rotted to bones when Mira had still been a child didn’t mean that he was hers for the taking.
She spent a few more minutes— sitting, thinking, annoyed at herself— and when she could take it no longer, she rose from her seat and stalked out of her chambers, headed for a wing of the palace that she’d yet to explore.
She passed the afternoon there and managed to find a black pair of trousers that fit her perfectly. They were clearly for a man— or a boy, she supposed, given that she was a tall woman and barely came up to any of the shifter’s chins— but they were cut nicely and fit over her slim hips easily. She left them on, under her gown, as she continued her search. She found a golden ring with a pearl in the center in the next room, and although she didn’t love it, it fit well on her index finger so she left it on as well.
The rooms darkened as the sun slid below the horizon, so she stopped in her room to wash the dust from herself. She stashed the ring in her cabinet but left the trousers on under her gown. They were unnoticeable under her ridiculous skirt, and they felt just right. She promised herself she’d find a blouse to match as soon as possible and be done with dresses forever.
She descended the endless stairs, breathless as always by the time she reached the bottom, and when she strode into the dining hall her eyes were wide, peeled for a glimpse of him. He was nowhere to be seen, but neither were the king and queen, so she supposed they were all together, discussing the considerable events of the day. She ate quietly, quickly, not wanting to acknowledge to herself that the only reason she hadn’t skipped dinner had been for the chance of seeing him.
After the sun had set, her least favorite time of day began. The palace was too dark to explore; torches and candles were fine for general living but couldn’t light a room effectively if one were searching nooks and crannies for lost treasures. Sometimes, she tried to read, although she was still learning most of her letters and became frustrated easily. Sometimes she wandered outside, bundled against the cold night air, and followed one of the many paths through the manicured grounds. She did none of that after dinner, though, instead returning to her room and feeling sorry for herself.
She decided on a bath, and as she stretched out in the magically warmed water, she refused to let him occupy her thoughts like this. He couldn’t kiss her frantically, tell her goodbye like he would miss her, stroke her cheek, and then come home and hate her. She scrubbed herself thoroughly, washed her short hair and face, and drained the tub. She pulled on her trousers and a new gown on top of them, ready to face him.
It was late; most of the torches along the wall had been put out, save for a few to light a path along the corridor. She knew the way to his room by heart— she’d never been inside, but she’d watched him angrily disappear into it more times than she could count.
She knocked on his door, hoping she wasn’t waking him, and then hoping she was. Her thoughts wouldn’t quiet, so why should he be entitled to rest?
He opened it quickly, all at once, shirtless and dazzling and already glaring down at her as if he knew it was she who had knocked. She stared up defiantly at him, and then he took her by the elbow, more gently than she thought he would, and hauled her inside, looking down the empty hallway suspiciously.
“No one saw you?” he asked.
She shrugged and pulled her arm from his grip. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”
He rolled his eyes and stalked across his bedroom, then seated himself at his desk, ignoring her.
She took the opportunity to look around his room. It was dark— all dark wood, heavy furniture, and black curtains pulled tight across his window. He had a massive bookcase, completely covered in books, and a small green couch positioned in front of the fireplace. His fireplace was unlit; above it hung a large portrait. It could be no one but his mate. She was as lovely as the sun. Silver barrettes fashioned like leaves held back her golden tumbling waves of hair, and her small nose was centered under her large, clear blue eyes that seemed to watch Mira back.
She finally managed to look away, finally managed to stop thinking about her own long nose, her short black hair, her muddied brown eyes. She turned to find Tarquin right behind her, seeming to have as much trouble tearing his eyes from the portrait as Mira had. He finally did, though, and looked down at her, and then pulled her in his arms.