027 - First Morning

027 - First Morning
|||YASMIN|||

The sounds wake me first—movement in the next room, pottery clinking against wood, the steady pour of water into a basin. For one disorienting heartbeat, I forget where I am. Then reality crashes back with all the subtlety of a dropped anvil. 

Married. I'm married to Zeirik now.

The general who slept on the sofa last night while I took his bed, who didn't so much as suggest sharing it, who simply grabbed a pillow and made himself comfortable without asking for anything in return.

I had thought he was going to touch me, I thought he was going to demand his right...as prince, general, my husband...because that was exactly what I promised him but... 

Zeirik isn't exactly... 

I lie still beneath the covers, listening to him move about. He's trying to be quiet, I can tell, but his movements are too large for true stealth. Boots strike stone. A chair scrapes across the floor. These are the sounds of my life now—sharing space with a man who's essentially a stranger, learning the rhythm of someone else's morning routine.

The thought should unsettle me more than it does.

When I finally force myself from the bed, I wrap my robe tight around my waist and pin my hair hastily. It's a mess, but it will have to do. I can't hide in here forever, no matter how appealing the thought might be.

The main room is brighter than I expected. Bright light stream through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching dust motes in the air. And there, at the small table, sits my husband.

He's already dressed—dark trousers that fit him well, a loose white shirt unlaced at the throat. His golden hair is damp, darker where it's still wet from washing and the long strands cling to his neck and the top of his broad shoulders. He's eating what appears to be half a loaf of bread and a disturbing amount of cold meat, tearing into both with the efficiency of a soldier who's learned to eat quickly between battles.

He looks up when I enter, and for a long moment we simply stare at each other. Two people who made a deal and now have to live with the consequences.

He looks...

"Morning," he says finally, his voice still rough with exhaustion, like he didn't get enough sleep. It's deeper than usual, catching on the word. "There's tea. And bread, if you want it."
I hate how my eyes catch the subtle crinkle at the bottom of his full lower lip when he speaks, almost a dimple but it looked more like a small scar that tugged the skin taut. 

"Thank you." The formality tastes strange in my mouth. I move to the side table where he's left the teapot, acutely aware of the silence stretching between us. This is awkward in ways I hadn't anticipated. At least with Cassien, there had been months of courtship, we had the mate bond and everything else just seemed to flow, easily, perfectly.

With Zeirik, I'm starting from nothing.
I only know what the court knows about him...I can bet they don't know he looks like this when he wakes up. 
So

I pour the tea, watching the amber liquid fill the cup, and try not to think about how odd this all is.

When I sit across from him, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic, I force myself to attempt conversation. "Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough." His mismatched eyes flick to mine briefly before returning to his food with an unreadable glint in them. The sunlight catches in them—one blue as a summer sky, one green as deep water—and I find myself momentarily distracted by how ridiculously beautiful they are. I push the thought away. "The sofa's not as bad as the ground. I've had worse."

"You don't have to keep sleeping there," I say, because I should say it, because it seems like the thing a wife would offer. "We could arrange for another bed, or—"

"It's fine." He tears off another piece of bread with his hands, no knife, no pretense. "I don't need much."

More silence. I sip my tea and search for something else to say, feeling increasingly ridiculous. I can negotiate with hostile nobles who'd sooner poison me than acknowledge me. I can manipulate court politics with a smile and a carefully chosen word. I can manage complex alliances while keeping three different agendas balanced in my head.

But making small talk with my own husband is apparently beyond my capabilities.

"So," Zeirik says, and there's a hint of amusement in his voice that makes me look up sharply. "This is fucking weird, isn't it?"

The curse surprises me—it's so early for such language—but the blunt assessment surprises a laugh out of me before I can stop it. "Yes. Very weird."

"Good. Glad it's not just me." He leans back in his chair, studying me with those unsettling eyes, and now there's definitely amusement dancing in them. "We're shit at this."

"Terrible," I agree, and feel some of the tension ease from my shoulders.

"Want to make a deal?" He grins then, and it transforms his entire face—makes him look younger, less like the intimidating general and more like a man who might actually laugh at something other than violence. "We stop trying to be normal newlyweds and just... figure this out as we go?"

"What does that look like?"

"I don't know. But probably not this—" He gestures between us with a piece of bread. "—sitting here like strangers at a funeral, pretending we know how to do this."

Despite myself, despite everything, I smile. "Alright. Deal."

The knock comes as I'm reaching for my own bread. A servant enters—young, nervous, probably wondering what state he'll find the newlyweds in—with a message sealed with Melbourne's crest. Zeirik takes it, breaks the seal with his thumb, and reads. His expression shifts from neutral to annoyed in the span of a heartbeat.

"What?" I ask.

"My father is giving us a week." He sounds disgusted by the entire concept. "A 'honeymoon period' before I have to attend council meetings and take up my general duties again. We're supposed to stay in the General's wing and 'enjoy life as newlyweds'"

I set down my teacup carefully. "That's actually perfect."

He stares at me like I've lost my mind. "How is being confined to these rooms for a week perfect?"

"Because it gives us time." My mind is already working, turning this over, seeing the opportunity hidden in what he views as a punishment. "Time for me to teach you what you need to know before you face the council. Time to build your reputation without the pressure of immediate performance."

Zeirik considers this, his irritation fading into something sharper. Calculation. "You want to use the honeymoon as a training period."

"Among other things." I meet his eyes directly. "I said I would help you in becoming Crown Prince. This is how we start. I'll teach you court manners, political strategy, how to speak so people actually listen instead of dismissing you. By the time this week is over, you'll be ready to face them."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It will be," I agree. "But you're a quick study, aren't you?" It's not really a question. I've seen hints of the intelligence he hides behind bluntness and crude language.

He grins again, sharper this time, more dangerous. "Guess we'll find out. When do we start?"

"After breakfast. You'll need your energy."

We finish eating in companionable silence, which is already an improvement over the awkwardness from before. I'm clearing the plates when another knock interrupts us. This time it's Marcus who enters, and the expression on his face tells me immediately that something's wrong.

"What is it?" Zeirik asks, setting down his cup.

"Prince Cassien has requested a private meeting with you," Marcus says, his tone carefully neutral. "Today. And he's specifically asked that Lady Yasmin not be present."

The temperature in the room seems to drop.

"Did he now," Zeirik says softly.

Marcus nods. "Something about 'brother to brother.' I don't know though..." Marcus scratches the back of his head, "Everyone at court is talking about his change in demeanor since last night...this doesn't seem safe."

I look at Zeirik, seeing the calculation in his eyes, the way his jaw tightens slightly. Cassien wants to speak with him alone. And he specifically asked me away like the petty child he is. 

What could he possibly have to say to Zeirik? 

"When?" Zeirik asks.

"This afternoon. In the prince's private study."

Zeirik looks at me, one eyebrow raised. A question without words—what do I think? Should he go?

I consider it. Consider what Cassien might want, what he might say. Consider the danger and the opportunity both.

"You should go," I say finally.

"Really."

"Really." I set the last plate down and face him fully. "But we need to prepare you first. If Cassien thinks he can intimidate you or manipulate you just to further solidify his standing, he's wrong."

Zeirik's grin returns, sharp and dangerous. "I'm starting to like how your mind works."

"Good," I say. "Because we have a lot of work to do before this afternoon."

Marcus looks between us, something like approval covering his features before he waves and leaves. The door closes behind him with a soft click.

Zeirik stands, stretching, and the sunlight catches in his hair, turning it to gold. "So. First lesson?"

I look at my husband—this rough-edged general with his crude language and his beautiful mismatched eyes and his surprisingly quick mind—and feel something shift inside me. Not affection. But perhaps the beginning of partnership.

"First lesson," I say. "We teach you how to handle a tantrum throwing prince."