028 - The Torture

028 - The Torture
|||YASMIN|||

Zeirik left for the meeting after I'd made sure there was no scenario where he would punch the crown prince and leave our plans in the dust. When he returned almost thirty minutes later, I was too tense to ask so I opted to arrange our daily lessons and organize them. 

"We should start," I said, turning from the window to find Zeirik already sprawled in one of the chairs, his long legs stretched out before him like he owned the entire room. Which, I supposed, he did.

"Start what? The torture?" He grinned, that infuriating crooked smile that made something flutter traitorously in my chest.

"Your education," I corrected, moving to the small writing desk where I'd laid out parchment and ink. "If you're going to survive court, you need to learn the basics."

"Basics." He said the word like it tasted foul. "Like what? Which fork to use?"

"Among other things." I picked up the parchment where I'd written a preliminary list. "Forms of address, proper greetings, how to navigate conversation without revealing ignorance or causing offense."

He groaned, letting his head fall back against the chair. "This sounds worse than battle drills."

"It's not that different, actually. Both require strategy, reading your opponent, knowing when to strike and when to retreat." I moved to stand in front of him, arms crossed. "The only difference is the weapons are words instead of swords."

That got his attention. His mismatched eyes—one blue, one green—fixed on me with sudden interest. "When you put it like that, it almost sounds tolerable."

"Almost?"

"I reserve judgment until you actually start the torture."

Despite myself, I felt my lips quirk. How could he do that? Make me want to smile when I'd spent the past few days drowning in pain and anger? It was disconcerting, this ease he seemed to carry, so different from Cassien's careful control.

How could they be brothers?

The thought struck me suddenly, unbidden. Cassien had always been measured, calculating every word and gesture for maximum effect. Even his laughter had felt rehearsed, performed for whatever audience he needed to charm. But Zeirik—Zeirik just was. Crude and direct and somehow more genuine in his mockery than Cassien had ever been in his declarations of love.

I pushed the comparison away. "Let's begin with forms of address. The nobility here have specific titles that must be used in specific contexts."

"Can't I just call everyone by their names?" He sat up straighter, though the irreverent glint never left his eyes.

"Absolutely not. Lord Aldric will be 'Lord Aldric' until he explicitly gives you permission to be informal, which he likely never will because he's a pretentious bastard who enjoys the power imbalance."

Zeirik's eyebrows rose. "Wow. Tell me how you really feel."

Heat crept up my neck. I'd let my personal feelings slip through. "The point is, Commander Brutus is 'Commander' in public settings, 'Brutus' only in private. Lady Sera is always 'Lady Sera' because she's a vicious gossip who will spread rumors if you're too familiar."

"This is already fucking complicated."

"Yes. That's the point. Complexity is how they keep outsiders out. It's a weapon, Zeirik. They use it to make people like you—people they see as beneath them—feel inadequate and out of place." I leaned against the desk, warming to the subject. "But once you learn the patterns, it's just another battlefield. Different weapons, same strategy."

I watched understanding dawn in his eyes, saw the way his posture shifted from slouched dismissal to focused attention. He got it when I framed it in military terms.

"Alright," he said slowly. "So it's psychological warfare dressed up in pretty manners."

"Exactly."

"Then teach me how to win."

We spent the next hour drilling through the basics, titles, proper greetings, the subtle differences between addressing an elder versus a peer. Zeirik absorbed information faster than I'd expected, asking sharp questions that revealed a mind far quicker than the court gave him credit for. But he was also stubborn, pushing back on rules that seemed arbitrary, questioning why things had to be a certain way.

"Because that's how it's always been done," I said for the third time, frustration bleeding into my voice.

"That's a shit reason."

"It's the only reason that matters here."

He made a disgusted sound but didn't argue further. After another twenty minutes, I noticed his attention drifting, his eyes glazing over as I explained the intricacies of precedence during formal processions.

"We need to make this more practical," I decided, setting down my notes. "Let's role-play. Pretend I'm Lord Aldric. Address me properly."

Zeirik's face lit up with mischief. He stood, affecting an exaggerated bow, his voice dropping into a mockery of refinement. "My Lord Aldric, what an honor to be graced by your most esteemed presence—"

I couldn't help it. Laughter burst out of me before I could stop it, genuine and startled. When was the last time I'd laughed like that?

"No," I managed between giggles. "Just 'Lord Aldric.' And significantly less mockery in your tone."

"Where's the fun in that?" But he was grinning, clearly pleased he'd made me laugh.

"The fun is in not making enemies who could undermine you in council."

We practiced conversations after that—Zeirik playing various nobles while I corrected his phrasing, his tone, his body language. He was a natural mimic once he understood what he was copying, and he had an unexpected gift for satire that made even tedious etiquette lessons entertaining.

"Alright, now you be the pompous ass," he said after we'd gone through several scenarios. "I want to see you do Lady Sera."

I hesitated. It felt wrong somehow, letting him see me like this—petty and vindictive, even in imitation. But the challenge in his eyes spurred me on.

I straightened my spine, arranged my face into Sera's simpering smile, and touched my throat where she always wore those ridiculous pearls. "Oh, General Zeirik," I cooed in her nasally voice, "what a brave thing you did, going to war. Of course, some might say you had little choice, being sent away as you were, but still. Very brave."

The cutting remark hidden in false praise, the subtle reminder of his exile disguised as a compliment—it was pure Sera.

Zeirik laughed so hard he nearly fell off his chair, the sound rich and unrestrained. "That's perfect! How do you do that?"

"Years of watching and hating her." I dropped the character, feeling my own grin spread. "Spite is an excellent teacher."

"I'll remember that." His eyes glinted with something I couldn't quite name. "You're good at this. The acting, I mean. Makes me wonder what else you're hiding behind that serious face of yours."

My heart stuttered a beat that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the way he was looking at me. Like I was interesting. Like he actually wanted to know.
When was the last time someone looked at me that way? 

I cleared my throat, suddenly aware of how close we were standing. "We should break for lunch."

As if summoned by my words, a knock sounded at the door. Mira entered with two servants bearing enough food for a small feast—roasted meats, fresh bread, winter vegetables in cream sauce, fruit preserves, cheese, wine.

"Does she think we're going to fuck ourselves unconscious and need to refuel?" Zeirik asked, staring at the spread.

The crudeness made heat flood my face. I spluttered, nearly choking on air. "She—that's—you can't just—"

"What?" He looked genuinely confused, which somehow made it worse. "It's a honeymoon. That's what people do."

"Yes, but you don't just say it like that!"

"Why not? We're married. We're supposed to be doing it. The fact that we're not doesn't change what everyone expects." He shrugged, already reaching for bread. "Mira probably thinks we're supposed to be doing... traditional honeymoon things." His lips tilted up slightly and my face burned hotter. 

"Traditional honeymoon things," I repeated faintly, trying to regain my composure.

"Right. Those things." His eyes found mine then, and there was heat in them—unmistakable, deliberate heat that made my breath catch in my throat. The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring, before he looked away. "Shame we're too busy with etiquette lessons."

Was he... disappointed?

The thought sent an unexpected thrill through me, dangerous and most definitely unwelcome. I couldn't afford to think about Zeirik that way. This was a political arrangement, nothing more. We were using each other. That was all.

But my traitorous body didn't seem to understand that, warming under the memory of his gaze.

We ate in more comfortable silence than breakfast had offered. The morning's work had eased some of the strangeness between us, worn down the sharp edges of awkwardness into something almost companionable.

"So," Zeirik said around a mouthful of bread, his manners still atrocious despite the morning's lessons. "What was my dear brother's meeting about? You haven't asked."

"I was trying to be polite. Not pry."

"Since when are you polite with me?" He grinned, bits of bread visible between his teeth. Charming. "He wanted to warn me. Said I don't know what I'm getting into with you. That you're dangerous, manipulative, that you'll use me up and spit me out."

My stomach dropped, dread pooling cold and heavy. "And what did you say?"

"That I fucking hope so."

I blinked, certain I'd misheard. "What?"

He laughed at my shocked expression. "I told him I know exactly what our marriage is. That I went in with eyes open and I'm not some naive fool who needs his protection."

"How did he take that?"

"About as well as you'd expect. He looked like he wanted to hit me." Zeirik's grin faded slightly, something more serious entering his expression. "He still loves you. You know that, right? Everything he said came from that place."

Pain lanced through my chest, sharp and familiar. "Love isn't enough," I said quietly. "Not when it's accompanied by cruelty."

"No. It's not." Zeirik's voice dropped, losing its usual irreverence. "For what it's worth, I won't hurt you like that. Use you, yes. We're using each other. But I won't pretend it's more than it is and then punish you for believing me."

The honesty was refreshing. Painful in its starkness, but refreshing. At least with Zeirik, I knew where I stood.

The afternoon passed in companionable quiet. Zeirik read through one of the etiquette manuals—actually read it, which surprised me—while I reviewed my notes and planned tomorrow's lessons. The silence between us felt different now. Easier. Almost comfortable.

When evening came and we began the awkward dance of preparing for bed, I paused at the bedroom door.

"Zeirik?" He looked up from where he was arranging blankets on the sofa. "Thank you for putting in the effort today." I paused, choosing my next words carefully. "And for not punching your brother. That would have derailed a lot of our plans."

His laugh was soft, almost fond. "Thank you for teaching me. I know this isn't how you wanted to spend your honeymoon."

"I don't know. It's been... interesting. Better than I expected."

"High praise from Crown Princess Yasmin."

The nickname made me freeze, ice flooding my veins. "I'm not—"

"A joke. Just a joke." His tone was light, teasing, completely oblivious to my panic. "The title just suits you, it doesn't have to be associated with my brother." He cocked his head. "Unless you want me to call you something else?"

My lips pressed into a thin line, "You can go back to calling me, Little Viper."
When I saw the mischief in his eyes spread like a virus I realized what I'd just said. 

"You know what? Yasmin is fine," I managed, forcing my voice steady. "Goodnight."

"Night, wife."

I was almost asleep when the shouting started.

My eyes snapped open, heart immediately racing. The sounds were coming from the sitting room—raised voices. Familiar voices. 

I threw back the covers and rushed to the door, yanking it open.

The scene before me made my blood run cold.

Cassien stood in the middle of the sitting room, swaying on his feet, his clothes disheveled and reeking of wine even from across the room. His blue eyes were wild, unfocused, fixing on me with desperate intensity the moment I appeared.

And between us stood Zeirik, shirtless and tense, positioned deliberately between his brother and the bedroom door. Between Cassien and me.

"I need to talk to her," Cassien slurred, taking a stumbling step forward. "You can't keep her from me."

The look in his eyes was wild, desperate enough to be dangerous.