Page 97 of Dare
The words dropped from my mouth. “Have dinner with me.”
34
Flare
What … did he say?
My fingers rested on his wrist, and his digits lingered in my hair, neither of us moving. As we finally rose in unison, Jeryn stepped into me, and I inched nearer. We hadn’t idled this closely in months, not since that pivotal night in the medical chamber.
The gap of his open shirt revealed too much skin and not enough. Restlessness crept across my fingers, the urge to touch him instinctive, as it had been for a long time.
Surrounded by a thicket of foliage and baking in the sunlight, I beheld his stricken features. The villain prince had spoken without thinking. I enjoyed what that did to his expression, impulsiveness looking rather fetching on him.
His invitation pulsed through my chest. “You want me to have dinner with you?”
The villain prince rubbed the back of his neck, discomfort stringing across his features. “Yes,” he said. “If you’re hungry.”
Amusement lifted the corners of my mouth. “We have dinner together every night.”
“Right. Correct.” He grimaced at himself, growing more tongue-tied by the second. “I meant …”
“You meant …,” I drew out.
The tormented prince cleared his throat, then thrust a hand through all that hair. “I thought … that is to say … I would very much like to …”
It was naughty, but I couldn’t help myself. Mashing my lips together, I kept deliberately quiet and watched this future king fumble, relishing the phenomenon for all it was worth.
Giving up, Jeryn swore under his breath. “I’d be honored if you would … accompany me for something more … ceremonial.”
“Ceremonial,” I repeated, a grin threatening to burst from my face.
Scientific Jeryn would have said unconventional. Royal Jeryn would have said stately.
This Jeryn had searched for a word that mattered to me, one I’d appreciate.
My flesh warmed, his effort driving me to take pity. Trying to be helpful, I ventured, “Are you asking me on a date?”
His eyes tapered as though the concept was beneath us, as though it didn’t measure up to whatever this was. “An engagement,” he proposed. “An intimate meal.”
Of course, not a courtship. Nothing fancy or formal. I smiled openly, because his suggestion sounded far better.
Misinterpreting my silence, Jeryn hastened to add, “I thought it would be nice.” Then his speech slowed. “We could do with something … nice.”
Yes, we could.
The reply rested softly on my tongue. “I’d like that.”
***
That night, I tossed the fifth outfit to the floor. Standing in the textile cellar, surrounded by dresses that cascaded like water and pants as light as petals, I could not pick a thing to wear.
The ancients had tailored their wardrobes with extravagant fabrics spun from all sorts of elements and forgotten materials. Everything felt airy, trimmed in precious lace or exquisite needlepoint, with no beading or gems to weigh them down. Flowing and layered, every option seemed to either swim or float through the air.
While I’d never been the recipient of such clothes, sand drifting for treasures had taught me plenty about finery. I used to dream of wearing something fancy—something pretty. Our kin made do with practical garments for expeditions, and although we were part of the merchant class, few of us could afford the luxuries we excavated.
Chests crowded the cellar, their lids open like gaping mouths. Despite my longing to try on every stitch after a lifetime of fantasies, I’d been limiting my choices to the essentials, not daring to drape myself in anything precious.
I tarried, nervousness and indecision stalling my movements. How I wished Poet were here to help me. During his visits to my cell, that jester had shown up looking equally disheveled and impeccable, his presence turning every head in his sphere. The man oozed dark sex appeal and dressed to slay every room he stepped into, even if filled with hundreds of people. It didn’t take a connoisseur, much less a free citizen, to see that.