Chapter 66: A good husband

Chapter 66: A good husband

The evening feast was loud, filled with the boisterous laughter of Jarek’s family and the rhythmic thumping of Askari drums. But for Misarya, the noise felt miles away. She sat quietly at the high table, her eyes cast down at her silver plate, the sharp sting of the King’s morning command still echoing in her chest.

She expected him to ignore her. She expected him to drink with the merchants and leave her to her silent shame.

But long before the fires began to burn down, Ikarion suddenly stood.

The immediate vicinity of the high table quieted. Ikarion did not address his generals or his wealthy guests. Instead, he turned his massive frame toward Misarya. He reached out, offering his large, calloused hand to her, palm up.

Misarya blinked, her lilac eyes darting from his hand to his face. The King's expression was unreadable, but his golden eyes held a quiet, steady demand.

Carefully, she placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and solid. He helped her up from the bench and led her away from the feast, leaving the whispers and the staring eyes of the Askari behind them.

The walk to the cabin was silent.

The moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut, the silence gave way to the fire of his desire. But it was not the frantic, punishing fire of the previous night. He didn't push her against the wall or tear at her clothes.

He was incredibly, devastatingly gentle.

He unlaced her tunic with slow, deliberate movements, letting the linen fall to the floor. He lifted her into his arms, carrying her to the bed with a reverence that made her breath hitch. When he laid her back against the furs, his touch was slow and attentive, mapping every curve of her body as if he were trying to memorize her.

There were no words. The silence between them was sacred, filled only with the ragged sound of their breathing and the soft, desperate moans that slipped from her lips. He took his time, worshipping her skin, making sure she was soft and wet before he finally entered her.

He moved with a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm that drew the absolute core of her soul to the surface. He kissed away the tears that escaped the corners of her eyes, anchoring her to the bed and to him. Throughout the entire hour, the only things spoken in the dim cabin were their names, whispered like prayers in the dark.

Later, the fire in the hearth had burned down to a soft orange glow.

Misarya lay back against the pillows, the heavy wool sheets pulled up to her chest, her body thoroughly exhausted and entirely sated.

Ikarion sat on the edge of the bed, his back turned to her. He was silent, his broad shoulders rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. He had been sitting there for a long time, staring into the dying embers.

Misarya watched the shifting shadows play across the thick muscles of his back, wondering if her husband was already pulling away, retreating back into his fortress of duties and war.

Then, he spoke.

"I am sorry for losing my temper with you earlier."

The words were low, rough, and entirely unexpected. Misarya froze, her fingers gripping the edge of the sheet.

"You are… You are a good wife,” Ikarion let out a heavy sigh, bowing his head slightly. “To a not so good husband."

Misarya was stunned. His confession hung in the air, incredibly raw and vulnerable. She looked at his back, seeing not the terrifying conqueror of the plains, but a man who was deeply aware of his own sharp edges.

"It's alright," Misarya whispered softly, her heart aching for him. She reached out, her fingertips brushing the warm skin of his lower back. "I forgive you."

At her touch, the tension seemed to drain out of his massive frame. Ikarion turned, shifting his weight on the mattress, and laid back. He rested his head heavily onto her lap, his face turned toward her stomach, and closed his eyes.

It was a profound gesture of surrender.

Misarya gently ran her fingers through his dark hair, soothing him. She traced the hard line of his jaw, her thumb lightly grazing the faded, jagged scars on his face and chest.

He seemed troubled. Beneath the stoic exterior, she could feel the weight he carried. He was a man who knew exactly how to shout orders across a battlefield and how to command thousands of people, but he possessed no vocabulary for the quiet, fragile things of the heart. Misarya wished, with all her heart, that she could read his mind, to understand the dark thoughts that kept him so guarded.

She continued to stroke his hair, gathering her courage.

"Do you..." she started, her voice barely above a whisper. "Do you wish to be a good husband to me?"

Ikarion went completely still. Slowly, he opened one golden eye, looking up at her from her lap. He looked genuinely surprised by the question, as if the answer should have been obvious.

He studied her face for a long moment. Then, he closed his eye again, let out a long, deep sigh that ruffled the sheets, and murmured, "Yes."

A warm, radiant smile broke across Misarya’s face.

"Then please," she said softly, continuing to stroke his hair with tender affection. "Share with me the burdens of your heart. Always be truthful and kind to me..."

She paused, taking a breath, her fingers trailing down to rest over his heart.

"...and never take another wife."

Ikarion let out a sudden, dark laugh, the sound rumbling against her thighs. The sheer, unapologetic bluntness of the request caught him completely off guard, cutting straight through the heavy emotion of the room.

He turned his face slightly, pressing a warm kiss to her stomach through the sheet. He settled deeper into the softness of her lap and her caresses.

"I'll be a good husband to you," he promised into the dark.