Chapter 7: Dinner for Two

He came to her door at eight with his own coat off and his sleeves rolled to the elbow.

Two footmen followed him with covered dishes, set them on the little round table in her sitting room, and fled.

Alaric closed the door behind them and turned the key.

Lysandra stood by the fire in the red dress she had chosen out of spite.

"You told the Crown Prince," she said, "in front of the servants, that you were going to take my dress off."

"Yes," he said.

"You might have asked."

"I wanted to see what you would do instead."

He crossed the room and stopped at arm's length.

"Well, Lysandra?"

She had spent the whole afternoon deciding exactly what to say to this.

Every word had gone.

He was too tall and too warm, and his eyes were on her mouth, and under her ribs her whole body was tilting toward him.

She knew the end of the book.

She knew what he would do to a country, and why, and how many people would burn.

And she knew that she wanted him so badly her teeth ached.

"I was only checking your temperature," she said, and her voice shook.

His mouth curved.

"Say it again, wife," he said.

"I want you to."

"Louder."

"I want you to take it off," Lysandra said. "And I want you to fuck me. I've wanted it since the library. I'm furious about it."

For one second he didn't move.

Then he took her face in both hands and kissed her, and there was no more talking.

It was hard, and deep, and he tasted of smoke and wine.

She dragged at his shirt.

He walked her backward until the edge of the table met the backs of her thighs, and swept the plates aside with one arm.

Silver rang on the floor.

"Dresses are a waste of my patience," he said against her ear.

The silk tore at the back.

He peeled it off her shoulders and down her arms, and left her standing in her shift in the firelight, and looked.

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