Page 38 of The Crown's Awakening
Back to the fabric. Back to the careful selections. Back to the performance of consideration without the inconvenience of actually reconsidering anything.
Nox exhales as she walks, the last of her earlier interest gone, replaced with something considerably colder.
A summons for this. Clothing and presentation and control wearing thoughtfulness like a costume, which was honestly more insulting than anything else he could have done. She had expected better. She was not sure why. She should know better than to expect better.
By the time she reaches his chambers the guards step aside without question, the doors open without hesitation, and she walks through carrying Brinette's memories alongside the quiet certainty that whatever performance he expects from her tonight, he has made a spectacular miscalculation in casting.
Deliciously Unwell
NOX
The dressing chamber is arranged for selection rather than comfort. Gowns line the walls in careful order, silks layered by color and weight as though the act of choosing them matters more than wearing them ever will.
Nox enters without hesitation, Brinette's posture held just well enough to pass. Her attention moves over the dresses first before it finds the man who has arranged them.
Sevrin stands with his back to her, one hand resting against a chair as he studies the garments before him. Strength sits easily on him. When he shifts, the fabric at his shoulders draws slightly, enough to suggest the muscle beneath.
"I know I usually have Yvara model them," he says, as though the thought had already been resolved. "But that is simply not possible."
Nox inclines her head and steps further into the room. Her attention lingers on him briefly before returning to the gowns.
He is attractive in the way men like him often are. Built for command. For possession. For taking what is placed beforethem and assuming it belongs to them. He would be good in bed, maybe.
His fixation is more interesting.
She has seen it before, the way certain men attach themselves to things that do not return what they take. Not because they expect anything in return, but because they do not require it. The repetition is enough. Whatever holds their attention becomes sufficient.
Asharin has become his.
"They are beautiful, Majesty," she says.
"They are insufficient."
Her fingers pass lightly over a sleeve before moving on. Yvara's absence presses at the edges of the room. Noticeable without explanation. She does not ask.
Sevrin lifts a gown slightly, studies the way the fabric falls, sets it aside. "Tomorrow," he says, "I will have a means for them to be tried on. At that point, I expect a decision."
"A decision for what, Majesty?"
He looks at her sharply. "Which dress she will wear upon her return."
The irritation in his expression fades as quickly as it came. "I am not entirely certain whether she will return here," he continues, "or elsewhere. But she will require the correct one."
Elsewhere.
The meaning is immediate. Morrath.
That stops her.
Morrath is not a place one brings someone to be kept. It is not shaped to hold anything gently. What enters it is subject to it in ways that are not easily undone.
Would he actually bring her there?
He might. She understands that now. He is not refining this into something controlled. He is letting it extend as far as it will go.
She finds that interesting.
"Would you like to tell me about the last time you had dinner with her?" Her tone is gentle, the question placed where it will be accepted.
