030 - Dinner Lessons

030 - Dinner Lessons
|||YASMIN|||
I extracted myself from Zeirik's side carefully, trying not to wake him. But his eyes snapped open the moment I moved, that instant alertness of someone who'd spent years knowing sleep could mean death.

"Sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

"It's fine." His voice was rough with sleep, deeper than usual. "You were tired."

"We both were." I stood, putting distance between us because I needed space to think, needed air that wasn't thick with his scent and the warmth we'd somehow generated between us. "We should probably actually sleep in proper positions tonight. Our backs will be destroyed if we keep this up."

"Probably." He stretched, and the movement pulled his shirt tight across his chest, rode up just enough to show a glimpse of his abdomen—perfectly sculpted muscle and a v-line that led down to—

I looked away quickly, heat flooding my face.

By the time we were both properly awake and dressed, it was nearly midday. Mira arrived with food and raised eyebrows, clearly drawing her own conclusions about why we'd slept so late.

"Don't," I warned when I saw the knowing look spreading across her cherubic face.

"I didn't say anything, my lady." She was clearly biting back a grin, her eyes dancing with barely suppressed amusement.

"You were thinking it loudly."

"I would never presume to think about my lady's private affairs—"

"Mira."

She laughed, setting down the tray with a flourish before taking her leave. The door closed behind her with a soft click that somehow felt significant.

Zeirik and I ate while reviewing the day's plans. Today's focus was dining etiquette—which fork, when to start eating, how to pace yourself through multiple courses without looking like a starved animal.

"This seems excessive," Zeirik complained, staring at the array of silverware I'd laid out on the table like weapons before battle. "It's just eating."

"It's never just eating in court. It's performance, politics, and judgment all disguised as a meal." I picked up the outermost fork, holding it up to the light. "We work from the outside in. This one is for salad—"

"Let me guess. There's a specific way to hold it, specific way to cut the lettuce, specific way to chew?"

"Actually, you don't cut lettuce. You tear it with your fork."

His mismatched eyes—one blue, one green—stared at me with such bafflement that I almost laughed. "Why?"

"Because using a knife on salad is considered crude. Don't ask me why, it's been that way for generations."

"Your people have too much time and too many rules."

"They're your people now too. And yes, they do." I set down the fork and picked up the next one. "Now, this one is for fish. Notice the wider tines? That's for—"

"Yasmin." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest. "If I have to memorize which fork goes with which food, I'm going to lose my fucking mind."

"Then don't memorize. Just follow the pattern. Outside to inside, work your way through the courses. Simple."

"Nothing about this is simple."

We practiced with imaginary food at first, me demonstrating the proper grip, the correct angle, the appropriate pace. Zeirik fumbled initially, his large hands too clumsy for the delicate utensils. I watched his fingers—scarred and calloused, built for weapons not silverware—struggle with the small fork.

"Here." The words left my mouth before I'd thought them through. I moved behind him without thinking, my hands covering his to adjust his grip. "Like this. Lighter touch. These aren't weapons."

I was acutely aware of how close we were—my body pressed against his back, my arms wrapped around him, my face near his ear. His skin was cool through his shirt, and I could feel the tension in his muscles, the way he went very still under my touch.

"Better?" My voice came out breathier than I'd intended, betraying me.

"Much." His voice was rough, strained. "Though this is incredibly distracting."

"What is?"

"You. Standing this close. Smelling like whatever the fuck that soap is you use."

The crude honesty made heat flood my face. I stepped back quickly, creating distance that suddenly felt both necessary and disappointing. "Uh... ahem! Right. Well. You've got the grip now. Let's move on to the next fork."

We continued the lesson, but I couldn't stop thinking about his words. My scent distracted him. I tried not to overthink it, tried to focus on teaching proper fish fork technique, but my mind kept circling back.

Was he being genuine? Or was this another calculated move—making me feel desired, keeping me invested in our arrangement? By the end of the lesson, I found myself wondering if everything he said and did that made my heart skip was just strategy. A way to ensure I wouldn't betray him or his cause.

The thought settled like a stone in my stomach.

By afternoon, we'd moved on to actual food. Mira brought a practice meal—multiple courses, proper service, everything arranged exactly as it would be at a formal dinner. I sat across from Zeirik, coaching him through each course with growing satisfaction.

"You're doing well," I said as he successfully navigated the fish course without stabbing himself or flinging food across the table. "Much better than this morning."

"I'm motivated." He grinned at me, that roguish expression that made him look younger, less like the battle-hardened general. "Don't want to embarrass you in front of the vultures."

"I appreciate that. Though you should be more worried about embarrassing yourself."

"I'll be too busy being dazzled by my wife to care about my own reputation."

The flirtation caught me off guard. My fork paused halfway to my mouth as I tried to read his expression. Was he serious or just being playful? His face gave nothing away—just that same easy grin, those disconcerting eyes watching me with an intensity that made my skin warm.

We finished the practice meal in companionable silence. I was genuinely pleased with his progress. He was still rough around the edges—his posture could be better, and he ate slightly too fast—but he wouldn't humiliate himself at a formal dinner.

"Tomorrow we'll work on conversation," I said, making notes on what still needed improvement. "How to steer discussions, how to deflect questions you don't want to answer, how to—"

A knock interrupted me. A young servant entered, bowing low before presenting a sealed message. Melbourne's crest gleamed in gold wax.

I broke the seal and read, my stomach dropping with each word.

"What is it?" Zeirik asked, leaning forward.

"Your father—the Alpha King requests our presence at dinner tomorrow night." I looked up from the parchment. "It's not optional."

"Well, shit," Zeirik said eloquently. "Guess we're testing these skills sooner than expected."

"It's fine. You're ready." I tried to sound confident, tried to ignore the anxiety crawling up my spine. "Just remember everything we practiced."

But as the day wore on and evening approached, neither of us could settle. Too much nervous energy about tomorrow, about facing Melbourne and Victoria and probably Cassien and Hana at a formal dinner where every move would be watched and judged.

We ended up in the sitting room again as night fell. I quizzed Zeirik on proper forms of address while he paced back and forth like a caged wolf.

"You're going to be fine," I said for what felt like the tenth time.

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true. You're smarter than people think, Zeirik. You just hide it under all the savage general bullshit."

He stopped pacing abruptly, looking at me with those disconcerting eyes—one blue as a summer sky, one green as deep water. "How do you know that? We've been married four days. You barely know me."

"I pay attention. It's what I do." I stood, moving to face him because sitting while he loomed felt wrong. "I've seen how quickly you learn, how you adapt, how you ask the right questions even when you pretend not to care. You're not what they think you are."

"And what do you think I am?"

The question hung between us, weighted with more than simple curiosity. I considered my answer carefully, aware that what I said next mattered in ways I didn't fully understand.

"I think you're dangerous," I said finally. "But not in the way they believe. You're dangerous because you're underestimated. Because people see the scars and the rough edges and miss the intelligence underneath. They think you're just a blunt instrument, but you're so much more than that."

Something flashed in his eyes—surprise first, then pleasure that he couldn't quite hide, followed by heat that made my breath catch in my throat. He stepped closer, closing the distance I'd tried to maintain, and suddenly the air felt too thin.

"You're dangerous too," he said quietly, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. "Every time I think I have you figured out, you show me something new. Something that makes me want to—"

He stopped himself abruptly, his jaw clenching as if physically biting back words. Then he took a deliberate step back, putting space between us that felt like a chasm.

"We should sleep," he said, his voice rough and strained. "Tomorrow's going to be hell."

I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady. We separated to our usual positions—him to the sofa, me to the bedroom. But I lay awake for a long time in the darkness, staring at the ceiling and wondering what he'd been about to say.

What did he want? What had he stopped himself from admitting?

And why did I care so much about the answer?

Sleep, when it finally came, was restless and full of dreams I couldn't quite remember upon waking.

\---

The next evening arrived too quickly.

I stood in the sitting room, dressed in a gown of deep emerald that Mira had selected. My hair was pinned up elegantly, my face composed into the serene mask I'd perfected over years at court. I was checking my reflection in the small mirror by the window when I realized I'd forgotten my necklace—the simple silver chain that had been my mother's.

Without thinking, I walked into the bedroom.

And froze.

Zeirik stood by the bed, half-dressed—shirt off, his scarred chest and torso fully visible as he reached for his formal jacket. The candlelight played across his skin, highlighting every line and curve of muscle, every pale scar that cut across his flesh like a map of violence survived.

But it was the tattoos that stole my breath.

Black ink covered his shoulders and chest, flowing down his arms in intricate patterns. Wolves mid-hunt, ravens in flight, geometric designs that looked almost runic—all woven together to both hide and highlight the damage beneath. They were beautiful and terrible all at once, art created from pain.

His hands stilled on the jacket. His mismatched eyes met mine in the mirror's reflection, and neither of us moved.

Time seemed to suspend, the air between us charging with something electric and dangerous. I should look away. Should apologize and leave. Should do anything but stand here staring.

But I couldn't move.

And neither, it seemed, could he.

The moment stretched, pulled taut as a bowstring, neither of us willing to be the first to break it. His chest rose and fell with measured breaths, and I watched the candlelight dance across ink and scars, across cold skin that somehow looked like it would burn to touch.

"I—" I started, my voice barely a whisper.

The word shattered the spell. Reality crashed back, and I realized what I was doing—standing in the doorway, openly staring at my husband's bare chest like some starved creature.

Heat flooded my face as his lips curved into the barest hint of a smile, something knowing and dangerous in his expression.

And still, neither of us looked away.