to dirt, dust, mud, or any variant.”
His brows rose. “You don’t look like a farm girl. You look—”
Shanti held up a hand, knowing what he was going to say. She looked high-maintenance—which was apparently a bad thing since it was a visual manifestation of the fact that a woman had standards. She knew what random people thought of her and didn’t need to hear it from the husband who’d avoided her for months. “As you can see, I’m well. I’ll return to work tomorrow. Is that the only reason you blessed my chambers with an inaugural visit, Husband?”
He shook his head. “I’m here about the goat stew.”
She blinked at him. “Goat stew?”
He crossed his arms over his chest as if annoyed and Shanti had to work to keep her expression serene. Did he expect her to whip up a late-night snack?
“I’ve received a recipe request for the stew you made during the von Braustein and Jerami visit.” He blinked a couple of times too many as he held her gaze.
“I thought you found it inedible,” she said before she could stop herself. Forget honey—this was an insult too many, so vinegar it was.
She’d lived through many humiliations, but having the taste tester spit out her food and a stranger defend her instead of her husband had left a bruise that flared with pain at the slightest poke. Worse, she’d seen how Prince Johan had looked at Nya as she’d defended Shanti, his eyes full of admiration. Her own husband had kept his eyes trained away from her as she’d fled the table. And now he had the nerve to ask for the recipe?
“That was the royal taste tester. I never got the chance to try it,” Sanyu reminded her, as if that made things better. “However, our guests did. They enjoyed your meal and would like the recipe.”
He held her gaze in challenge.
“Nya knows the recipe,” she said. “It’s a staple of Thesoloian cuisine.”
Sanyu’s mouth twitched. “It’s for von Braustein. Surprise dinner, something something.” He looked down and ran a hand over the close-cropped hair at the nape of his neck.
It clicked for Shanti then, why he’d visited—he hadn’t suddenly been concerned about her. He was here to get a recipe for a man who cared enough about his partner to do something nice for her. She wasn’t much for romance, so the sudden brutal sting of the realization surprised her.
She swallowed another sharp reply, stood, and grabbed a pen and notepad from her desk. When she returned, she began to write the recipe, her jabs of the pen leaving a deep impression on the pages beneath the top sheet.
Sanyu’s gaze had returned to rest on her after its trot of shame, but he said nothing, making her even more angry even though she should’ve been using this time alone to win him over. Instead, she wanted him and the turbulent emotions his sudden appearance had churned within her far away—where he usually was.
She ripped the sheet of paper from the pad and held it out to him with a calm, “There you go. I’m honored they enjoyed my meal and hope they have success with the recipe. Now, if that was all you needed—”
“We should talk about what happened at the meeting,” he said as he snatched the paper from between her fingers.
Ah, here it comes.
She modulated her voice to the cool, formal tone she generally used in the palace and dropped her gaze. “Please forgive my rudeness to Musoke and the council, Husband,” she said.
Fuck Musoke and the council, she thought. And you, too, Husband.
“Shanti.” She looked up from his thick fingers to his face and her breath caught. His expression was unreadable but intense, as it had been when she’d first locked gazes with him—it could precede kicking her out of the palace or dropping between her knees and telling her to spread her thighs. Why did she still wish it were the latter, even though she wanted nothing more than for him to leave?
“Your response was understandable. Musoke’s insult went too far,” he said, then added, “I’m surprised you haven’t already stabbed him in the arm with a utensil during a royal dinner, to be honest.”
“I’ve considered it, but the man’s so determined to spite me that he’d mock me for not aiming for his jugular,” she said.
Her breath caught—one ounce of familiarity from her husband, and she’d let her thoughts flow freely. What if this was a test? What if Musoke waited at the door,