S.J.Kincaid

Tyrus was a finicky eater.

He’d try things to be diplomatic, but every morning he had the exact same breakfast, and generally one of the three same lunches. He had several such benign neuroses, like his need to always sit with his back to the wall, or to complete an even number of kilometers whenever he ran. Weights had to be lifted in sets divisible by ten, and if he fell a few short due to an interruption, he would always find his way back to the exercise chamber just to get in the final few he’d missed or it would “vex him all day.” That sort of thing.

One bed.

Tyrus stared a moment. So did I.

Of course, we were publicly engaged. And this was . . . this was normal.

A heat stole under my skin, and I darted a quick glance at Tyrus, caught him doing the same to me. We hadn’t yet shared a bed.

“There looks to be an exquisitely comfortable couch . . . ,” he said.

“You wish me to take it?” I said.

“No, I’d take it, of course.”

“There’s no ‘of course’ to that, Tyrus. You’re the Emperor of the galaxy.”

“I will take it,” he repeated.

How I weakened him. He was so controlled in the face of every setback—except for the prospect of my destruction. I was his weakness just as he was mine, and if anything could override his good sense, it was his fear for me.