Of Marriage and Murder ✔️ | Of Crimes and Crowns Book 1

fifteen : of prestige and politics

Journalists shouted questions, crowds clamoured, and guards forcefully pushed people into forming a path for the royal couple to walk through. The walkway was carpeted; someone had had the foresight to roll out a rug for the two to walk along, hand in hand, grinning and waving. Sunlight beamed down on them, a rare occurrence even in Xianggang - its winter weather usually consisted of muted skies, brisk winds, and clouds threatening to spill over with rain, not unlike Natasha's current mood.

"Smile," she murmured to Connor, whose expression was more of a grimace than any real expression of joy or affection.

He obliged, and shifted so that his hand rested at the small of her back. Natasha could feel the heat of his fingers like a brand, burning through the fine linen of her gown. Warmth seemed to radiate out from the place where he touched her. She tensed, rolling her shoulders back, lifting her chin. Was she so weak as to be swayed by the touch of a man who, despite all appearances and circumstances, despised her? I think not.

They reached the end of the walkway, where a podium had been set up. The crowd fell silent; tension replaced the excited whispers. Connor helped her up the steps, then stood off to the side as she addressed the gathered throngs, first in Arlean, then in Xianggang. "Good afternoon, all. I am honoured to be here, where my late father stood before me, and to speak with you all. Thank you for inviting me into your country, into the beautiful lands that my mother, the late Queen Lillian of Arlea, hailed from."

She swallowed thickly, tears burning in the corners of her eyes at the mention of her parents. Natasha scanned the crowd, finding diplomats and reporters among them, then continued, "I hope that this visit may further foster Arlean relations with Xianggang, and that our two nations may be reconciled once again. Thank you."

She stepped off of the podium, her motions rote, limbs stiff from the sea journey despite travelling in the very lap of luxury; she was numb, cold, as dead as any of the corpses left in her wake. It had been years since she had felt alive, since she had found drive in anything but her work. What was the use in it, in opening her heart to others when everyone she'd ever loved had left her? Natasha was loved and left and alone. Always, always alone.

But when Connor helped her off the stage, when he kept his hand on her arm, when his touch made her feel like she'd been flayed open and lightning was dancing over her nerves - it might have been false, a show for the people watching.

But with him by her side, she felt more like fire, and less like ice. And everyone knew that flames were never alone for long.

• • •

They arrived at the Summer Palace in a horse-drawn vehicle courtesy of the the Xianggang government, and while it had been afternoon when they'd sailed into the city, it was nightfall when they made it to the royal residence.

Far above them, the new moon made light seem a distant memory, and grey clouds parted to reveal velvety swaths of dark sky. A chill breeze stirred her hair —which was down in loose waves rather than piled in some elaborate up-do—as a footman helped first Connor, then herself from the carriage.

They entered the reception hall, and were ushered across mosaic-tiled floors and past lacquered walls to a dining room. Despite the long table and plethora of chairs, they seemed to be the only people dining there, seeing as there were only two places set. They were shown to their seats, and told that supper would be served shortly. Connor sat next to rather than across from her, forcing a servant to move his place setting.

They didn't speak, unsure of what there was to say. Or perhaps they didn't need to.

Connor's fingers brushed hers, and then - then they held on. Her breath caught in her lungs; her body had forgotten how to survive. Every nerve ending in her body danced at the touch, alive, sparking something like desire. She was aflame.

Natasha allowed her body to uncoil, to relax, to let the wanting sweep over her and wash out the tension and worry, fear and grief, that she constantly carried with her. This was only a touch, only the clean-burning hunger fuelled not by tangled emotions but by carnal lusts.

Connor's hand traced over her arm, fingers hot against her bare wrist. The dress she wore had no sleeves, and she was glad of it now, as he pressed his mouth to her knuckles, trailed it in a heated blaze up to her shoulder. Her collarbone. Her throat.

She ought to move, either to reciprocate or push him away. But her body was not her own. Surely her it was not, when her own body had never responded so feverishly, had never been so overwhelmed by such a simple touch. Surely it was some other girl's head that tipped back as Connor's nose grazed her neck, his breath a warm puff against her skin. Surely it was not her fingers that came up to thread themselves through his hair and pull him closer. Surely -

"Would you like some wine?" A server stood by the table.

Connor righted himself and moved away from her; she was cold and alone again. "Yes, thank you," she managed to say.

Natasha wrapped her fallen shawl tightly about herself and picked up the full wine glass, taking a deep swallow. Connor gave her a knowing smirk as she edged further away from him.

Infuriating!

Angry, she reminded herself. She ought to be incredibly angry with him, for putting on such a display when any of the staff could walk in and gossip about them. When anyone could see them, making a scene.

But she couldn't be. She had done the same thing on the ship, had essentially asked him to pretend they were in love from the moment she had married him. From the moment he had picked up that pen, from the moment he had slid the ring on her finger—she had asked him to pretend.

So why did she hate him so for doing as she asked?