Zalthor's eyes rested on her as she locked her gaze on him. The sweet scent of fear that cloaked around the carriage diminished.
"If you want to call my name, at least say it the right way, Your Majesty." She warned.
Zalthor's eyes widened ever so slightly— almost barely—before his blankness returned.
His hands moved as they wrapped around her neck. Yeara's eyes grew wide in stupefaction, a wave of shock crashing unto her. The way his large hands wrapped so perfectly around her slender neck, as if it was made for that, she gulped, her gaze unwavering on his despite the thudding of her heart. The heat of his palm collided on her neck, making her stomach flip in the most surprising way.
Zalthor felt her gulp slightly in the middle of his hand. He said nothing as the silence spoke the words.
"Slender as a goose." The words rolled smoothly as he removed his hands, shifting his gaze from her as he focused back to himself, as if he had not just done something dangerous to her.
'The audacity,' Yeara said to herself, unable to say that out loud. She would not dare…after all, her neck was as slender as it would be to kill.
"Were you about to kill me?" she asked, as her body froze by the sudden laughter that escaped the carriage.
It was dry, cold, and mocking. His face was blank. Yeara just stared at him. She could not believe that laughter could sound so dead. Normally, laughter brought joy, happiness, and sometimes even contagious warmth, but this was the first time that laughter wrapped dread to her bones.
His laughter died instantly as he spoke.
"That would be no fun, my little koala," he spoke calmly as Yeara stared at him with raised brows.
"Koala?" she repeated softly, the word coming out louder than intended, almost curiously.
"Mhm." Zalthor hummed deeply, his Adam's apple bobbing ever so slightly by the vibration of it.
"You both have the same similarities," he added.
Yeara's eyes locked onto him. He was not even facing her, but then he turned to her eyes calm watching her as she stared at him, as if thinking of how they both had similarities. Zalthor leaned in.
"You are both dumb," he deadpanned.
Yeara's lips pressed to a thin line, disbelief crossing her features. The way this man insulted her so backhandedly made her blood boil. She shifted her gaze away, her hands pressing to her gown hard.
She took in a few deep breaths to calm herself down. If she had not gone down to get that book at the downstairs library, she would not have seen him — and said she would marry him out of desperation. Maybe that way she would have at least found a way to end this marriage.
She sighed softly as she leaned her head against the chair. She looked outside, refusing to turn her gaze to that proud, high-ego man.
She looked outside at the moving view of trees in the night; the stars shone brightly, a complete contrast to what Yeara was feeling. She wondered why he did not answer her earlier question. Surely there were lots of smarter and more suitable women he knew.
Why her?
She tried her best not to think of how she would have to stay with this heartless man for two days on this journey.
The sound of the moving carriage and the horses' hooves enveloped the quiet, becoming a surprisingly comforting lullaby to Yeara.
Not long after, her eyes grew tired. She closed them… then she opened them as she did not want to sleep. She could not—what if, while she slept, this man strangled her to death?
'Don't sleep, Yeara… you cannot let your guardian… I mean your guard… you… your…'
Her words died down in her head as she drifted to sleep.
Minuites passed as her calm breathing seeped sweetly yet slowly into Zalthor's ears. He moved his gaze to her. The way she slept — anyone would wonder how she managed to: her head curled to the side, both hands resting atop her lap, while her posture faced opposite to where her head lay. The carriage shook slightly because of the stony path.
It was sure if Yeara stayed like this, she would most likely have a headache and body ache.
Zalthor's hands moved to her, resting on her face. He gently pulled her to him as he rested her head on his lap. Yeara unconsciously moved her face to rest well on the more comfortable feel. She turned, curling her legs where she lay on the soft fluffy chair, moving her hands as she wrapped them around his waist while leaning her face more toward his crotch area.
Zalthor stiffened a fraction.
He cleared his throat, his hands moving to her hair as he ran his fingers through it. The white strands on his palm—he removed his hands as he shifted his gaze away, looking outside.
Of course, he was not marrying her for love. He had a reason. She was the cure he needed, but the only way was to marry her and be one with her. That was what would…
His gaze shifted back to her sleeping form momentarily. The way she slept so freely, like she had no care in the world — nobody would think she was the same person who had called him names back at the garden path.
Time passed, and finally the carriage stopped. Outside the carriage were huts and cottages. It was obvious that they had now reached a village from their journey in the endless forest road path.
The coachman stepped down as he walked into the motel that seemed to be the best so far he had come across while looking for a place for the king.
Zalthor had requested this, which was different. Normally they went to the palace straight, as there was no stopping by, but he guessed this was because Zalthor was no longer alone.
Not long after, he returned. He opened the door as he bowed.
Zalthor's gaze rested on him as he waited for him to speak.
"Your Majesty, this is the best in this village. The room may not be to your taste, but it would do."
Zalthor moved. He carried Yeara into his arms as he stepped out. The coachman turned his face to the side, as he was not used to this at all — especially from His Majesty.
"The best room is the only one at the top floor. The room has been opened; the key is inside," the coachman spoke as Zalthor walked into the place without saying a word. The motel had a two-story building—one up and one down.
The down had lots of rooms, but the up had only one, given it was the best. They specialized that place just in case dukes or lords came for emergencies.
Zalthor walked effortlessly as if Yeara weighed nothing. He entered—the air grew thick. The woman who stood at the side shuddered as her gaze impulsively lowered. She could not even raise it.
Zalthor climbed the stairs, his footsteps calm and controlled. He finally reached the door, pushed it open, entered, then shut it.
"Click."
He locked the door as he walked to the large bed, gently laying Yeara down.
The room was not as large as the rooms he usually entered. It had a table and chair at the side, a large sofa, and a bathroom at the middle—and a king sized bed.
Zalthor lowered himself, laying her down carefully. Her body moved slightly, her lashes still resting close to her cheeks. It moved again, as if trying to adjust to the new feel. Zalthor's eyes locked onto her face.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
He shifted, lowering himself carefully. His large hand wrapped gently yet attentively around her foot as he removed her heels. He moved them to the floor and covered her with the duvet.
His dark eyes moved to her closed ones again, some strands of his red hair falling across his face as he spoke. His hands brushed them back skillfully, his words chilled yet resolute.
"You cannot run from me again."
He turned, his eyes flashing with something deep and unspoken as redness cloaked around the midnight ones.
"Never."