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"Please?" he adds. "Come, I'll show you how to make it better."
He adds some kind of thick, creamy milk himself rather than letting a servant do it, then leans back to let me try the damned thing again.
This time, when the drink hits my tongue, I barely conceal a moan.
"Better?" he asks, the corpse-like facade back in place.
"Much," I nod. "Why did you wait until after I tried it to make it taste good?"
With a shrug, he answers, "Some people prefer it plain." An almost mischievous look fills his face before he concedes. "And I needed a laugh."
"You're a terrible host," I tell him honestly.
"I think I've been the most gracious host," he argues. "I let you live when you arrived, and I didn't have to do that. I protected you when someone wanted to kill you, even though it cost me a handful of subjects. I moved you into the queen's suite to keep you safe. I have given you both wine and coffee."
"Technically, Raya gave me the wine," I comment through gritted teeth.
All humor drops from his face. "There is nothing Raya does that I don't give her permission to do. Do not go looking for an ally in my home, Elva. You won't find what you're looking for."
"Yes, you've made it perfectly clear that I am utterly alone here, Your Majesty. In fact, I have not even seen the footman that traveled with me since I arrived."
"Han is fine," he assures me. "He's staying with the other footmen in their wing."
I scoff, "And why should I believe you?"
"Do or don't," he takes another sip of his own beverage. "Truthfully, I do not care either way. If he is dead, what do you plan to do about it? He was not protected by your people for this little venture, so I would be well within my rights as king to eliminate an unwelcome guest."
"You didn't."
"No, I didn't," he says again. "But I still might. He was sniffing around where he didn't belong. And for your sake, one of my guards gently redirected him. But if it happens again, make no mistake, I will do whatever I deem necessary."
Why would Han be looking around? He's just supposed to be here to transport me back and forth.
"How will I get home if you kill him?" I ask instead of the real question I have about it all.
He considers me for a moment. "I wouldn't worry about that quite yet if I were you. We haven't even begun negotiations, and already, we can't seem to get along."
"Frankly, I don't really care if we get along, Your Majesty. I only-"
One of his servants suddenly falls to the floor, going so completely still there's not even a twitch of his body nor a slight movement of his chest rising up and down. Terror overtakes me, my hand freezing halfway through lifting my drink to my lips.
The king clears his throat. "If you remember, I did warn you I didn't want to hear you call me Your Majesty again, didn't I?"
I can't take my eyes off the corpse lying on the floor beside my chair. Can't do anything but listen to the roaring in my ears.
The king grabs a pastry off the table before us, tearing into it as if there isn't a dead fucking body joining us for breakfast this morning. He watches me, that same taunting almost-smirk on his face as if daring me to retaliate. But what can I do in the face of this kind of power?
Nothing.
For the first time in my life, I am utterly, hopelessly powerless.
So I do what I can. I take a sip of coffee, grab a sickly sweet pastry, and swallow my anger like I've done for years. The only familiar thing here is the sting of biting back my rage. I can take comfort in that one small piece of home.
The king seems disappointed at my lack of reaction, but the last thing I need to do is encourage his madness by giving him a reason to do something even more heinous.
"Do you have gloves to wear today?" he asks me suddenly.
I stare at the king, not seeing him. Not really. All I see is the corpse, stuck to the front of my mind, commanding my attention so much so that nothing else around me exists but the corpse and the pastry I've torn to shreds sticking to my fingertips. "Gloves?"
