She snatched her hand back. “How about the story of the idiotic prince who won’t leave the assassin alone?”
“Oh! I love that story! It has such a happy ending, too—why, the assassin was really feigning her illness in order to get the prince’s attention! Who would have guessed it? Such a clever girl. And the bedroom scene is so lovely—it’s worth reading through all of their ceaseless banter!”
“Out! Out! Out! Leave me be and go womanize someone else!” She grabbed a book and chucked it at him. He caught it before it broke his nose, and her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean—that wasn’t an attack! It was a joke—I didn’t mean to actually hurt you, Your Highness,” she said in a jumble.
“I’d hope that Adarlan’s Assassin would choose to attack me in a more dignified manner. At least with a sword or a knife, through preferably not in the back.”
She clutched her belly and bent over. Sometimes she hated being a woman.
“It’s Dorian, by the way. Not ‘Your Highness.’ ”
“Very well.”
“Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say my name. Say, ‘Very well, Dorian.’ ”
She rolled her eyes. “If it pleases Your Magnanimous Holiness, I shall call you by your first name.”
“ ‘Magnanimous Holiness’? Oh, I like that one.” A ghost of a smile appeared on her face, and Dorian looked down at the book. “This isn’t one of the books that I sent you! I don’t even own books like these!”
She laughed weakly and took the tea from the servant as she approached. “Of course you don’t, Dorian. I had the maids send for a copy today.”
“Sunset’s Passions,” he read, and opened the book to a random page to read aloud. “ ‘His hands gently caressed her ivory, silky br—’ ” His eyes widened. “By the Wyrd! Do you actually read this rubbish? What happened to Symbols and Power and Eyllwe Customs and Culture?”
She finished her drink, the ginger tea easing her stomach. “You may borrow it when I’m done. If you read it, your literary experience will be complete. And,” she added with a coy smile, “it will give you some creative ideas of things to do with your lady friends.”
He hissed through his teeth. “I will not read this.”
She took the book from his hands, leaning back. “Then I suppose you’re just like Chaol.”
“Chaol?” he asked, falling into the trap. “You asked Chaol to read this?”
“He refused, of course,” she lied. “He said it wasn’t right for him to read this sort of material if I gave it to him.”
Dorian snatched the book from her hands. “Give me that, you demon-woman. I’ll not have you matching us against each other.” He glanced once more at the novel, then turned it over, concealing the title. She smiled, and resumed watching the falling snow. It was blisteringly cold now, and even the fire could not warm the blasts of wind that crept through the cracks of her balcony doors. She felt Dorian watching her—and not in the cautious way that Chaol sometimes watched her. Rather, Dorian just seemed to be watching her because he enjoyed watching her.
And she enjoyed watching him, too.
?
Dorian didn’t realize he’d been transfixed by her until she straightened and demanded, “What are you staring at?”
“You’re beautiful,” Dorian said before he could think.
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Did I offend you?” His blood pumped through him in a strange rhythm.
“No,” she said, and quickly faced the window. Dorian watched her face turn redder and redder. He’d never known an attractive woman for so long without courting her—save for Kaltain. And he couldn’t deny that he was aching to learn what Celaena’s lips felt like, what her bare skin smelled like, how she’d react to the touch of his fingers along her body.
The week surrounding Yulemas was a time of relaxation, a time to celebrate the carnal pleasures that kept one warm on a winter’s night. Women wore their hair down; some even refused to don a corset. It was a holiday to feast on the fruits of the harvest and those of the flesh. Naturally, he looked forward to it every year. But now . . .
Now he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. How could he celebrate when word had just arrived of what his father’s soldiers had done to those Eyllwe rebels? They hadn’t spared a single life. Five hundred people—all dead. How could he ever look Nehemia in the face again? And how could he someday rule a country whose soldiers had been trained to have so little compassion for human life?