Her dreams were strange. She woke with the first rays of dawn through the cracks in the curtains, steadying her breathing with an effort, and fighting her disorientation with her usual mantra: I am with him. This is our room. The trial is over. It wasn’t the morning routine she would have chosen, but it beat the many likely alternatives. It was only while sleeping that she had time to ruminate over her memories, her failures, and wonder how she'd come to be spared.
Croe swung her legs out from the silk sheets, padded across the soft carpet toward their bathroom, stretched her arms over her head. Her footfalls were light, silent even over gravel, but in this room her movements were so quiet she could have mistaken herself for a ghost. Mallos’ personal poltergeist. Maybe succubus would have been more accurate, though her efforts had been frustrated by their daughter’s constant presence, since she’d learned to walk. Her mouth quirked into a wistful smile as she opened the bathroom door and looked over her shoulder, to where her lover still slept…though not for long, she predicted.
Sure enough, by the time she was showered and blow-dried and striding back into the bedroom, wearing nothing but black lace pants, Mallos was no longer sprawled in sleep. Croe altered course, entering the living room with a smirk. The expression was for both of them, as their identical black eyes slid up to her, shining in such different ways. For a beat, she just admired him, half-reclined on the sofa amidst the flotsam of childhood, still looking for all the world like a god of virility…to her, at least. Her eyes travelled appreciatively over his bare chest, the low-slung joggers he’d taken to wearing since their daughter all but moved into their bed. But then Ángela sprinted over to her, unbelievably fast for a creature that could barely coordinate her feet, and wrapped around her legs like a boa constrictor.
“Good morning, monito.” Croe had many nicknames for her Ángela, but all of them meant “monkey.” Her hand caressed the tiny head, brushing a lock of black hair from her brow, before Mallos stole her attention back with a kiss. He was so far away, kept distant by the tiny body between them. She made a sound that was half-appreciation, half-longing in her throat.
She opened her eyes when he spoke, the words so close she felt them on her lips. Her grin was wicked. But her words were measured.
“You know I have to ask, first,” she murmured, her eyelashes brushing against his cheek. It was uncommon caution, but Croe did not want to jeopardize her hard-won freedom by scoffing at the King’s prescribed limits. But surely, they had earned a min-vacation? She’d been on her best behavior, the very best version of herself, for months. Her thoughts brushed his carefully, as if even in their minds they might be overheard by little, tantrum-prone ears: why don’t you take her, while I get dressed and beseech my parole officer for leniency?
|
 |