92
The damp scent of wash water and the biting sting of peppermint filled her lungs.
Talia looked up at him, her eyes trembling. Leaning over her, Varkas let his voice drop low into her ear.
“If Your Highness makes such a scene, there was no point in sharing a room.”
His reprimand snapped her back to her senses. She slapped his hand away and recoiled.
With the distance restored, his gleaming, sculpted physique came into full view.
Talia hastily cast her gaze down.
“Put some clothes on! Have you no shame?”
When she spat the words in a harsh whisper, a slight crease formed between his brows.
Shaking his head as if weary of her, Varkas straightened and spoke without emotion.
“Rich words from someone who used to parade through the Imperial Palace half-naked every chance she got.”
“When did I ever…!”
Talia snapped her head up in outrage, but the words died in her throat as she saw him pulling on a clean shirt. Slipping his arms through the sleeves, Varkas gave a barbed remark.
“From the moment your coming-of-age drew near, you made a clumsy habit of imitating the Empress.”
Talia’s face twisted in mortification.
As memories of those days surfaced—when she had clawed desperately for even a shred of his notice—a wave of bitter grief surged within her.
She snatched the pillow from the headboard and swung it into his back with all her strength.
“Well, now that I have a body that couldn't dream of wearing such clothes, you must be thoroughly pleased!”
Varkas, who was doing up his buttons, turned his head to look back at her with cold eyes.
Talia, chest heaving with fury, froze. Ever since the carriage accident, Varkas had silently tolerated every tantrum she threw. Yet now, it seemed his patience had finally run out.
With a ruthless glare, he climbed onto the bed. Talia shrank toward the far side almost by instinct. She scrambled to flee, but a hard forearm locked around her waist.
Pinned down again in an instant, Talia stared up at him, her gaze rigid.
He had always been a man to subdue her by sheer physical force whenever she lost control and ran wild. His rough handling was nothing new, yet her heart sank all the same.
Varkas lowered his face close, his voice laced with warning.
“You would do well to cure yourself of that habit of raising your hands.”
Talia peered up at him, fear flickering in her eyes. His flat, unreadable gaze drifted down to her lips, raw and stinging from where she had gnawed on them. He added slowly,
“And the habit of mutilating yourself.”
Her faltering heart began to hammer as though it might burst.
She could not tell if it was terror or something else entirely.
Talia squeezed her eyes shut.
“G-get off me.”
· · ·
“Didn’t you hear me? Move!”
Varkas did not budge. Under his unblinking stare, her throat went dry.
She drew her lips, crusty with dried blood, into her mouth. Watching her with narrowed eyes, Varkas released the grip pinning her wrist. But before she could use her free hand, he caught her by the chin.
Talia sucked in a sharp breath. His calloused fingers pryed her tucked lips free. A damp thumb stroked across the swollen flesh.
“Stop tormenting your lips.”
Talia looked up at him, her eyes clouded with equal parts dread and confusion.
If anyone else had touched her like this, she would have assumed it was an overture. During the years she frequented Empress Senevier’s banquets, had she not fended off countless men itching to lay a hand on her?
Yet his detached face, devoid of even a sliver of lust, threw her into disarray. It felt as though this contact, which made her heart twist in agony, meant absolutely nothing to him.
Talia let out a ragged breath.
“I-I understand, so… let go.”
At her pleading tone, his eyes, flecked with shards of silver, lifted to meet hers. It felt as if those bottomless pupils were stripping away what little reason she had left.
Out of habit, Talia flicked out the tip of her tongue to wet her dry lips. The moment it brushed against his thumb, heat flooded her face. Varkas was studying her every reaction, as though testing whether she truly loathed his touch.
Feeling as though the inside of her mind were being laid bare, cold sweat beaded on her forehead. Unable to endure the silence a moment longer, Talia blurted out in desperation,
“M-my legs hurt.”
Varkas paused.
She jerked her face away, repeating in a strained voice,
“I woke up because they hurt. C-call the healer.”
Only then did he finally draw back.
Talia scrambled into the corner of the bed like a creature loosed from a snare. Varkas watched her with guarded eyes before turning away with a brief sigh.
“I already procured medicine beforehand.”
“I don’t want medicine. Sleeping draft works a hundred times better. If you just call my healer, she’ll handle it…”
At her sullen protest, another chilling glare flew her way. Talia’s voice trailed off, and she yanked the blanket up to her chin.
Varkas picked up a glass vial from the shelf, uncapped it, and held it out. After glaring at it as if it were a sworn enemy, Talia reluctantly took the vial. It was the same medicine she had secretly tipped into the flowerpots ever since she arrived in the East, having been forced to swallow it down only that first day.
Screwing her eyes shut, she forced down the liquid, so bitter it felt as though it were scalding her tongue.
He took the empty vial naturally, then eased her back down onto the bed. His clinical efficiency, treating her no differently than a ten-year-old child, only knotted her thoughts further.
What had that touch just now meant? Was he trying to frighten her? Or…
“Sleep now. You need your rest to endure tomorrow’s march.”
Her spinning thoughts were cut short by his hand smoothing the blanket over her.
Talia watched him as though keeping vigil over a viper that might strike at any second.
Whether he noticed her vigilance or not, Varkas dimmed the lamp and walked to the far corner of the tent. Taking a seat at the table, he opened a thick ledger and appeared to immerse himself in the estate’s financial records.
Talia watched his still, mechanical silhouette with bated breath, wondering when he would come lie beside her. But even as the night deepened, he never rose from the desk.
In the end, it was she who surrendered to exhaustion.
Having slipped into an unwitting stupor, Talia awoke the next morning to find the tent empty. The agonizing dread she had felt all night about sharing a bed with him seemed utterly foolish now.
Surveying the dim tent washed in early dawn through bleary eyes, Talia let out a hollow breath.
He had told her from the beginning that nothing would happen. Why had she worked herself into such a state?
“My Lady, are you awake?”
Just as she was running a hand over the empty space beside her, checking for any lingering trace of him, Nanny’s voice called out from beyond the tent flap.
Talia stepped down from the bed, her legs unsteady.
“I’m awake.”
A moment later, Nanny bustled inside, expertly balancing a wide tray atop her head.
“Did you sleep well, My Lady?”
She looked unusually spirited. With a wide smile on her lips, Nanny chattered away as she set down the tray laden with food.
“I’ve brought breakfast. I think this will suit your palate, My Lady. The steward here prepared quite a lavish feast last night, and every bite of it was wonderful.”
Talia grimaced as she looked down at the gilt bowls. They were heaped with multi-grain porridge, coarse white bread, pungent cheese, and thick jam. The mere sight of it turned her stomach.
“Take it away. Just bring me some mead.”
“You mustn't. The Grand Duke gave me a stern talking-to, saying I must see you finish your meals properly. Do you want to see me punished by His Grace?”
Talia, who had picked up a piece of bread to inspect it for flies, cast a suspicious glance at her.
Nanny was someone who stubbornly believed that, deep down in some hidden corner of his heart, the Emperor held affection for his illegitimate daughter. No doubt she was reading far too much into an offhand remark this time as well.
Talia asked dryly,
“And just where did that Grand Duke run off to so early in the morning?”
END