I sighed mentally. Was he ready to hear all of Calanthe’s secrets? I supposed we’d have to plunge in. We’d tied our fates together—whether I’d chosen this or not—and he’d have to know things about me. I’d hoped for a little more time than this, but so it went.
“I am the Flower Queen, bearer of the orchid ring and heir to the Orchid Throne in more than simple right of birth. I am Calanthe’s daughter as much as My father’s.”
Con frowned still, but his hands stroked my bare arms almost soothingly, encouraging me to continue.
“My mother…” How to explain? “She wasn’t what you think of as human. My father was mostly a man like you, but My mother was a daughter of Ejarat, elemental.”
He didn’t understand. I could see it in his eyes. Con was a man of the rocks he carried, one who’d walked through fire and dealt in transactions of flesh and blood. I might as well tell him I could fly.
“Old magic,” I said, as if that explained everything. In truth, it explained a great deal for those who knew. “From when the land and the people were extensions of each other.”
He studied me, mental pieces fitting together.
“And your hair?” he asked, doggedly pursuing the question.
I wrapped my fingers in the trailing, tangled locks of his. “When it grows out, it’s not a human color or texture. Anyone who looks at Me would know I’m not human. That I’m born of the ancient magic.”
He picked up my hand. I’d discarded my nail tips in the dark, so as not to scratch him, and now he studied my fingertips, as if confirming something noticed in passing. “Your nails, too,” he said. “They look like flower petals.”
“Yes. Worse if not trimmed.”
“And your skin.” He stroked my arms, then rubbed a finger over one spot where our sex play had worn the makeup off, clearing it more. “Here it’s like the pattern of bark, though it feels like skin.”
“The patches come and go.” I hesitated. “I get more as I get older.”
“All right,” he said, rubbing my arms once more and setting me away from him, looking me up and down.
“That’s it?” I asked. “Just ‘all right’?”
He shrugged a little. “You’re my wife. I vowed to take all of you to me. And it falls to me to keep you safe now. If hiding yourself is what it takes, then all right.”
Unexpectedly, my eyes filled with tears and my throat clogged. All those years of memories flooded into me in a storming rush of old grief, rage, and humiliation. I’d hated being bald. When my hair first changed from baby fluff and began growing in—pink, gold, silver, green, and blue, some strands wildly curling, other locks like viny tendrils, others ruffled as orchid petals—I’d railed at it. I wanted normal hair, flaxen and silky like Tertulyn’s. It wasn’t fair that I had to be so odd, that I had to be bald and wear the horrible wigs, that I had to cover my hands and wear gowns from neck to toe, and thick makeup on the rest.
Over the years my ladies had crafted beautiful wigs for me, developed the makeup to cover my odd skin, the jeweled nails to hide my own. They’d helped me create a veneer of the beauty I lacked on my own. Tertulyn adopted the same styles, in comfort and solidarity.
When the court began to emulate us, to don similar distortions to look like their queen and her most favored lady, I hadn’t known how to feel.
All along I’d wanted to look like them. And they didn’t have the wit to understand how blessed they were to be normal.
“Don’t weep,” Con said roughly. He cupped my face, his thumbs wiping away the tears that spilled over.
“I’m sorry I’m so ugly,” I whispered.
He looked incredulous. “You are beyond lovely, Lia.” Again he passed wondering fingers over the subtly patterned area on my arm, where the golden scales of bark drifted to my elbow. With infinite care, he ran a big hand over my scalp. I shivered at the caress, so strangely arousing on that tender skin. “You have a beautifully shaped skull.”
I burst out laughing, wet and unladylike. “What?” I demanded.
He grinned, unbothered. “You do. Elegant. Without the wig, you’re all big eyes and gorgeous mouth.”
I opened that mouth to retort, but he took it in a deep kiss, one hand cupping my head and the other going around my waist, pulling me against him. His rising erection spoke clearly of his continued desire. Tempting to take him back to bed, but I was sore.
He ran his hands over my naked body, first soothing, then pausing here and there. I thought he looked for more signs of odd coloration, but no. “I hurt you,” he said gruffly. “You’re bruised. All over.”
“I don’t mind. I heal quickly—and I’m tougher than I look.”
Con didn’t move immediately. “Will your Glory report you in good health, seeing the marks of my hands?” His fingers drifted over a purpling bruise on my hip, where he’d gripped me in the intensity of his lust.
“Darling Conrí.” I took his hardened shaft in my hand and stroked it, then squeezed hard and pinched the tip. Shock and arousal fired in his eyes. “This is the Flower Court. Every woman out there—except the Glory, who is an innocent, but even she will have heard gossip—knows that pain can intensify pleasure. They will envy My lover who wanted Me so badly he left his handprints on My skin.”
His mouth twisted in a rueful grimace. “If you say.”
“Yes. And you will learn to temper your touch, when to be gentle with Me and when to be rough. There is delight in both.”
He grunted, unconvinced.
“And I’ll learn to be tougher.” No more game playing, pretending to be Anure’s coy concubine. I’d revealed myself as his enemy, so I’d be the worst enemy he could have.
“You’re as tough as they come.” Smiling crookedly, Con looked torn, oddly subdued. “Still…”
“You’re a strong man,” I noted with a wry smile.
“A brutal one, you said.” He regarded me seriously.
I gave him my full attention, so he’d know I wasn’t brushing him off with a convenient lie. “I think you can be brutal because your life has called for it. Your brutality and ruthlessness have served you and your people well—and I expect you to use them to serve Calanthe.”
He smiled in feral anticipation. “Then you agree we’ll fight.”
“We don’t have a choice.” And the time for lying abed was over. We had a war to plan.
As if coming to the same realization, Con studied me, running a hand over my tender scalp and making me shiver. “Anure can’t know this about you.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant it wasn’t possible Anure already knew, or that he mustn’t ever know. It didn’t matter; both were true. “No, Anure doesn’t know. He only knows that he wants what Calanthe has and he can’t have it without Me. When the false emperor came here long ago, My father enchanted Anure just enough that his wizards couldn’t detect it and—”
“Anure doesn’t have wizards, or believe in magic,” Con interrupted me.
“So he’d like the world to think,” I said simply, letting him work it out.