The Tyrant's Queen

13: her peasant skirt

Was hearing and seeing things after-effects of a strangulation? Because there was no other way for Thalia to wrap her head around Lucien's anger.

Yes, anger.

After calling a woman's name- and after nearly killing her- either by strangulation or by breaking her neck- he was angry? With her?

"Perhaps you forgot, in your drunken state, sire."

Her throat pricked as she spoke- because of the well up of tears, or because of the pressure of his fingers- she could not tell. "But you ordered for me to accompany you to your room-"

"Matia did not tell you? That you are to leave?" His tone was curt, and his eyes, questioning, then falling to her neck.

"N-no-" She stopped, hoarsely. "No, sire. She did not." Was there a mark on her skin?

Had there been a mistake, with the blame now on Matia? "It was very chaotic in the hall, sire. She must've forgotten. Next time, I will remember to-"

"No, Matia does not forget. She assumed you were an exception."

Rubbing his temple with his thumb, Lucien sank into a chair. "Without my permission, Lady Thalia, pray do not enter my bedroom or stay in it. Especially if I am not around, or when I am unconscious."

It would've been easier to mumble a dispassionate yes, if not for that word.

Bedroom. Not even room, but bedroom. Somehow, that word chafed her.

"With all due respect, I did not sneak into your bedroom, sire."

She was glad for the audible raspiness in her voice as she retorted, "You told me to come here, and I was about to leave before you made me stay. By choking me."

A crease formed on his forehead, as his cool blue eyes grazed her face, then her neck.

There was no remorse- at least from what she could discern- from his gaze. It was a surgical, unruffled look, as one would look at water spilled on a rug to mop up, or a crease on a shirt to iron out.

"What would you like?" His question came as a sigh. "Would you like a cigar? Or a drink? Or a new dress?"

"...Pardon?"

"On second thought-"

His gaze shifted to Karlieus's coat, which she'd draped over the other chair. "This is an opportunity. Create an opportunity to chance upon Karlieus again, before the bruise on your neck fades."

Just what was she hearing?

"A husband who not only neglects, but abuses his queen." His finger traced the edge of the table absent-mindedly, and his eyes looked somewhere beyond her- thinking, strategizing.

"That would assuage any guilt Karlieus might feel for desire to commit treason against the king, or romantically involve himself with the queen."

A pawn on a chessboard, a lever in a strategy. That was all she was- and she'd known it from the start.

Why was she rendered so speechless?

"Bring the coat with you."

Glancing at Karlieus's black coat, draped over the chair, Lucien pulled himself up to a standing position. "The next time you stay in my room without permission, there will be no antidote."

He pronounced the threat as trivially and passingly as one would order for milk to be served warm, for the fireplace to be lit.

The threat that determined her distance from the threshold of death.