“You are what you are. I am what I am. It matters little what we want.”
I am not a weapon. The words were a cry in my mind, mournful and resistant. I felt him draw closer, but still he didn’t touch me, and for that I was grateful. If he touched me I would break down.
“I never wanted to be king. But it is what I am. It matters little what we want,” he repeated. I turned and stared up into his face, filled with an anguish that wouldn’t abate.
You’re wrong. It is the thing that matters most.
“Why?” he murmured, his eyes intense.
Because without desire, there is only duty. My lips trembled, and I bit down on them, bidding them to be still.
He pressed a thumb against my mouth, freeing my lower lip from the grip of my teeth. “Do you desire me?”
I jerked, resisting the coiled need that suddenly sprang from my belly and filled my chest. His eyes flared and his breath caught, and I wondered what word I’d given him. I could only guess. I stepped around him, but he caught me up, lifting me off the ground, one arm beneath my hips, one braced around my back. He walked back to the thick furs where he slept and laid me down on them.
This is not my duty. Or my desire.
“It is both,” he responded, his arrogance setting my teeth on edge.
NO.
“Yes.”
Lust is different from desire. There are women who will gladly assuage your lust. I will not.
“You want me. I heard it. I feel it.”
It matters little what we want, I shot back, using his words against him. I may be your weapon. But I am not your queen.
He sat back on his haunches, his hands on his thighs, and he considered me.
“Do you want to be my queen?”
Why would I want that?
“Most women would.”
I am not most women.
“You don’t want power? Riches?”
Power only gets you killed.
He recoiled but rallied quickly. “What about adoration?”
Whose? Whose adoration?
He tipped his head, eyeing me with speculation.
“The adoration of a grateful people, of course.”
Why would they be grateful? You don’t intend to tell them I am Gifted, do you?
“No. It might frighten them,” he admitted.
I shook my head wearily.
“What do you want, Lark?” he asked, his voice so soft I wanted to curl into it. Instead, I rolled away from him and closed my head and my heart. I would not give him that. What I wanted, my deepest desires, my dreams, they were mine. Only mine.
“You won’t tell me?” I could hear the frustration in his voice. I resisted the question, mentally changing the subject.
I would give you this power. This gift of words. I would trade you for your ability to change, and I would become a real lark. A little bird. And I would fly away. I would make my nest high in a tree, and I would sing. Sing and fly. If I were a real bird people would lose the ability to disappoint me. I wouldn’t consider them at all. I would have only four little words in my head. Sleep, eat, fly, sing. And that would be enough for me.
He had the audacity to laugh.
“You lie. That would not be enough for you.” I felt him move up behind me, lying next to me on the thick furs. He moved so close I could feel his heat and the feel of his breath moving my hair. He propped himself above me, looking down at me.
“Your hair has a silvery sheen. It’s strange because it’s brown. But it isn’t brown. Not really.” Confusion rose from him. Confusion and something else. I listened, not believing the word that came to my mind.
Yearning.
Yearning? What did he yearn for? I was not foolish enough to think he yearned for me.
Ash. My mother said my hair was like ash.
“Ash.” He stroked his hand over it, from top to tips, and his yearning became mine.
“What do you want, Lark?” He asked again, and his inner elegy was so deafening it pierced my walls. There was something he was hiding from me, something I had not figured out.
I want to be wanted.
He stiffened, and I realized I had let him hear. I had let him in. Just a bit. He was so close, and my need was loud.
“I want you,” he said, his voice sharp.
You don’t want me. You need me. I am of use. It isn’t the same thing.
“I want you to be my queen.”
I would be a terrible queen.
“I can teach you what you need to know. I can teach you how to please me.” His voice was so low and soft the hair rose on my neck. I shivered and rose from the furs. I didn’t have to lie there. I was angry at my response to him and angry that he felt I needed to be taught to please him.
He followed me. I turned, warding him off with an outstretched hand as he rose, stepping back to create distance between us. The upper part of his face was in shadows, but the light touched his mouth as if directing my gaze. I shivered again.
Why do I have to be taught?
“Because you just said you know nothing about being a queen. Because I am king. And because it is your duty to please me.”
I laughed, and wished I could howl my frustration at the fat, lazy moon who looked on us through the flaps of the big tent like a drunken voyeur, too sauced to hide his riveted attention.
Why don’t I please you as I am?
Tiras reached forward and without warning, lifted me off my feet, his hands encircling my waist and raising me up until our eyes were level.
His black eyes were unreadable, but frustration sang in the air between us.
Maybe I will teach you to please me, I taunted him, refusing to be intimidated, though he held me as though my weight were insignificant.
“What could a lark teach an eagle?” he dared, and I felt that challenge from the grip of his hands to the gleam in his black gaze.
An eagle can’t sing. It was the only thing I could think of.
His lips twitched. “And my lark can’t speak.”
I am not your lark.
“You are.” He brought my body against his, and I felt a charge zing from my toes to my heart before it flared in his eyes. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me in place against him as his fingers twisted in my hair.
“You are,” he repeated, and his lips came down on mine so softly that I hardly realized he’d arrived. His mouth hovered there, tender and tentative, and completely at odds with the sharp ache at my scalp, where he gripped my hair in his fist.
Mine.
I didn’t know if the word came from his kiss or from his thoughts, or maybe the word was mine alone, but I took it and swallowed it whole, planting it deep inside my belly where desire, need, and longing grew and flowered.
His kiss was warm and persuasive, and completely different from the first time he’d kissed me. He still took—demanded even—but laced with his power was something sweeter. Something I needed from him. Something I longed for. Yearning. There it was again. Suddenly yearning had a flavor. It tasted like a king, a beautiful, frightening, infuriating man who flew into my life and began to free my words.
He pulled at my hair again, tugging me back from his lips as if he needed to impart something of great importance.
“You will be my queen.”
Do I please you? I mocked him even as I wished he would continue to kiss me.
He laughed, a harsh bark of disbelief. “You are not a lark. You are a great, shrieking harpy.”
All the better to keep up with an eagle.
“You will be my queen,” he insisted, setting me back on my feet, releasing me like the matter was settled. I felt almost bereft, until he tipped my chin up to meet his fierce gaze, forcing a response.
“Lark?”
I couldn’t say no.
I wanted it too much. He was right. I lied. Being a mere lark would never be enough for me. He’d ruined me. He’d made me want to be an eagle. I bowed my head in acquiescence and kept my joy locked away, allowing myself to agree, but not allowing him to know the exaltation that sang through my soul.
Yes, Tiras. I will be your queen.