over his taste buds. “It’s floral. Sweet, with the slightest edge of bitterness.”
“Keep your eyes closed,” she said as he started to open them, and he should have ignored her. He didn’t. “Take another sip, hold it in your mouth. What else do you taste?”
He followed her instructions, then swallowed. “Honey. Cinnamon.”
With his eyes closed, the warmth of his wife was more apparent, too. She was pressed up against him on one side, from knee to shoulder, and he could feel both the softness of her curves and the flex of muscle beneath them. He inhaled deeply, and the scent that had surrounded him every night he visited filled his lungs. Rose petal and tea tree oil and something else that was just her, he supposed; like the tea, his wife’s accent notes were sweet with an edge of bitter.
He’d thought sitting beside her was enough for him, until he’d had the scent of her on the pads of his fingers. Now it was all he could think of, with the desire to know what she’d taste like a close second.
“Do you find the warmth of the tea pleasing?” Her voice was low, soothing, and pulled his mind away from his illicit thoughts.
“Yes,” he said, his voice rough, then blinked his eyes open when he felt her shift away from him on the couch to give him space to get comfortable. She’d moved for a reason—not because he’d tried to move her, but because his legs had spread as his tense muscles loosened. It seemed she didn’t respond to intimidation but would gladly allow him the room he needed if he didn’t push.
He wasn’t entirely calm—he never was—but he felt . . . better.
“This tea is good,” he said, looking at the cup with a furrowed brow. “You don’t have more?”
“No. Apparently every time my parents send a package of their special blend, it’s turned back by customs for one reason or another.”
“I’ll look into that,” he said. “Thank you for sharing the last of it with me.”
“I’m happy to share almost anything with my husband.”
“Almost?” He remembered the passion on her face as she’d ridden his hand, and his state of relaxation began to give way to desire.
She ignored his question. “Since we’re here to discuss politics, we can go over the two questions I heard you were asked.”
His neck tensed but he didn’t full-body recoil from the reminder of his error. He sipped his tea and washed down his discomfort with its warmth.
“The first woman asked two things,” Shanti said. “‘How can you speak of glory to our kingdom when jobs have dried up, businesses have fled, and doctors are so scarce that we wait months for treatment?’ and ‘How can women and other marginalized groups feel like full citizens when we have no voice in this kingdom?’”
She wrote the questions down as she repeated them, then drew a line beneath each one with brisk flips of her wrist—she was left-handed. He hadn’t paid attention to that before.
“Okay, what’s your answer to the first question?” She held his gaze, but there was no judgment in her eyes. He settled more deeply into the seat. “And why didn’t you give it to her when she asked?”
“Because a citizen shouldn’t demand a response from their king in that way. She could have written a letter, sent an email—”
She raised her brows. “You answer letters and emails from citizens?”
“Someone does.”
“She didn’t want answers from someone. She wanted answers from her king. This is an absolute monarchy, Sanyu. When people are unhappy, they will look to you because you are the only one who can change that.”
“I know.” He put the teacup down on the table and ran his palms over his beard. “Trust me, I know.”
He gazed at the cup in front of him. At the stream of liquid as Shanti refilled it without pushing him to say more.
“I don’t like public speaking,” he muttered as he picked up his cup. “Before these events, I memorize a speech written by the council. I don’t think about what I’m saying, I just want to get it over with.”
Shanti blinked a few times.
“I assume you have thoughts on these matters when you’re not onstage?” she asked carefully.
“Of course, but . . .” He couldn’t tell her the truth—that he was ill-equipped for the job. “The king reads the speech provided by the council. That is how things are done here.”
“Says who?” Her voice was light, but he knew what she was doing.
“Tradition,” he