Page 150 of North Queen
As she said it out loud, it didn’t seem normal at all. “I think so? It was expected when I was to marry in Aleon. The council will require confirmation. I think.”
He drew closer. “Tell your old men if they question our contract, they can come discuss it with me personally.”
Norah couldn’t deny the wave of relief that washed over her. Perhaps the evening might be almost bearable now, but a deep reservation still brewed in her stomach.
The darks of his eyes held a reservation of his own. The line on his jaw tightened and smoothed again. “I don’t expect you to love me, Salara. In fact, I fear the opposite. But I do believe you can have a comfortable life here, and after we have an heir, I won’t… require anything from you, if it’s not what you want.”
An heir. Her stomach turned again. She hadn’t thought of a child, and now she felt extremely foolish. Of course he’d expect an heir, but if she dwelled on that, her courage would leave her.
She turned her attention to the room, trying to redirect her mind from the panic creeping in. It was an expansive space with few furnishings. Centered on the back wall was the largest bed she’d ever seen. Beside it sat a chair and a side table, with a standing mirror nestled in the opposite corner. Despite its size, the room seemed minimal. There were no paintings on the walls, no draperies, no personal oddities or tokens.
All right, then. The sooner they started, the sooner this could all be over. She stepped closer to the ornately carved bed and drew her hand across the black silk cascading over its edge. Must everything be made of shadows? Dark and ominous, the bed threatened to swallow her, drown her in its depths. Her heart raced. She glanced back at Mikael, and he watched her with a hesitation of his own.
He approached her slowly, stiff with restraint, but with a wanton look in his eye. Her breath quickened as she pressed back against the corner column of the bed.
“I won’t take you against your will,” he said.
“Well, I suppose that’s a good start to any marriage,” she replied dryly.
He stepped closer. “Will you allow me, Salara?”
She reminded herself why she was here. This marriage was for Mercia, for her people. She swallowed and gave a reluctant nod.
“Take off your dress,” he said.
Her heart pounded in her chest. “You first,” she countered. Not that there was much—he would pull off the garb around his waist and then watch her strip multiple layers of dress. Still, it made her feel slightly better.
Surprise flashed across his face. He didn’t move. Their eyes locked, unblinking, each waiting for the other to break.
Finally, Mikael relaxed his shoulders, submitting. He reached down and loosened the embroidered belt from around his waist and dropped it to the floor. Slowly he untied his trousers, and she was surprised to see him pull it off as a singular wrap of cloth.
He stood only in short braies now, and she let her eyes roll over his body. Again, she noted the scar across his chest, a stark contrast against the smoothness of his skin.
She stepped closer, close enough to touch him.
He only waited.
Feeling bolder, she reached up and brushed her fingertips over the raised line of the scar. “They say you cut your heart from your chest to make a pact with Darkness.”
The corners of his mouth curved up ever so slightly, watching her. “I haven’t heard that story.”
She raised her eyes back to his. “This pact gave you a demon commander to do your bidding. They say he collects the souls of the fallen.”
“That part is probably true,” he said in rare jest, and she found herself smiling. “Did you believe I was a man without a heart?” he asked. “Before I told you my story?”
“No,” she whispered. She flattened her palm against the scar. “I felt your heart beat in Bahoul.”
It beat now. Fast. Was he nervous? His face didn’t show it. She traced her thumb down the center of his chest, and the depression underneath. His skin was smooth and warm.
“Take everything off,” she told him.
He waited a moment, seeming to contemplate her authority, but then complied. She watched him with an unashamed curiosity—a curiosity he seemed to enjoy. His nakedness captivated her. She drew her hand over his shoulder as she stepped around behind him.
“Why do you mark your skin?” she asked, tracing the inked patterns that ran from his chest, over his upper arms, and to his back.
“It’s my story,” he said.
Behind him, she moved her hand down, her thumb along the trench of his spine. Slowly, softly, she trailed the round of his buttocks. Moving higher now, she lingered briefly at the muscled arc at his side and then drew her hand up around his other shoulder. She followed her touch, stepping back around in front of him, and ran her fingers over his body once more—feeling, testing, exploring. He stood silently for her, letting her discover him.
