On His Terms
That night, what greeted him upon his return to the bedchamber was the bed still marked with vivid bloodstains.
The moment he saw them in the bright light, something clenched tight beneath his sternum and a chill sank deep into his bones. He wanted to go to her again, to examine the wound—but the face that had begged him to leave her alone rose in his mind, and his feet would not move.
How long he stood staring down at the cold, empty bed, caught between one impulse and another, he could not have said. Then, abruptly, the urge to smash something seized him.
Everything grated. The woman who swung him about at her whim. Himself, for letting her. And the body that still would not quiet, gripped by a heat he could not master.
Barcas clenched his teeth. She had always cornered him with rash, reckless acts. That night had been nothing more than the same pattern continued. He told himself so, yet his nerves remained drawn taut as wire and refused to settle.
They had only just drawn near the castle gates when Daren, who had followed in silence, suddenly spoke.
“What of the remaining schedule, Your Grace?”
Roused from his thoughts, Barcas looked up at the sun tilting over the battlements and frowned. By rights he ought to have been attending the assembly hosted by the noble league. The principal business would already be finished, however. Appearing late would only waste the hours on empty posturing.
He reached his decision at once and swung the horse about.
“We return for the day.”
Then he swung lightly into the saddle and put spurs to the mount.
By the time he reached the castle, the sky had already begun to take on a faint violet cast. Raising his head, Barcas saw thin clouds gathering from the east and narrowed his eyes. Rain might come again. If it did, every trace the wolves had left would be washed clean, and the hunt would grow far more difficult.
Lately nothing seems to go right.
He gave a short, bitter smile, dropped lightly from Torc’s back, and climbed the steps.
The moment he entered the main keep, servants waiting near the doors stripped away the breastplate and cloak that still wrapped him. He dismissed their fussy hands with a brief gesture and strode straight across the wide hall. Then the figure of a quarter-dwarf woman descending the stairs with an armful of clothing caught his eye. She froze the instant she saw him. Barcas walked up to her without ceremony and asked,
“How was Her Highness today?”
The woman’s shoulders gave a little jump; then the words poured out.
“In the afternoon she took a little fruit and some mead, and at supper a few spoonfuls of oat porridge with herbs. For a snack she had that fermented goat’s-milk drink as well. Her stomach does seem better than before—she’s eating a bit more. All thanks to Your Grace looking after her so carefully.”
Barcas listened to the long stream of talk without interruption, then asked in a careful voice,
“And her spirits?”
“Her spirits…”
A troubled look crossed the woman’s face. Barcas twisted his mouth as his gaze fell on the bundle in her arms. Bright scraps of fabric, torn to ribbons, lay rolled together. Clearly his wife’s temper had soured and she had taken it out on her clothes.
“I need not hear the answer.”
“Oh, the young lady is only a little sensitive, that’s all. Still, today she seemed to have made up her mind and—”
The woman, hastily defending her mistress, suddenly closed her mouth and dropped her eyes in awkward silence. Barcas waited a moment for the rest; when it became plain she had no intention of finishing, he let out a quiet breath and walked on.
At the door of his own chambers on the second floor, sunset light poured through the tall windows and lay in long bars across the marble. His gaze drifted toward the stairs that climbed to the third floor. For an instant the thought of going to her himself, of seeing how she fared, flickered through him—then he put it aside. She would only turn him away at the threshold. Since that night she had kept her door barred and refused him with stubborn finality.
He rubbed the stiff muscles at the back of his neck and turned again toward his own rooms.
Then a dense fragrance brushed his senses and his body went rigid. A strange current raced up his spine. Before he quite knew what he was doing, his hand had closed on the latch and wrenched the door open.
“You came back earlier than I expected.”
The cool, clear voice met him the moment he stepped inside. His eyes went at once to the bed. A woman in a thin dress of deep blue sat upon the white sheets, her long skirts spilled around her in soft folds. She set aside the book that had rested on her knees and continued as if nothing were amiss.
“I heard you’ve been buried in official business, so I thought you wouldn’t return until the middle of the night.”
“……And that is why you are here?”
Almost by instinct he shut the door behind him and set the latch.
“Did you think I wouldn’t be?”
“If I hadn’t wanted to see you, why would I sit waiting in an empty room? What I meant was… I expected to wait a good deal longer.”
She spoke while lightly worrying her painted lower lip between her teeth. He saw at once that the nonchalance was only a surface; underneath she was wound tight with tension. He folded his arms across his chest.
The heavy scent that filled the chamber seeped into his lungs and set his already raw nerves on a still finer edge. He forced his scattered thoughts into order and watched her warily.
“You waited for me?”
“I already said so.”
She snapped the words out, then wet her dry lips. His gaze lingered there a moment before he looked away toward the window. Heat was climbing through him; his lower belly had gone hard and tight. Irritated by the restless stallion he felt himself becoming, he answered more sharply than he intended.
“Why?”
The note of accusation slipped out unbidden. He stepped forward until he stood over the bed and looked down at her with deliberate weight.
“You have been avoiding me quite openly these past few days.”
“That was… I only needed time.”
Unease flickered across her deep-blue eyes. A faint flush rose on her pale cheeks and the white column of her throat; her scent grew denser still. He closed his damp fingers into fists and pressed harder.
“Time for what?”
She clutched at her skirts with restless hands.
“Time to recover…”
The words came out strained, almost wrung from her, and in an instant his aggression eased. Barcas bent toward her, his face grave.
“That night there were bloodstains left on the bedding. Was the wound serious?”
“No. It’s all right. I was told it’s a natural thing.”
Relief lasted only a breath; the next words froze him again.
“The wound has healed completely. There’s no reason we can’t share a bed.”
For a moment he could only look down at her face, wordless. She went on in the same flat tone.
“If we’re to make a child, we have to do it regularly. The nanny says… as often as possible is best.”
Barcas’s eyes went blank; then a dry laugh escaped him. So this woman meant to use him purely as a breeding stallion.
He picked up the robe that lay beside the bed and tossed it across her body.
“I’m sorry, but the prospect holds little appeal. Leave my rooms.”
“I already told you—you have no right of refusal.”
She sat up straight and fixed him with a cutting look.
“This is a duty. Something that must be done whether one likes it or not.”
His eyes narrowed. In his mind he knew she was right. Leaving an heir was unquestionably his responsibility. The reason he had never demanded her bed, knowing that, was that he understood how deeply she dreaded a man’s touch. With Lucas as an alternative, there had been no need to force unnecessary strain upon her body.
But if she herself demanded it, the matter changed. Had he not, in some private corner of himself, hoped that one day this woman might come to accept him? If she reached out first, he had no grounds to refuse.
Then why this sharp resistance?
“You’ll do as I say, won’t you?”
Thalia pressed him in a tone as arrogant as any queen’s. Yet fear she could not quite hide still glimmered in her eyes.
He answered almost on impulse.
“If that is what you want.”
Shame and relief crossed her face together. Looking down at the play of those emotions, Barcas added in a voice that left no room for argument,
“But this time, we do it my way.”