She still didn't appreciate his knife skills. Chuckling, he pushed a plate of fruit across the table. “Take that and eat your fill, my fainting lady.”
She dropped into the chair across from him and stabbed a grape, popping it into her mouth. Her eyes tracked the movements of his knife. With a final twist of his wrist, he presented a flower-fruit in the palm of his hand.
Gently, she picked it up between two fingers. “I've wondered – the first time you gave me one of these, had you been thinking about stabbing me?”
His mind went back to his first few days in the palace. “Not exactly. I just wanted you to know that I could use a knife.”
“To stab me with.” The corner of her lips curved.
He could stare at her lips all day. “Maybe I wanted to carve a rose into your skin.”
Anyone else might have been mortified. Her face broke into a grin. “You say the sweetest things.” She bit the fruit in half, ruining his work. The consequences of edible art.
He reached out for another strawberry.
She dropped the fruit. A small dagger slid into her hand, and she tensed. “Don't move.”
Every muscle in his body froze.
The air whispered by his cheek as the dagger flew past his head.
Thud.
Anais frowned at the wall behind him, then shuddered. “I hate spiders.”
His shoulders relaxed. Quirking a brow, he said, “Something our fearless Queen is afraid of? A little insect?”
“I'm not afraid, I just don't like them.”
“Mmhm.” He retrieved her dagger, yanking the blade wedged between stones in the wall. “Well, the poor critter is quite dead. If only it were that easy to take care of all the things you don't like.”
Her eyes darkened as she sheathed the weapon. “Let’s not talk about court. What did you request for dinner?”
He stole a grape from her plate. “You'll find out in a few minutes. So impatient today. We could always skip dinner?”
A playful smile softened her features. While he cut the grape’s delicate skin, her claws trailed down his arm, gently tracing the Consort’s ring, and back up the side of his hand. It was an affectionate, casual motion, something she did every day. Yet the hair on his arm rose, and cold fear chilled his spine. The next second, fear twisted into anger. His grip on the knife tightened. The grape sliced in half.
Anais' claw lifted, hovering over his arm. “Cas? Are you alright?”
“Fine,” he bit out. Of course, he was fine. Why wouldn't he be?
Why couldn't he let go of the knife?
She retracted her hand slowly. “Castien. Look at me.”
His eyes dragged up from the table, traced a path from the tip of a claw to her wrist, further to her elbow, and then her shoulder. Higher. When he finally met her concerned green eyes, he blinked. His hand relaxed. The knife clattered to the table.
“I… must be tired,” he murmured. His headache had returned, just then. “Pushed myself too hard sparring with Darius, I guess.”
The other Escort fought with two blades in a twisting dance meant to confuse his opponent. Darius wasn’t quite as fast as Anais, but he was equally proficient with both hands. It was almost like fighting two people at once.
The other man was careful, though. He never hit too hard. Training wasn't the reason for Castien's headache.
He frowned at the knife. There was no clear reason for his sudden mood changes. Octavius said they were lingering effects. The strangest part was how familiar it felt, like he was peering out of his own body, watching himself act. Watching what was happening to him. Separate but still there.
Shaking his head, he sighed. “I'll speak to Octavius later.” And no more knives for a while.
Anais examined him a little longer, then nodded. “He’ll be free tomorrow morning before the tourney starts. Rest until then. We can have dinner another night.”
