dryly, dripping with disinterest.
Erida would be lying if she said she had not considered such a thing, especially in recent days. Konegin
had his uses, but they were steadily becoming outweighed by his dangers.
“If only life were that simple,” she said, picking at her sheer skirt. Perhaps if I do away with clothing all
together, I might stir him to action and get this over with. Then another thought seized her, and she
snapped up her head, eyes wide as she looked over her consort. “By the gods, are you chaste,
Taristan?”
His responding smile was crooked, drawn up to show a single, deep dimple in his cheek. Somehow, the
scratches down his face complemented the grin. Those flat black eyes sparked, and Erida fought the
urge to break his stare.
“Hardly,” he said, a hand straying to the gold clasps of his doublet. “But aren’t you? Isn’t that one of your
rules?” He cast a hand around the room, using the other to unfasten the fabric at his throat. Pale skin
showed beneath.
Finally, Erida thought, gritting her teeth. She wasn’t sure which was more frustrating—her obtuse
husband or the rising thud of her own heartbeat.
“Some rules are less important than others, and easier to break, if you know how,” she said
dismissively. The Queen of Galland was only bound by what the court saw, and it was easier to hide
dalliances than a fever or cold, with both men and women. “So get on with it, then.”
His doublet hung open, revealing his own underclothes. The neck of his shirt was unlaced, strings
hanging. The planes of his bare chest stood out, sculpted like a maiden’s dream, well formed by the
years. But the smooth skin was scarred in a way Erida had never seen, white lines tracing over his
collarbone. As her eyes followed their paths, she realized they were his veins, standing out like roots or
branching lightning. He closed the distance between them as she looked, her blue eyes wide and
consuming. Is his whole body like this? She wondered. Is this the price the Spindles demand?
“Is this what you want, Erida of Galland?”
Suddenly he stood over her, glaring down, a lock of dark red hair falling over his forehead. She reached
up to remove his doublet, fingers grasping at his collar, but he seized her by both wrists. His skin seared
against her own, though his grip was gentle as he pulled her hands away.
“Get on with it,” she said again, a whisper this time. A plea as much as a command.
He leaned forward, coming closer. Erida could smell the tang of smoke on his skin, the new embers of
flame.
Then he dropped her wrists. “Not like this.”
She didn’t move when he reached behind her, swiping pillows and blankets to the floor. Silk and fine
linens peeled away, spilling off the bed at haphazard angles. He even shifted the mattress for good
measure, forcing her to jump to her feet.
“What are you doing?” Erida demanded, looking between him and the ruined bed.
He didn’t answer and assessed the blankets. After a long moment, he nodded, satisfied. Then he
rounded on the Queen, his focus unbroken, his eyes combing over her hair. His fingers soon followed,
loosing her braids, mussing the ash-brown curls until they fell in errant waves, unkempt and out of place.
Erida stared at him through it all, speechless, furious. She wanted to slap him away. She wanted to pull
him closer, the heat of his fingers a threat and a promise. Taristan kept his lips pursed, his breathing
even, his eyes far from her own as he worked. And, finally, he tugged at the shift, lowering one side of
the collar, until a white shoulder peeked through, spotted with three small freckles few men had ever
seen.
Before she could even flinch, he drew a dagger and cut at his own palm, using the hand to smear a line
of blood across the white sheets.
Only when he stepped back, putting a full six feet between them, did he raise his eyes. His palm healed
before her eyes, the flesh knitting back together as he wiped the blood away. He scrubbed his other
hand through his hair, setting it at ends like her own. Erida glared at him with all the rage and indignation
she could muster, her anger volcanic. A tinge of pink spotted high on his cheeks, the only change in his
stoic face.
“I’ll send word when Ronin gets his bearings,” Taristan said, bending into a
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