Page 116 of A Dance of Lies

But the shadow disappears a moment later, the light in his eyes returning. “We all have our comforts, Minnow. I wonder if you might be mine.”

I awaken a few hours later as the sun first teases the horizon, a barely visible flush cast upon the sea and sky. And this time, I am at peace.

The soft sound of breathing stirs the air.

Slowly, gingerly, I turn over, still toasty under the warm duvet. Anton’s hair is splayed about the pillow, his lids sealed shut. I withhold a smile when I see the puddle of drool on his pillow, and even more so when a snore pipes through his lips.

We all have our comforts, Minnow. I wonder if you might be mine.

For long moments, I just watch him.

The King of the East is an enigma, my opinion of him shifting every passing day. He is both beloved and despised, admired and envied. Rumors sully him on all sides—rumors that, if they are to be believed, say he is no better than his brothers.

And yet he laid that sword between us.

I wonder if anyone truly knows him at all.

I wonder, too, if his kindness, real or not, might be what breaks me in the end.

Tentatively, I ease up. Take its hilt in my palm.

I lift it from between us and place it on the floor, out of reach, before sliding back into bed. His gesture by placing it there in the first place proved to me I do not need it.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Abreath along the dip of my neck pulls me from sleep once more.

This time, the sun pours generously over the room. I squeeze my eyes shut against the onslaught of light and nuzzle back into a cocoon of warmth.

Only that cocoon is vibrating.

I angle my head and find Anton shaking, a sheen of sweat coating his brow. His muscles are locked, as if tensed for danger. The smooth, bare skin of his chest is damp, too, and his arms come around me, fingers splaying about my abdomen.

A burst of panic jolts me, but I can’t seem to pull away. Not when he looks like he’s in . . .pain.

A nightmare.

Before I can stop myself, I roll over and reach out. Cup my palms over his cheeks. “Anton?”

He does not wake. His hand comes up to grip my wrist, his breathing shallow—

I throw my arms around him, pull him against my chest as if I could protect him, shield him. My lips find a spot just over his brows.

Green eyes, vivid in the morning light, fly open.

I withdraw, my own chest heaving now. “You—you were having a nightmare. I couldn’t wake you.”

He takes a long moment to process my words. Our proximity.

“The sword,” he murmurs.

I bite my lip, unable to voice that, yes, I moved it.

I moved it, perhaps in a state of delirium, because what could I have been thinking? He is a king. Not to mention a charmer, a seducer. And here I am, in his bed, wearing almost nothing. But before I can put distance between the heat of his body and the stuttering pulse of my heart, he slowly props himself up on his elbows and pulls the sheets over my shoulders, saying, “Fates, does it pain me to do that.”

I breathe out, grateful, even as an embarrassed heat rises within me. Until he adds, “You do look like you belong here, however. Truly, you are welcome to stay any time. Orallthe time.”

Again, that mouth. I glare at him. “And what expectations might that impose on me, exactly?”