Verity
"I'm sorry," she said, moving towards him with the grace of a caged cat. "Do you believe me?" He watched her through narrowed eyes as she glided across the floor. She paused at the edge of the bed, her eyes drawn to his right wrist where it lay bare and naked of its hand.
Tears glittered on her cheeks, though he had not seen them fall. "Eugenides," she said, the word both sharp and desperate at once.
She wanted him to say something. But he had never done what she told him to, and he was not going to start now. A smile twitched at the corner of his lips. She would be angry soon, and he would watch her alabaster skin flush red and her eyes spark like the wrath of the gods. A beautiful sight.
But nothing happened. If anything, she grew paler, more drawn – even frail. A hiccup burst from her lips, and she slapped a hand over her mouth. Then more came, and her shoulders shook and her tall, lithe frame quivered like a tree in the wind.
She sank to the floor, rumpling her sleek white gown as she covered her face and sobbed. The silver embroidery along its edges glittered in the lamplight, reminding him of treasure. He'd stolen many treasures over his lifetime, but she – she was the only one that really mattered. And now she was slowly falling apart.
He never thought this day would come, when the feared Attolia would become Irene. He smiled then, and said, "Stop."
It came out the way he was hoping, short and authoritative. It startled her; her head snapped up and she stared at him, her lower lip trembling. The only part of her that wasn't undone was her hair, its plait tight around her head.
"Come here," he said.
Her eyes flashed, but she stood and walked stiffly towards him, as though she'd aged fifty years in the past few moments. "Yes?"
He patted the bed beside him. A flush spotted her cheeks. She crawled on top of the sheets, turning her back to face the opposite wall.
Smiling again, he tapped her shoulder. It tensed under his fingertips. "Turn around," he said.
He heard the whoosh of breath as she opened her mouth, probably to snap at him. Then silence. She turned over, the collar of her gown shifting to expose her collarbone. He ran his finger across its path, lightly, almost teasingly. She glared at him, but her eyes shone too softly to press him with any true threat.
His touch ran from her collarbone to her chin, tapping it like a mother does to a child. Her eyebrows drew together; she looked both confused and irritated. He chuckled, which only made her brow pinch.
Keeping his touch as gentle as a feather, he traced her cheek, smoothing out her puckered brow and cresting her hairline. Her hand rose to slap his away. He touched her outstretched palm with his bare wrist. Her breathing hitched, and her hand fell to twist the bed sheet beneath her.
"Good," he whispered. She lay still underneath his hand, her eyes averted. His fingers burrowed through her hair, searching. When something sharp jabbed his fingertip, he smiled and tugged out the first of her many hairpins. A single lock of hair tumbled to grace her shoulder. Her eyelashes fluttered slightly, and he wondered if her last husband had ever dared touch her like this, dared to peel away her outward shell to the beauty underneath.
He doubted it.
Slowly, as though taming a frightened horse, he removed pin after pin, watching as her hair fell in wave after shining wave. He tossed the pins over his shoulder, not bothering to care that they littered the floor like knives. If he got his way, nobody would be leaving this bed tonight.
There. The last pin was out. He tucked her hair behind her ears, revealing bright red earrings. "Yes," he said.
She looked at him. "Yes?" she breathed.
"I believe you. Yes. I believe you." He paused. "Irene."
She reached up, this time not to slap, but to touch. She swallowed, and he watched as the movement traveled down her tiny white neck. Such a frail thing, but it had outlasted many necks far older. Her fingers tickled his cheekbones. Her lips parted in a soft sigh; she had felt his dried tears.
"This is ridiculous," she said drily, struggling to maintain some composure. He bit back another chuckle. Some things never changed. You could take the queen out of Attolia, but you couldn't take Attolia out of the queen. "A queen and a thief."
"Not at all," he said loftily. "After all, we're not defined by those characteristics alone."
"You may not be," she said. Silence fell between them.
"Well, tonight you are Irene," he said. "My wife."
"And who, might I ask, are you?"
He cradled her head in his hand, stretching his fingers to grasp both sides of her jaw. "Eugenides, your husband," he said quietly.
A tear trickled across his knuckles. "And tomorrow?"
He smiled. "Your royal pain."
She closed her eyes, the lids twitching as she smiled. He moved from her face to her hair, reaching through it until he'd gathered a knot of it in his fist. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Drawing her closer to him, he pressed his lips to hers.
They could sing whatever they wanted about the king's wedding night, but only Eugenides and the woman called Irene would ever know the truth.