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His feelings? My eyes darted up, throat dry. Pulse increasing.
“You may dress exactly how you choose, Clara,” he said. “Do you understand?”
I nodded, wordless.
“If anyone treats you disrespectfully because of it, I’ll deal with them. It’s your body and you have the right to do what you want with it.”
I needed to lighten the mood. He was tense, all strung up and on edge. I was painfully aware of myself and how there was a strange ache between my legs.
Taking a deep breath, I released a shaky laugh.
“So if I can do what I want, can I get a tattoo?” I asked, smiling.
His brow shot up. “Over my dead body.”
“So I can have piercings, but not tattoos?”
“The piercing is traditional, Clara,” he said. “It’s different.”
“You have a tattoo,” I pointed out.
His hand flexed, fisting. The veins below the tattoo above his wrist stood out for a second.
“Just because I do something, doesn’t mean you should do it too.”
“Oh, so do as I say, not as I do?”
“Exactly.”
The waiter returned with our wine. He poured a tiny bit and let Merrick taste it, waiting for his nod before filling both our glasses. The waiter left with our orders and I settled back in my chair. Making sure to keep my thighs closed and my ankles locked.
I wasn’t wearing panties. Not because I was trying to be seductive, the dress was just too thin for it.
Suddenly, I felt out of my depth. Maybe I shouldn’t have come to the lodge with Merrick. I glanced over the room, taking in all the suits and shiny watches. There was a handful of women, but most of them were older than me, and they were all elegant in their classy dresses.
I was the only young woman here and I stuck out like a sore thumb. It didn’t help that I was drawing attention to myself by wearing skimpy clothes.
I took a sip of wine and realized the glass was empty.
Merrick glanced over as I refilled it, but didn’t say anything.
By the time our meal was over, I was thoroughly tipsy. I felt stupid for drinking too much, but I also felt a lot less anxious so I wasn’t sure I regretted it. Merrick ushered me into the hallway and pulled me to a halt.
He knelt in front of me, balancing on one knee.
I froze. “What are you doing?”
He glanced up. “Taking off your heels so you can walk.”
I felt stupid all over again. His lean hand gripped my ankle and lifted it. I flailed and my hand came down on his shoulder, gripping it. His head was bent, light glinting from his black hair.
I wondered how many other women had had the privilege of having the Welsh King get down on his knees and take their heels off. It had to be a lot because he was quick. Like he’d had a lot of practice.
His expert fingers flicked the strap, pulling back. The heels came off in his hand and he rose smoothly.
“Alright, let’s get you in bed.”
He began striding down the hall, my heels hanging from his fingers. I stood there. Paralyzed and drunk, staring straight ahead. It wasn’t a good combination.
