Chapter Text
He’d barely touched her since they consummated their marriage. Now that he ruled Ravka, he confined himself to three places in the palace: his private bedchamber, his study and the War Room. Alina had just been to the War Room; she once knocked on the door of his study, only to hear a muffled, “not now.”
Their marriage night was quite chaste. When she bent to remove her nightgown, he grasped her wrists and whispered, “you don’t need to do that.”
She furrowed her brow as she looked at his blank face. “But how will you...touch me?”
“Lay down,” he replied. “And I’ll take care of you.”
His touch was gentle and soft, and nothing like before. Their first kiss on the night of the Winter Fete was all tongue and lips and groping hands, his shadows pressing them against each other and caressing her body. But this was— this was like he was handling a piece of glass he was afraid to break!
After that night, Alina wondered why he hadn’t had his way with her.
She really should have seen this coming. In the months leading up to their marriage, the most risque body part he ever kissed was her neck. And now, he barely held her hand.
Alina was quite bored. On the few nights she didn’t have combat training, she’d walk through the gardens and think about Mal, wondering where he was stationed and what he was tracking. Hoping he was wondering about her, too. Marriage and adulthood didn’t stop her girlish dreams from returning to her.
These gardens weren’t as sentimental as the meadow, but she let herself fantasize about Mal’s sturdy shoulders and thick arms, so different from General Kirigan’s.
Perhaps she should write a letter to Mal and see if one of her servants could smuggle it to him.
A bang against her bedroom door startled Alina from her studies on Grisha theory. She slipped a bookmark into her book and carefully walked over to the door.
“Who is it?” She asked.
“I need to speak with you.”
Her husband’s voice, deep and serious, both titillated and frightened her. She unlocked the door and slightly opened it, peering at him through the crack.
“It’s not something bad, is it?” She hoped he could hear the pout in her voice.
Although she was now an adult, Alina was still a petulant little girl at heart.
The Darkling sneered and pushed past her. “Shut the door,” he demanded.
Alina had never seen him in such a sour mood. Rather than test out this new Aleksander, she closed the door and turned to face him.
He wore his usual black kefta and boots. His black eyes narrowed as he stared at her, locks of hair falling onto his forehead like he’d run his hands through his hair gel too many times. The lips she only kissed a handful of times were pursed in a grim line. And Alina’s favorite attribute on him, his hands, his hands , were currently in fists, one clutching a wrinkled piece of parchment—
Oh.
Oh .
Her letter to Mal.
The one where she asked if he could meet her, if he dreams about her like she does him, if he received the coat she had specially made for him.
“I found your little love letter,” he spat. “I must say, your prose is quite purple. Have you learned nothing from all those books you read, little wife?”