Obsession (Royally Hot 3)

As if I were sizing up a buck before taking a shot with my crossbow, I got the measure of him. Older than me, significantly so, perhaps twice my age. Dark hair, with a meticulously groomed beard. Too groomed, for my tastes. Slimmer than most of his countrymen, but taller and solidly built. He was dressed extravagantly, with fur trimmings and silk. He was handsome, I grudgingly accepted, but it was clear that he thought more of himself than was warranted. For some reason, the way he sat irritated me deeply. His legs were spread wide, and he sat slightly back from the table, almost as if he were rocking back in his chair. He acted like he was the king of this castle, even though he was a stranger, at least to me.

The eyes of everybody nearby stayed glued on him. I noticed that when he made a joke, the men nearest him laughed a little too loudly. And everybody else seemed compelled to do the same.

Whoever he was, I didn’t like him. Not a bit.

My mother’s elbow in my corset made me wince.

“Nothing melancholy, remember,” she said, without looking at me. I followed her gaze to the door at the far end of the hall where two servants were wheeling in my harp, draped in blue velvet.

My hands went instantly cold and I squeezed my fingers to try to warm them up. Nerves, as always. I felt slightly flushed, and a bit faint. But I took a sip of water and rose from the dais.

Neither my mother nor my stepfather rose from the table. But much to my surprise, Maksim did. He didn’t look at me, keeping his eyes trained down, but the fact that he had instantly risen as I had, as all gentlemen should do, gave me an unexpected shiver of pleasure.

He normally didn’t stand on such ceremony, but it was just the boost of warmth I needed to give me the courage to make my way down the dais and to the harp.

I took my place behind my harp and placed my fingertips to the strings. Then I took one deep, calming breath and began to play. The conversations around me went quiet almost immediately. It was a beautiful instrument and the acoustics of the grand hall were perfect, so it echoed marvelously up against the high arches of the ceiling.

It hadn’t been my intention, but I found myself playing perhaps the most melancholy song I knew. It was the one thing that Maksim had ever complimented me on. I was positioned such that I could see him, just barely, from the corner of my eye. And I could have sworn I saw him smile, just a little bit.

But my thoughts of him were interrupted by a conversation happening to my left. The entire hall was silent, except for the man at the table I had spotted earlier.

“More wine!” He cried, his voice sloppy. “And bring me your best this time. Not this common swill.”

The interruption rattled me, but I kept on playing without pause. In my periphery, I saw one of the serving girls approach him with a pitcher, which she held carefully in both hands. As she refilled his glass, he gave her backside a slap, and his men roared with laughter.

Someone somewhere in the crowd hushed him, which he answered with an even louder, “Shut the fuck up yourself!”

I closed my eyes, focusing with all my might. For a moment, I thought he might have quieted down, now that he had a full glass. But no sooner had I eased into the chorus than the beautiful music from the strings was interrupted by a long, disgusting, exaggerated snore.

Enough. I plucked at the strings hard, all ten fingers on ten different notes, dropped my hands in my lap and stared at him. He pretended to snort himself awake and eyed me with drunken, rheumy, unkind eyes.

Whoever he was, I wasn’t standing for this. It didn’t matter how important he was. Manners mattered. And he was way over the line.

“If you think you could play better than me,” I snapped, “then please be my guest. But if not, I would really appreciate it if I could continue.”

For an instant, nobody moved. Pure stillness. The forest before a kill shot.

But then he rose from his chair. The chair legs squeaked on the marble floor. He stared straight at me. Angry, full of rage and spite. He threw his napkin down and crossed his arms in front of himself.

“Have you heard the one,” he bellowed, speaking to all of us, “about the bride who gets her mouth washed out with soap on her wedding night?”

This man. How dare he. What was he even doing here? Who was he, anyway?

I turned to the dais, for any sort of lifeline from my family. My mother, never one to shy away from having an audience, stood and bowed at him. Preening, too polite. Sickening.