Yeara's body shivered lightly at the deadness of his gaze. She had never seen that look on his face…it was so icy that her bones chilled in fear.
"Where were you…" Zalthor's voice lingered like a shadow, distant and cold, as his pupils slowly widened.
Yeara sprang into his arms, clutching him as if the world had torn them apart for decades. Anyone watching would have believed they had been separated for a lifetime.
Zalthor's gaze dropped to her, his body still, his arms hanging at his sides. His eyes flicked to her scarf, now slightly undone, and a faint, almost imperceptible chill passed through the air between them.
Yeara pulled back slightly, locking eyes with him, a small smile resting on her lips as she spoke.
"I was searching for you," she said, her eyes searching his for answers. He said nothing. She stepped back as he turned, walking toward the bed. He lay down, and Yeara's lips parted.
Why did he not say anything?
Her heart began to race as she remembered the unknown man. Only if Zalthor had been there when she left the bathroom, she would not have gone to that library—or better yet, she would have waited.
She was never going to that library.
Ever.
"Where did you go?" she asked softly, walking toward the bed and sitting onto it, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on him.
He lay there, facing upward, one hand resting behind his head on the pillow, the other loose at his side, his expression unreadable.
His eyes were blank as he finally turned to her.
"I left to inform Raymond of a matter of importance, something that must be addressed at first light tomorrow."
Yeara nodded, her hands moving to her scarf as she tightened it around her neck. She had assumed he must have been in the garden; meanwhile, he had been in his office chamber.
She had just thought and then believed her own assumptions, forgetting that she barely knew him and that he was king, so information could be sent at and reached at any point in time.
Her thoughts drifted as Zalthor's hands closed around her wrists. Her eyes met his as he drew her closer. A soft gasp escaped her lips when she fell against him. Swiftly, he tugged the duvet over them, enveloping them together.
Yeara's eyes widened as he spooned her, his hands wrapping around her waist, her back pressed to his chest in a cozy yet comforting way.
"You are now the Royal Minister," Zalthor declared. Yeara's mouth fell open. She turned her head, straining to read his expression, as if a glance could tell her whether he was serious or merely teasing. But Zalthor held her firmly in place.
"Don't."
Yeara pouted but nodded, almost in surrender. She was simply excited. At last, Zalthor allowed her to turn, and a smile curved her lips.
"Really?" Her excitement shone across her face.
"Mhm," Zalthor hummed, studying the glint in her eyes, curious why such a position stirred her so.
"Thank you, my dearest husband." His body froze at her words. Before he could react, she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his Adam's apple—the same one she had bitten earlier.
Her cheeks flushed lightly as she avoided his gaze, turning her back to him. She pressed her lips together, stifling a smile.
Zalthor simply watched. Not satisfied, she slowly moved her hands, taking his and guiding them around her waist, mirroring the gesture he had made earlier.
A slow chuckle escaped Zalthor's lips as he drew her closer.
This little koala of his never failed to leave him momentarily speechless.
"Stop," Yeara murmured, her face aflame. She wondered if his laughter was meant to mock her.
"Why should I?" Zalthor replied calmly, his eyes tracing the curve of her pale neck, following the line before he finally closed them.
"Now, sleep. It is late," he said, his deep voice carrying a hint of languid authority. Yeara nodded.
"Okay, but next time, when you leave, tell me, so I won't be worried," she added. Zalthor hummed in acknowledgment.
Yeara closed her eyes, and soon, sleep claimed her.
☼☼☼☼
Morning light crept through the narrow gap in the curtain, casting a long, golden shadow across the room. Yeara shifted, blinking slowly as she stretched, arms and legs splayed across the bed as if embracing it fully. She could not get enough of the warmth.
A yawn escaped her lips as memories of the night before washed over her. Startled, she jolted upright, eyes darting around the room until they landed on him.
Zalthor stood, hands resting on the folds of his royal robe as he stepped into it with measured grace.
Yeara rose, moving toward him without knowing why, as if some invisible force guided her.
Zalthor lifted his head, his gaze fixed on her. A slow, deliberate smirk curved his lips as Yeara's eyes flicked away and she halted just before him.
"Let me help," she said softly, reaching for the robe. Her fingers brushed the slightly cold gold buttons, sliding them slowly into place.
Her heart raced as she fastened the next button. It was as if she had finally found herself again.
His aura enveloped her, sending a tingling shiver through her body. She realized she had just woken—and the very first thing she had done was approach Zalthor to button his robe.
What was even wrong with her?.
"I see my wife woke on the right side of the bed," he remarked, his gaze unwavering. Yeara lifted her eyes, a small smile forming.
"Well, technically, I woke on the left," she replied, tilting her head toward the bed to confirm she had indeed slept facing that side.
Zalthor's laugh filled the room. Yeara's smile faltered, replaced by a glare. Why was he laughing at her words? She had not been wrong… or had she?
"Perhaps Your Highness could enlighten me," she said, her voice steady, "on why you are laughing."
"Does happiness need explanation, koala?" His words were cold, heavy, filling the space between them. Yeara's hands slowed on the final button, but she fastened it and smoothed the red-trimmed robe, raising her eyes to meet his.
"In your case, it does," she murmured. "I know you are mocking me…" Her words died as Zalthor's hands rose to her neck, encircling it gently. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her eye.
Yeara's heart stuttered, then raced, startled by his sudden, commanding gesture.
"You are correct," he murmured, and her cheeks flamed.
A slow pause filled the room, and then he spoke again, his words more serious this time.
"I will not be joining you for breakfast, as I have matters of import to attend. Later today, the royal tailor will arrive for your wedding dress measurements," he added.
Yeara nodded silently as his cold eyes regained their usual calm. Slowly, she yelled back, her finger brushing the last button as her gaze drifted away. He passed her, leaving the room with quiet authority.
M..My wedding dress?
Yeara remained frozen, staring at the closed door. The spell broken, the room felt ordinary again. Her hands opened and closed, confusion curling in her chest. She did not understand this man at all… not in the slightest.
*****
Moment Later
Zalthor walked through the hallway, eyes dim. The calm and teasing aura he had was gone, replaced by a dangerous, haughty aura that surrounded him in the most deadly way.
Raymond trailed behind, each step heavy with unease. He knew this aura—the kind that promised the day would not end until the king had blood on his hands.
"Where is he?" Zalthor's voice cut through the hallway, sharp and unyielding.
"I… in the Special Inn," Raymond stammered, bowing his head. Though he had served His Majesty for years, fear still gripped him like iron.
Zalthor's lips curved into a slow, sardonically predatory grin. His words slipped out effortlessly, dripping with icy authority.
"Very well… it has been far too long since I last gazed upon the color of blood red."