There was a brief silence. Yeara bit her lips as she shifted her gaze back to the food, awkwardness hitting her. She clamped her legs together tight, as if that would free her right now from the awkwardness she was feeling.
'For heaven's sake, why would you say that, Yea?' She scolded herself. She could not even bring herself to look up at him anymore, not after what she had just said.
"Very well then." Zalthor finally broke the quietness, and Yeara raised her head, taken aback. She watched him in utter shock. He silently took the fork, his eyes on the food. He slid the plate silently to himself, a perfect portion of meat resting atop it. He moved the knife, cutting it—the body of the meat tore cleanly.
Yeara's eyes remained fixated on the way he cut the meat so effortlessly, yet so cleanly, failing to see the ever-so-slight tilt that curled his lips.
He finally moved the fork to his lips, biting the meat. Yeara's hands remained midair, still holding the fork and knife, forgetting that she was supposed to be eating too, her eyes still fixated on his lips as he chewed.
His gaze snapped up.
Yeara coughed, not expecting him to suddenly raise his head. She quickly moved her hands, grabbing the glass cup as she gulped. Tears surrounded her eyes from the pepperish choke she felt. Her cheeks flushed as she shifted her gaze—his eyes were still on her.
"After you are done with your meal, we will continue our journey," Zalthor spoke, shifting his gaze back to his food like she had not almost choked to death.
Yeara turned her gaze to him questioningly. She straightened her posture.
"Journey?" Her voice lowered as if talking to herself. She raised a brow before she continued, "Your Majesty, perhaps… is there somewhere we are heading to?" She asked as Zalthor chuckled almost internally — his lips were closed, yet the deepness of his hum told her that this man must be mocking her.
"We are going to the Royal palace."
Yeara nodded, even though disbelief crossed her features.
'Ah… so we are not in the palace yet.' She said to herself. She had thought they had already reached the palace; she really wasn't keeping track of her time.
Quietness fell as they ate.
Yeara raised her head as she finally asked, trying to break the silence. Never in her life would she believe that the same silence that brought her joy and solitude would feel so intimidating that she would want to break it.
"What do you like to do, Your Majesty?" She finally asked, raising her head.
Zalthor wiped his mouth slowly as he raised his head, his steel eyes staring at her. She waited for his answer, but he did not answer.
Yet his hands wrapped around the glass cup as he moved it to his lips, intentionally delaying her. He gulped it down before placing the glass back. Yeara pursed her lips together into a thin line—was this man perhaps finding joy in making her feel this way?
He moved the napkin to his lips once more as he wiped the trickle of water that had rolled down his chin, his eyes locked on her.
Yeara unknowingly gulped her saliva as she could not believe just that mere thing could make her feel such a way—butterflies danced through her, her heart racing for the same reason.
The teasing lit in his eyes disappeared like the whiff blown out of a candle as his expression turned back to its unnerving calmness, like what he had done moments ago was just a mere illusion of the mind.
"What was your question?" he asked.
Yeara shifted her gaze trying to calm her breath. This man really must have known what he just did to her — he had to know. She opened her mouth and closed it, before finally shifting her eyes to him as she spoke, trying to steady her voice.
"I was asking about your likes and dislikes," she said, and Zalthor nodded.
"Hmn."
He hummed in response—the kind of hum that signified it was the answer to her question, and it truly was, because he said nothing again.
Yeara's lips trembled, yet she mastered herself before speaking.
"Your Majesty, may I ask why you are behaving so? Is this in response to what I said regarding my history with other men?" Her hands tightened around her fork, her eyes fixed on him, searching his face for answers even though she knew she might find none.
Zalthor grinned sardonically, his eyes flashing with something unfathomable as he nodded.
"Perhaps… perhaps not," he answered as dark excitement returned to his eyes.
"Devil…" Yeara whispered in the lowest voice, so low that the wind could not brush it. Her lips barely moved, which would make them hard to read. Her eyes remained on his lips — but the atmosphere dimmed. Yeara's eyes snapped up as her breath grew ragged. It was like the atmosphere was being controlled…
This man…
Zalthor rose slowly from his seat.
Yeara's heart pounded violently, regret flooding through her. With every step he took toward her, her body trembled.
He stopped directly in front of where she sat. His fingers moved to her jaw, lifting her head. His other hand rested on the table beside her, veins pronounced, the tension in his muscles visible even in stillness.
Yeara's eyes lifted to meet his, her pupils trembling as he leaned closer. His presence overwhelmed her senses—the heat of his touch against her jaw unmistakable, deliberate.
"Say it."
His fresh, minty breath brushed against her face, and the heat of his words made her spine stiffen. Her chest rose and fell as she stared at him.
His eyes held a dark reassurance—as if urging her to speak the word she did not want to utter… or perhaps tempting her. And wasn't that what devils did? They lured you into dangerous things by making them seem irresistible.
Her gaze flickered away, unable to withstand his for long. Zalthor's hands remained on her jaw, neither tightening nor loosening—simply holding her there.
"Devil…" she whispered.
Then she slowly turned back to him, her voice firmer now, edged with defiance.
"You are a devil."
Zalthor's eyes darkened further, his face stripped of emotion. Yet his lips curved wider as he leaned closer—so close that the slightest movement would have made their lips brush.
Even though she was seated, the way he lowered himself to her level made the fork slip from Yeara's hand, clattering loudly against the floor.
Her breath turned unsteady as the tension thickened, intensified by the unreadable calm in his gaze.
"That is right, Yeara. You are getting married to the devil."
His voice was deep, cloaked in cold certainty. The seriousness in his eyes told her he meant every word… but how?
Slowly, he pulled back, releasing her jaw. He lowered his head, his lips brushing against the very spot his fingers had held along her soft jaw.
A quiet sound escaped Yeara as his warm breath grazed her skin. A shiver ran through her before he withdrew, his eyes locking onto hers once more.
"And you are the devil's wife."