“Thank you,” she said, eyes back on Malcolm. “I shall need a sheath,” she added.
“I have it here for you,” he replied, such tenderness in his gaze that she could barely breathe again.
It’s all to do with him readying himself to choose a mate, she thought.He’s doing all of this because he needs me too much and it scares him to think I might leave him.
It was an ungenerous thought, and she looked away from him at the shame of it, but she still could not help but wonder if there might not be some truth to it. Was she not staying because the thought of letting him go burned like a thousand needles stuck in her hearts? In truth, could it be that it was the thought of no longer being needed that burned? Was she accepting all that he was offering her for her own sake, or for his?
Then she thought of him as a youngling. They had been no older than fifteen or twenty. He had been shorter than her back then by almost a head and had been teased about it relentlessly, but she had never faltered in telling him that one day he would stand taller than all other dragons and when he got old enough to shift, he would swim deeper than all of them put together.
It had appeased him because she had meant every word, a trust between them that had been infinite. And it still was.
She was staying because this was her home, and her place in this world was beside him.
What of his queen?
The question was perilous.
She stepped out of his embrace again without asking it.
Chapter 5 - Malcolm
He had asked Iona to come back to his rooms, once the seamstress had been to stitch her into one of his mother’s dresses. Iona had protested, of course.
“The king,” she had said, eyes round with worry.
“He won’t mind,” Malcolm had replied. “Chances are he won’t even notice it’s one of my mother’s. Her gowns should be worn. She would want it so.”
And she would. He knew that she would. Who better to wear a dress of hers than the woman she had always thought of as a daughter?
Malcolm frowned lightly at the thought. He had never thought of Iona as a sister. Had he? No. He had not. And holding her earlier he had felt… different.
As though she was a piece that had fitted itself into a space he had not before thought of as empty.
Now, hands that weren’t Iona’s were putting him in the outfit that she had chosen for him. Hands that weren’t Iona’s had washed him beforehand. Hands that weren’t Iona’s had brought him his afternoon tray with teas and fruit.
It was strange to think that this part of their interactions would disappear for good and sooner than either of them had been able to prepare themselves for.
Part of him wanted to ask her to continue waking him in the morning and saying goodnight before he went to sleep, but of course that was out of the question.
He had been pleased that she had been so taken with the sword. It was long overdue that it rested on her hip. Women were allowed to bear arms in their kingdom, and it would not cause many eyebrows raised, though perhaps if people heard he had gifted it to her it would. What mattered was that she was not without a means to defend herself, should she find herself in need of it in the coming days.
Perhaps it was foolish to single her out now, of all weeks of the year.
Perhaps he should tell her they should wait until the tournament, and all the drama it promised to bring with it, was over and done with.
There was a knock at his door.
“Enter,” he called, turning to watch her as she stepped through it, wearing a dress so dark blue it looked like it had been scooped out of the very depths of the ocean. With it she wore a tentative smile and he concluded immediately that it suited her. She so seldom looked hesitant about anything, and it matched the sensation she produced within him perfectly. “Good,” was all he offered, reaching for his cloak. “Help me with this,” he added.
It was less a command than a request, but she still glared at him, lifting her heavy skirts to come stand behind him to fix the cloak to his shoulders.
“’Good’,” she muttered, making him smile broadly.
The truth was her hair had been combed until it shone and braided into a beautiful pattern that hung down her back. She had no jewels adorning her, but he liked her better for it. She didn’t need them. The dress had an elegant neckline, showing off her slender shoulders, tucking at the waist before flowing into a full skirt. It was made of the finest silk that seemed to hush everyone around as it swept across the floor, rustling as she shifted slightly, hands busy with her task.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“As though I shall be sick,” she replied. “This is not a good idea, Mal. I have nothing to speak to these people about.”
