had lost her family, who was traumatized, steeped in grief.
Resources there were limited, and no one had ever procured her a new wardrobe. She’d had clothing crudely fitted to her before. Hand-me-downs that she’d acquired within the camp.
In her life before the revolution, she was certain she had experienced things like this, but there was a veil drawn over those years, memories she found difficult to access. Everything was reduced down to feelings. Still pictures in her mind. Smells, tastes.
She’d only been six when she was taken away. So much more of her life spent away from the palace than in it.
She was trying to hate it, but in truth it was difficult. The dress she was wearing at the moment was irresistible. She had never imagined she would find a dress irresistible, but she definitely had strong feelings about this one.
The bodice was fitted, soft with iridescent pink vines stitched over the silk. The skirt billowed around her like a pink cloud. And in truth, she would love to hate it for its impracticality. But it was just too pretty.
Though, even if she was having a hard time resenting the dress, she could still easily resent Andres.
“Would you like to see this one, Your Highness?” The woman spoke to Andres as though Zara weren’t standing right there.
“Why not?” He sounded bored, which she found insulting. Though, had he sounded eager, she probably would have been similarly offended. He could not win with her. She had decided.
She would not allow him to. She would not marry him. She would find another way.
Though it has been said you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. And you need his help.
She ignored that thought. Yes, it was true she needed him in some capacity. But she would not be pouring out the kind of honey a man like him wanted. Andres had not been ambiguous about his intent for her. He’d told her last night that if she didn’t leave he was going to...
She felt her skin growing hot again, just as the seamstress moved the screen to the side, removing the buffer that stood between herself and the rather imposing prince.
She drew in a deep breath, her breasts pushing against the tight, structured bodice. She was very conscious of the fact that his eyes were very much focused on said part of her body. He was doing it to make her uncomfortable. There was no other reason. Men did not waste time staring at her chest. Men did not waste time staring at any part of her.
Yes, she had been well protected, prior to being kidnapped and returned to the palace to be used as a political pawn, but it had not seemed to be a particular challenge for the leader of their clan to keep men away from her.
Quite the opposite, Zara felt sometimes as if she repelled people when she walked through a crowd.
The heat in his eyes was certainly not real. Which made it all the more offensive, even if it should have made it less offensive. Things with Andres simply weren’t going to make sense, she had accepted that already.
“Well?” she asked, the word coming out as a command.
He put his hand on his chin as though he were considering. “You certainly look more like a princess than you did yesterday.”
“I suppose it depends on your cultural point of view,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“Indeed?”
“Yes. Among my people the gold makeup is considered the mark of royalty. A mark of beauty. The robe I wore yesterday, the purple with gold thread signified that, as well. This is just a pretty dress.”
“This is couture,” the seamstress said, speaking out of turn, her tone harsh.
“Will you allow her to speak to me like that?” Zara asked.
“Yes. You were offensive,” Andres said.
“My apologies,” she said, not feeling particularly apologetic. It was difficult when she still felt maneuvered. Forced. Imprisoned. “I am tired.” She lifted up the heavy, voluminous skirts and turned, sitting on the edge of the bed, the fabric billowing around her.
“Yes. I imagine trying on gowns all day is incredibly taxing,” he said, his tone dry.
“Is it perhaps as taxing as sitting there watching someone else do it?”
“Probably not as taxing as measuring a fidgeting, surly girl.” He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression laconic. “Elena,” he said, addressing the seamstress, “I’m sure you could use a break. The princess and I can handle things from here.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” The woman was clearly unhappy with being dismissed, leaving her dresses behind for someone other than her to handle. But she obeyed.
Zara didn’t think she would ever get used to that. The fact that ultimately Andres would have to be deferred to, and beyond him Kairos. She fell somewhere beneath the two of them.
It isn’t as though you had any power back in the encampment. People put you on a pedestal, but you had no choices.
She ignored herself again, focusing instead on the growing sense of dread she felt as Elena walked out of the room, leaving her alone with Andres.
“So?” She lifted her hands, then brought them back down, gripping the fabric of the gown. “Am I suitably altered into your preferred image?”
“You have a ways to go yet,” he said, his tone dry. “You still look a bit wild.”
“Perhaps because I am a bit wild. Have you ever thought that no amount of work will change that? No matter how sleek you make me look, it will not change what’s inside?”
“As far as I’m concerned, outward appearance is the best place to start. Changing who you are on the inside is a much more difficult task.”
“Speaking from experience?”
One side of his mouth curved upward. “Experience at not managing to change it, certainly.”
“If you haven’t managed to change after all your years of living in this palace, what makes you think you will manage to change me and in only a couple of months?”
“I don’t have to change you, not really. I only have to make it look as though you have changed. And that, I have ample experience with.”
“I thought the ultimate goal was taming.”
The other corner of his mouth turned up, and he was smiling now. Yet she didn’t get the sense that there was any humor in it. “Let me ask you this. Do you think I am tame?”
She looked him over, at the perfectly tailored lines of his suit, the aristocratic cut of his features. He could have been carved, rather than made. A Greek statue with life breathed into it, rather than a man born of a woman.
He was beautiful. She found nothing feminine about the descriptor. She would call the forest, the mountains back in Tirimia beautiful, while they were, at the same time, uncompromising and dangerous. She had a feeling Andres
