Chapter 78: Be quick

Chapter 78: Be quick
Heartbreak, Misarya discovered, was not a sharp, sudden wound. It was a suffocating, physical exhaustion that settled deep into the marrow of her bones.

She had spent the entire day hiding in the dim light of the cabin. After a miserable, sleepless night weeping into Lady Elara’s lap, Misarya had dragged herself back to her bed just after dawn, long before the camp began to stir. Her eyes were swollen, her throat was raw, and her chest carried a hollow, agonizing ache that refused to ease.

Amara and Taya had hovered over her like anxious mother hens all afternoon. They brought her trays of roasted quail, fresh flatbread, and spiced valley honey, but Misarya couldn’t stomach a single bite. The very thought of food made her nauseous.

Blessedly, her companions had recognized the fragile state of their Queen. When Maya had come sniffing around the cabin mid-day, clearly eager to gloat or pry, Amara had expertly intercepted her at the door. Amara had sent Jarek’s sister on a ridiculous, wild-goose chase to the far side of the camp, claiming the Queen desperately required a specific type of silver-leafed sage for her tea—a plant that didn't even grow in this season.

Misarya hadn't the energy to smile at the small victory, but she was profoundly grateful not to face Maya.

Truthfully, she didn't want to face anyone. Most of all, she didn't want to face the Dragon King.

As evening fell and the sounds of the great feast began to echo through the camp, the thought of dressing in her lilac silks and sitting beside him at the high table felt like a death sentence. She could not pretend. She could not look at the man who had so coldly thrown her empty womb in her face and act like it wasn’t tearing her apart.

Instead, she asked for a bath.

The large wooden tub was filled with steaming water, infused with the soothing scents of lavender and crushed myrrh. Misarya sank into the heat, letting her head rest against the wooden rim while Amara gently washed her long, dark hair.

I love him, she reminded herself, the truth stabbing at her ribs all over again.

He had made it clear. He was not looking for love or companionship. He wanted an heir. He wanted a vessel to secure his bloodline and legitimize his rule. If she continued to offer him her heart, he would simply continue to crush it beneath his boots.

For the sake of her own survival, she had to kill the dove. She had to avoid intimacy, avoid the dangerous closeness that had tricked her into believing she was to him anything more than a breeder. She would perform her marital duties with perfect, detached obedience, and she would pray to the Old Gods to grant her a child as soon as possible, so she would never have to endure his cruel disappointment again.

Suddenly, the wooden door to the cabin swung open.

A rush of cool night air swept into the steamy room, carrying the faint, metallic scent of rain. Misarya’s eyes snapped open.

After not seeing him all day, Ikarion stood in the doorway.

He looked massive in the dim light, dressed in his dark leathers, his broad shoulders practically filling the frame. His golden eyes were dark, sweeping over the room before landing heavily on her in the water.

"You two," Ikarion’s voice broke the silence, a low, rumbling command that brooked absolutely no argument. "Leave us, please."

Amara and Taya froze, the sponges pausing in their hands. They did not immediately obey the Dragon King. Instead, both handmaids turned their eyes down to the water, looking directly at their Queen. They waited for her permission.

Misarya looked at her husband standing in the shadows. She felt the familiar, treacherous flutter in her stomach at the sight of him, but she ruthlessly crushed it down, pulling an icy composure over her skin like a shield.

She gave her handmaids a single, silent nod.

Amara and Taya quickly slipped out of the cabin, the heavy door clicking shut behind them.

They were alone.

Misarya didn't wait for him to speak. She didn't cower in the water, and she didn't try to cover her breasts with her hands out of modesty or shame. Moving with deliberate, aristocratic grace, she stood up.

The bathwater cascaded down her bare skin, pooling at her feet as she stepped out of the tub. She reached for a thick linen towel, wrapping it securely around her shoulders to lock her body away from his gaze.

She walked toward the vanity, keeping her voice perfectly smooth, entirely devoid of the tears she had shed the night before.

"Please be quick," Misarya said, picking up her bone comb. "I want to rest."

In the reflection of the bronze mirror, she saw Ikarion blink, his brow furrowing as if she had spoken to him in a foreign tongue. He was staring at her bare legs. "What?"

"I am very tired.” Misarya turned to face him, her lilac eyes cold and dead. “I am just asking for you to not take too long fucking me tonight so I can go to sleep early."

Ikarion actually took a step back, his jaw tightening. "I'm not..." he started, his voice dropping to a defensive, agitated growl. He stepped further into the room, his towering presence dominating the space. "You weren't here when I came back last night."

"I was not," Misarya agreed coolly, turning back to the mirror to drag the comb through her wet hair.

"Why?" he demanded.

"Well, you left," Misarya replied evenly, refusing to let her voice tremble. "And you seemed very displeased with me. I figured you didn't want to see me here upon your return anyway, so I went to see Lady Elara. I spent the night in her tent."

"You’re my wife," Ikarion snapped, closing the distance between them until he was looming right behind her, his heat radiating against her damp skin. "You shouldn’t sleep anywhere but here."

Misarya set the comb down. She turned around, forcing herself to look directly up into his burning golden eyes. She showed him no fear, no sorrow. Only a devastating, hollow emptiness.

"Of course, I’m sorry. But I am here now," she countered. "Do you want me to lay on my back or to get on fours?"

Ikarion stared at her, a muscle feathering wildly in his jaw. The icy detachment was infuriating him, entirely stripping him of his control. He wanted her to be soft. He wanted her to be his sweet little dove again.

"Stop," Ikarion commanded, his voice echoing off the walls, laced with genuine frustration. "Stop talking to me like this."

Misarya simply tilted her head, her expression blank. "Like what?"

"You make this so fucking difficult, Misarya!" Ikarion roared, throwing his hands up, his temper finally snapping.

Misarya didn't flinch. "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know!" Ikarion yelled, towering over her, his eyes wild. "Scream! Throw something at me! Anything else but this!"

The sheer, arrogant audacity of the demand—that he could break her heart into a thousand pieces and then demand she perform her grief loudly enough to satisfy his Askari temper—snapped the last thread of her restraint.

Misarya raised her hand and struck him across the face with every ounce of strength she possessed.

The sound cracked through the steamy cabin. Ikarion’s head snapped to the side. He stood completely frozen, his cheek rapidly turning red, his eyes wide with absolute, stunned shock. He looked like he couldn't believe she would do such thing, not even upon his demand.

Misarya looked as perplexed as him. But before he could even draw a breath, she swung another slap in his face again.