Chapter 37

"You like them?" Damion asks.

When I nod, his face doesn't change from the mildly amused expression he's wearing, but the yellow in his eyes darkens to something closer to gold. I watch the shift in him, mesmerized. I wonder what the yellow shade in his eyes means. If the amber is anger---or rage---what do all of the other colors mean? Yellow for happy, maybe?

The lines around his eyes soften, and he finally pulls his gaze from me.

"It's late," he says, "You should get some rest."

He's right. Even after sleeping all afternoon, exhaustion still tugs on me like a weight dragging me beneath surface of the ocean. But there's an electric feeling buzzing beneath my skin and a riot of butterflies rampaging through my stomach.

"I'm not sure I'll be able to fall back to sleep," I admit.

His tired smile turns teasing, "Shall I read you a bedtime story, Princess?"

I snort, amused by the prospect of this intense brooding male reading me a story, "I thought you'd never ask," I joke back, grinning over at him as I tuck myself further into the covers making a show of getting comfortable, "What will you be reading to me your majesty?"

He hums low in his throat, considering. He peers around the room before finally picking up the book laying open on my bedside table. "What have you been reading? I can read to you from what you've already started," he pauses as he looks at the cover and his eyebrows shoot up.

"It's a book on hand languages," I tell him, "I borrowed it from the library. I wanted to learn it so I can speak with Mitra when she's in here. I don't think it's exactly bedtime story material."

Surprise flickers over his face, and I think he's pleased somehow. The same deep gold shade reflects back at me in his eyes.

"You look surprised by that," I say.

"Not surprised," he says, "you're just very different from what I assumed you would be."

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow, "Good different or bad different?"

With a flex of his muscles, he pulls himself up from the chair and wanders over to the book shelf dragging his hand over the books there, searching. He turns back to face me. Leaning casually against the bookshelf behind him, mirth dancing in those intense black eyes that make my body heat all over, "*Unexpected*, different."

He turns back to peruse the shelves behind him and with his eyes off me I can breathe again.

"Well," I say with a smile, "you're different than I thought you'd be, too."

His body stills, and it's silent a moment before he says over his shoulder, "Good different or bad different?" Repeating my earlier question with a lightness that pushes an unexpected laugh from me.

I chew my lip, humming in thought and tap my cheek in an exaggerated show of considering his question.

Good different. *Definitely a good different.*

He's certainly a more skilled kisser than I'd ever would have imagined in my wildest dreams. Even thinking about it now makes my cheeks want to heat, but I refuse to let myself blush.

He's also much more thoughtful and considerate than I ever would have thought that the fabled monster King of the North could ever be. The rumors had led me to believe that he was a savage beast who ruled the shifters with a bloody murderous fist.

The rumors never mentioned that the was kind. That he was thoughtful. That he was attentive. That he was the type of person to give his enemy's daughter a room full of things that would make her comfortable after saving her from a retinue of sadistic soldiers and give her more freedom than she's ever known.

And while he may be as murderous as the rumors hinted at, but it was a byproduct of being protective of those who relied on him. While there's every chance that he could still be manipulating me to get what he wants from my father, and using me against my people, he's never given me any reason to think that. Not when he's had every opportunity to hurt me and wield his power over me, and instead used that power to try to make me happy and comfortable instead.

But there's no way I'd ever be able to tell him that. Definitely not.

I settle on throwing back the same words he'd used for me, "*Unexpected*, different."

Damion chuckles under his breath and it's a surprised, throaty sound that lights me up from the inside out.

His hand pauses on one of the books, and pulling it out of its place on the shelf he settles back down in the chair by the bed.

"I don't think I ever thanked you." I say, suddenly, surpising us both.

"Thanked me? For what?"

I gesture around the the room, "For all of this-the books, the harp."

"I admit that it wasn't entirely selfless," he says, glancing down at the harp, "I do expect you to uphold your end of the deal."

It takes me a moment to recall what he means. To remember the conversation we'd had when I was still his prisoner and I'd teasingly asked him to bring a harp to my room.

*"What do you want a harp for anyway?" He'd asked me.

"Bring one and I'll be sure to tell you."*

For some reason, the memory makes me smile as he comes back across the room and settles back into the chair beside my bed. I can't remember the last time I'd smiled so much, the muscles in my face tight with that fact, but I can't seem to help it. He draws them out of me too easily and I don't want to think too much about that or fight it. I watch as he opens the book in his lap he had chosen, propping it up on his knee. His dark eyes flick back and forth across the page as he begins reading.

The King's voice is smooth and soft as the shadows lining the corners of my room, and I let my eyes drift close so I can better concentrate on his words. I slowly get caught up in the story, losing myself to it, while my previously stiff muscles relax and my racing thoughts begin to settle.

The soft lilt of his voice drifts through the room like a low lullaby, an unexpected comfort that eases me into a soft peaceful sleep.