The Pretense of the First Night
Barcas paused on the carriage step, his eyes narrowed as he studied her with cool deliberation. A faint crease formed between his brows.
Before she could guess the reason, he stepped fully into the carriage, retrieved the cloak from the floor, and draped it over her shoulders. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he moved to lift her into his arms.
Thalia recoiled, shoving hard at his shoulders. “I can walk on my own!”
The medicine had worn off; pain was already creeping back into her knees, yet she knew a short walk would not be impossible. She flung the cumbersome cloak aside and carefully lowered her feet, mindful of keeping the scars hidden.
A firm hand caught her shoulder. “You intend to go out dressed like that?”
The words landed like a hammer. Thalia shrank into herself and glanced down at her gown. While she slept, the laces had loosened; her thin shoulders and arms were bare, and the deep neckline had slipped far enough to reveal the valley between her breasts.
Heat flooded her face. She yanked the bodice upward in frantic haste.
Barcas watched in silence, then exhaled a quiet sigh and settled his own coat over her shoulders once more. This time she did not refuse.
Once he had fastened the collar snugly to her throat, he lifted her with effortless ease and carried her outside. She felt like a doll neatly wrapped for transport.
No. Not something so endearing. He was merely extending pity to a cripple who could not even walk properly.
Thalia drove the cruel thought into her own heart like a blade. Better to gouge the wound herself than let him steal every last fragment of it; the pain would be less later.
“Your Grace, what shall we do with the messenger from the east?”
They had nearly reached the threshold when one of the men lined up near the entrance spoke. Through the gap in the cloak, Thalia glimpsed his face—a broad, bear-like frame and sharp, hawkish eyes that flicked toward her as well.
“Must I instruct you on every trivial matter?” Barcas replied coldly, tugging the cloak higher until it covered the crown of her head. “Find him suitable quarters and assign someone to attend him. I will see him at first light tomorrow.”
He did not wait for an answer before striding into the building.
As Barcas crossed the wide hall and climbed the stairs, Thalia pieced together the fragments of information she had gathered. Many feared this marriage would fracture the relationship between the crown prince and the Sihekan family. Senebier had likely kept him occupied throughout the wedding preparations, smoothing over the damage. He would have had to soothe the furious Garese, reassure the conservative nobles led by Marquis Oristein that he had not turned against them. Yet despite those efforts, people still could not accept the sudden change of bride. In a way, it was understandable. Even she herself wondered whether the entire situation was some malicious prank.
“I will summon someone to attend you,” Barcas said once they were inside the room, setting her down on a long velvet chaise.
Thalia glanced around the comfortably appointed bedchamber before returning her gaze to him. He was already unfastening the buttons of his formal coat with one hand while pulling the bell cord beside the bed to summon a servant. The sight made her stomach clench.
“I don’t need anyone to attend me!” she cried, her voice shrill.
Barcas looked over his shoulder, brows drawing together. Thalia dropped her eyes to avoid his stare.
“Call my nanny instead.”
“It is late. I will bring her at dawn tomorrow. Endure for one night.”
She shot him a fierce glare. “I won’t let anyone else attend me except my nanny. You dragged me out here on your own, so take responsibility and fetch her!”
His blue eyes chilled. Thalia clenched her fists until her knuckles ached. She had already allotted herself a single day’s worth of patience with this man; perhaps he would simply grow disgusted and leave. Yet it seemed he still had some patience left to spend. He walked to the door, summoned a servant, and gave the order.
“Send someone to the detached palace at once and bring back the quarter-dwarf. The fastest runner you have.”
“Now, Your Grace?”
“Yes. Immediately.”
Barcas closed the door on the servant’s startled face and turned a sharp, expectant gaze on her. Thalia looked away. He let out a long breath, retrieved a robe from the shelf, and held it out to her.
“Wear this until your attendant arrives.”
She took it at once, slipped it over her dress, and demanded in a voice that kept breaking, “You can leave now. I want to be alone until my nanny comes.”
“This is also my room.”
The words struck like a blow. The room spun; cold sweat dampened her palms. She clutched the front of the robe tightly and wet her dry lips.
“Then… then I’ll leave. Show me to another room.”
“Your Highness.”
His hand settled on her shoulder. When she managed to lift her head, she met his blue eyes shadowed beneath lowered lashes.
“You are the one who agreed to this marriage.”
She stared up at his impassive face, eyes wide. So she was supposed to stay here? With him?
Fear twisted her stomach into a knot. She looked down at her throbbing knees. The memory of Senebier’s gaze surfaced—those dark eyes regarding her scars as though they were something repulsive—then shifted into Barcas’s silver-blue irises. Words tumbled out before she could stop them.
“Then… then I’ll call it off. How can I share a room with you? I only married you to torment you. You only married me because the emperor ordered it. You don’t want to be with me either. So let’s just pretend none of this ever happened—”
“Thalia.”
He knelt before her, cupping her cheeks and drawing her face close. She was trapped, forced to meet his eyes. Her pale, sweat-dampened reflection stared back from those beautiful irises scattered with silver flecks. His voice came out rough, as though scraped raw.
“I will not touch you.”
“……”
“Only tonight. I bribed the priest in advance, but I cannot silence every servant’s tongue. At the very least, we must share the same chamber on our wedding night.”
His calm steadied the frantic pounding of her heart. Thalia bit her lip and nodded.
Once he was certain she had calmed, Barcas rose slowly. She watched his movements with wary eyes that had not yet lost their tension. He shrugged off his rain-dampened coat, leaving only the thin shirt, and sank into the chair by the window. The usually immaculate, solid frame now sagged with fatigue. A heavy sigh filled the room.
Soon servants arrived with trays of food and drink. Thalia mechanically forced down a single piece of bread, then drank a glass of strong spirits instead of the sleeping draught. The alcohol loosened her stiff muscles and dulled the pain. She poured herself another glass from the golden goblet.
After several more, Barcas, who had been watching her in silence, took the bottle away.
“That is enough.”
Thalia lurched up from the chair to reclaim the wine. Her already weakened legs had turned to water under the liquor’s influence. She swayed like a boneless thing. Barcas caught her collapsing body and laid her straight on the bed.
Even half-lost to drink, Thalia’s first instinct was to check the hem of her skirt. Barcas looked down at her with shadowed eyes, drew the blanket up over her shoulders, then walked to the window and pulled the curtains aside.
The sunset, deepening from crimson to violet, flooded over him. She watched the strong line of his shoulders turn copper-red in the dying light and blinked slowly. Even bathed in that fiery glow, he looked unbearably cold.