story - part 40 - fury - 1003 words

Calidris is still curled up warm in my arms when I wake in the morning, that red hair tickling against my throat and smooth skin under my fingertips. There is no flicker of uncertainty, or regret, but a flash of relief at the fact that it was not a dream. I smile and slide my palms up her spine, tracing up the contours of her spine. The curve of her lips and the hint of a flush on her cheeks makes her look sweet, young.

After a moment, her eyes crack open to peer up at me, a sea of green in her face. There is something vaguely puzzled about the expression on her face, as if she is not sure why I am there. It makes my heart wrench, for a moment terrified that she does not remember, or that she is about to panic. Instead her voice comes as a soft murmur, rumbling across my skin.

"What time is it? You should be teaching the Prince." Flickering eyes to the light that washes in through the window, then back up to my face. She makes no movement to pull away, or to get up. She is too comfortable in my arms; if I want to get up, I am going to have to extract myself out from under her.

"It is not that late, is it?" Following her eyes to blink out the window, trying not to be distracted by the fingers smoothing against the side of my neck, and the way she sweeps stray locks of hair back behind my ear. I savor these idle touches, I crave them.

But I am suddenly, acutely aware of how late it is. The stream of light from the window is not the first hints of dawn but a solid, steady light, and I can hear the palace moving around us. Some selfish part of me argues that it is too late now, that I have probably missed his lesson and that I might as well stay here where I am warm and happy. Some other part, the obedient part that has been trained into me, heaves a sigh and I delicately pull out of the bed.

After that, I click into motion, dragging on clothing as quickly as I can and shoving my hair back into a tie. A split second spared to lean down and press a kiss to her forehead, to smooth fingers across her cheeks before I slip out. She murmurs something quiet and unintelligible after me, dragging the blankets up about her in an attempt to make up for the vacuum I leave behind.

I am not terribly late. Ten, fifteen minutes perhaps; I have to stop by my own room to snatch up papers and three books for class, and then I half-run down the halls to the room. Sweep inside, and blink down at the accusatory glare of Tumaire. Something about the way his eyes flash over me [taking in the messy hair, the fact that I am wearing the same clothing as yesterday and wrinkled] gives me the feeling that he knows.

"You are late." Sharp and annoyed. It has that familiar feeling, one I have not missed - he is the Prince and I am the servant, no matter who my father is. He is the one settled and waiting in his chair, a quill and ink in front of him, hands folded neatly against the desktop, and I am the one who comes half-running in with clothing askew and sleep still in my eyes.

"The sun did not wake me this morning." Perhaps I should apologize, but I cannot bring myself to do it. Instead I drop books down on my own desk, stack papers carefully in one corner. I am careful to move as slowly and deliberately as possible, to get rid of that panicked and rushing edge. I can be calm, it does not matter that much if I am a little bit late to one class.

"I have still been waiting for twenty minutes, you know. I was wondering if I should stop by your room and knock on your door, to make sure you got out of bed this morning." The sarcasm in his voice strikes me, catches my attention. He was never sarcastic before, he did not know how to pull it off, he was not nasty enough. He learned that from me.

I am caught off-guard, too surprised to respond immediately. I stare down at him, trying to read through the anger in his expression, trying to figure out how much I have changed him. Before, he was naïve and careless, he did not understand how people felt. Now he is beginning to learn, and use it to his advantage.

"I was not in my room." It comes slowly, a challenge. I meet flashing eyes, deliberately answering the question in his face, allowing a small smile to slide across my own lips. I do not elaborate, but let him draw his own conclusions. I would not want to ruin her reputation, I cannot come out and say where I was, who I was with.

He knows, though. A sudden furious blush comes to his cheeks, I break that haughty expression and make him drop his eyes. His jaw is set into a tight line, hands gripped into fists on the desk. He is still jealous of me, he wants my time and my attention to be his. He hates the fact that I am closer to someone else, that she holds sway over me.

It is strange, but I feel no twinge of guilt at the way I have broken him down, only a certain flash of satisfaction. I move on to the books that I have brought with me, the lesson I have prepared, and he does not protest or question me again, but focuses intently down on his paper and on finishing his work as quickly as possible so that he can escape, and forget.