"Calm yourself, Yeara. He must have gotten a new marking recently," she whispered to herself, though even her own words felt hollow, impossible to believe.
What was wrong with her?
Or was it her?
Zalthor, noticing her hands frozen in place, spoke.
"Do you like it?" he asked, his voice steady. Yeara's hand trembled slightly as she gave a slow, hesitant nod.
She did like it… she really did. But confusion clouded her thoughts. Perhaps back at the motel, she had simply misread it—woken up in an unfamiliar place, disoriented, and seeing things wrong.
Her hands loosened within his hair, and the red strands fell gently back to his shoulders.
"I am finished. I have come to realize that, were I to arrange it neatly, you would most certainly undo it by morning."
"And how are you so certain of that, my dearest Koalla?" he inquired.
Yeara's eyes moved to glare at him through the mirror, her gaze shifting from his eyes to his lips, which were so…
'No, Yeara, behave yourself,' she scolded herself inwardly.
"The measure of pride you possess could purchase an entire estate," she said truthfully.
Zalthor laughed, his laughter low and amused, his eyes glinting before he added,
"Then I must require a greater measure of pride, if I am to purchase the whole world for you."
Yeara's lips parted, near speechless, a small smile forming. This man truly was good with words and possessed the ability to leave one without speech, and in that moment, he had made her words his own.
"You flatter me far too much, Your Highness," she whispered carefully, as Zalthor's eyes fixed upon her reflection.
"Flattering is a most different matter when I am equally capable of it," he replied seriously.
Yeara's gaze lifted to meet his, and her breath heaved softly, the quiet sound of it seeming almost loud within the stillness of the room
Silence fell.
She finally shifted her eyes away from his through the mirror and spoke.
"We should retire to bed; it is already getting late," she said, turning toward the bathroom. She would need to change this dress back into her nightgown.
She took a step, but Zalthor's hands grasped her wrist, drawing her toward him. Yeara gasped as she toppled onto his lap, now seated there, her eyes wide with shock as they met his.
"Y… Your Majesty, what are—" Her words died on her lips the moment she saw the sharpness in Zalthor's eyes.
"Say that again, and observe what I shall do." The cold gravity in his tone made her body freeze. She bit her lip hard and shifted her gaze.
She had forgotten that he preferred she not use his title in their private moments, yet the way he had spoken carried a sting; she had not expected such coldness in his eyes.
Her gaze drifted away, slightly wounded by his words. Zalthor, noticing her unease, gradually calmed, realizing he had frightened her more than he intended.
His hands moved toward her hair but halted midway when he felt her body flinch ever so slightly. His eyes grew dark, only for the look to vanish instantly as he realized the depth of the fear he had stirred in her.
Yeara turned to him, her expression grave.
"N… never speak to me in that manner," she whispered, her voice trembling softly, almost painfully.
Before Zalthor could react, her hands found the back of his neck, drawing him closer. He allowed it, curiosity stirring within him at her next move.
To his mild surprise, her soft lips brushed against his neck—then she bit sharply onto his Adam's apple.
Zalthor's eyes widened—the smallest fracture in the distant king's composure.
His gaze remained fixed upon her, noting the satisfied curve of her lips. Her head tilted confidently to the side, arms crossed, as she lingered on his lap, as though daring him to return the same coldness towards her next time.
"I may punish you as well. I hold the principle of equality, and now it is my turn to enforce it. But fear not—this is merely the tip of the iceberg; consider it but the introductory measure of my penalty," she declared, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on his. A dry chuckle escaped his lips in response.
It was unlike his usual demeanor; her gaze lingered on his perfect teeth as his smile widened, drawn in particular to his canines.
"Oh, you silly Koalla. You never fail to surprise me," he said, his hands reaching to pinch her nose gently. Yeara's heart skipped a beat.
She lowered her gaze to her hands, her eyes tracing the lines of her palms before she spoke.
"I bet, had you chosen a lady to marry…and not me—these would have been the very words you spoke to her," she said, her eyes locking on his, searching for answers, unaware of the faint jealousy woven into her tone.
"Had I not met you, I would not have taken a wife."
Yeara's gaze deepened, studying him. The seriousness in his eyes told her he was sincere, but she still did not understand why he had chosen her—there was nothing special about her.
"Well…you know that the Duke and Duchess are not my biological f…family," she spoke softly, her gaze lowered as she moved her hands to her lap, her fingers fidgeting lightly.
There was nothing special about her, and even though most of the people in the village thought she was perfect, she knew she wasn't—and many had no idea of it.
Zalthor observed her as he hummed in response.
"I am aware."
There was a slight pause as Yeara felt Zalthor's finger move to her chin, raising it so she could look at him once more.
"I did not marry you because of that, Yeara," he spoke. She nodded, her eyes slightly hurt now thinking of it; she really did miss her real family.
Her eyes watered as she nodded, locking her gaze on his.
"W… well, I do love them. I love my family… but I miss… I… my real fam… i…" Her throat cracked, and her words trailed off as tears began to fall.
She moved, and before Zalthor could react, her hands wrapped around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. Her face pressed against his chest, shielding him from seeing her crying.
Her lips trembled, the soft sounds of her sobs filling the quiet room. She did not understand why the tears would not cease; his embrace was meant only to comfort, gently urging her to release her grief—not to mention the way his large hands slowly caressed her back.
Zalthor remained still, his hand tracing the curve of her back as his eyes followed the line of her slender neck through the mirror. She truly surprised him—just sitting there, yet revealing so much.
One moment she was icy and composed; the next, she was unexpectedly emotional. It startled him in the most unforeseen way.
Yeara's face flushed as she pulled away quickly, wiping her tears. She turned to stare at herself in the mirror—and gasped as he covered her face.
Zalthor's lips curved into a wide smile at her reaction. This woman, he thought, was truly something extraordinary.
Yeara sprang from his lap, a flush of embarrassment rising to her cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. With parted lips, she hurried into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.
Zalthor shook his head in disbelief, his hands moving to his hair… something like a curl brushing his lips, forming what could almost be called a small smile.
The room fell still.
Then his eyes flashed a dark, blood-red hue, like a drop of crimson swirling in clear water, circling through his pupils.
A low, almost unfamiliar growl slipped from his lips before…
His fangs elongated.