Page 33 of The Horned King

"Do you need a healer, Miss Aistin?" she finally asks once the room is partially in order once more. After a moment of me giving her what must be the most clueless look possible, she laughs. "You drank a lot of wine."

"Oh," I rub my eyes with my fingertips as if I could push away the aching behind them. "That would be great, actually. If it's not too much trouble."

With a nod, she assures me, "Not at all. There's almost always one nearby in the mornings for the king."

"Really?" I ask. "Why? Does his Royal Majesty often drink himself to sleep, too?"

She stares blankly at me, almost as if looking right through me. 1... 2... 3 seconds she just stares before coming back to reality, though lacking all of her usual tenacity, and it is replaced with a coldness I've not yet seen from her. "No, he just doesn't usually find enough time for restful sleep and ends up with terrible headaches. I'll send a healer in with breakfast. Be dressed and in the common area in ten." Without another word or even a smile, she stalks out of my room, leaving behind the distinct impression that my question was overstepping.

By no means was I trying to interrogate her about her mercurial king's drinking habits... Nor was I trying to discover just how familiar she is with how he spends his nights. I was just curious. Innocently curious about the man sleeping only one room away.

Staggering my way into my closet with my new dress in hand, the scent of lavender from before becomes nearly intoxicating, mixed with something far more potent. Something inherently him. Sweet and bitter and utterly delicious. The proximity of our rooms is going to be miserable. I'll never escape how much he overwhelms every one of my senses.

The dress feels incredible once again. I've never given much thought into looking beautiful, always more worried about being presentable, being palatable. But the clothing here feels decadent without being heavy, lovely without being ostentatious. For just a moment, I allow myself to just enjoy the way it hugs my body, the way it moves with me, almost like a ripple when you skip a rock.

A knock pulls me from my thoughts, and I'm suddenly reminded that I was supposed to be in the common area between our rooms for breakfast. I grab the closest sandals I can find, sliding into them as quickly as possible. While I walk toward the exit, I grab the only thing they've not managed to take from me, my favorite hairpin, and twist my hair back.

The doors open as I near them, and the king's voice travels to me before I even spot him.

"You were supposed to be out here three minutes ago," he says before drinking some kind of steaming drink from the cup in his hand.

"Well, forgive me, but I had a hard time adjusting to—What is that?" The sweet but bitter smell fills the air around us, choking out every other thought I might have had in that moment.

He raises a brow at me. "What is what?"

"That smell, what is it?"

With a grin, he takes another sip. "You don't have coffee in Rhyma?"

Coffee. All I can do is shake my head. While his arrogance at this moment makes my skin itch, it's far overshadowed by the discovery of whatever coffee is.

He chuckles, the most authentic laugh I've heard from him yet. "I'm not surprised. The beans need a humid climate to thrive. It's very expensive to export."

My curiosity gets the best of me, dragging me closer to him and the incredible scent he carries with him everywhere. "So it's food?" I sit across from him, praying to all the gods that he's willing to share.

"Not exactly." His eyes meet mine for a moment, their coldness firmly in place. The dark shadows beneath his eyes lend truth to Raya's statement about a lack of sleep, and my chest suddenly feels too tight thinking of how she might know that much about him. How he spends his restless nights. "We use hot water to extract the flavor from the beans."

"Like tea," I suggest.

He nods, then gestures for a guard. Without a single word exchanged, the guard pours a dark brown, almost oily-looking drink into a small white teacup. The guard places it in front of me, and the king waits, watching me so closely I feel my cheeks heat.

Such a silly thing, this is. To be excited about a drink.

But I am undeniably excited, so I'm going to try it anyway. Shaking off any embarrassment I might feel about being watched, I lift the scalding drink to my lips and take a small sip.

Oh, by the gods.

Only by pure willpower do I keep from spitting it out.

"It does not taste as good as it smells," I confess.

The king bursts into laughter, making me even more furious. I stand, ready to disappear back into my room. I'm too tired, too hungover, too emotionally drained to be dealing with this asshole laughing at me.

As quickly as it came, the laughter stops, the king looking as surprised by the outburst as I was.

"Sit, Elva."

Both of my brows shoot into the air, and I open my mouth to tell him just how I feel about him barking orders at me like I'm one of his subjects and not an equal.

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