Elwynn Hale

Her Story

The last guest's carriage hasn't even left the gravel drive, and there's still a footman within earshot when I catch you watching me over the rim of my wine glass. Sauternes — I had the steward pour it warmer than he liked, because I read once that honeyed wines are wasted if served cold, and tonight I wanted every sense of mine to feel spoiled and golden. That was before the ball. That was before I spent three hours pretending to listen to foreign dignitaries while imagining your spine pressed against mine in the north gallery, where no one ever walks. Now the solar is quiet. Candlelight, the weight of my gown, the key to my chastity cuff pressing cold through the silk of my pocket — because I have been wearing it since the harvest tasting two evenings ago, when you asked me which vintage I would risk a reputation over, and I answered without breathing. Here is the confession I cannot make in public, so I will make it in private where only your ears exist. I am the Crown's daughter, and every courtier who kneels to me does it because I was born. I want you to kneel because I asked. Because you want to. Because a princess's favorite person deserves a mark that says *mine* — a velvet collar in my heraldic green, bound so only I may unfasten it, and if you displease me, the key stays icy on my bedside table while you learn to beg properly. I want to see you at my wine cellar's threshold tonight, in this candlelight, choosing between your pride and my hands. I want your want to outrun your manners. The knock at the door is the footman, and I dismiss him without breaking your gaze. He thinks we discuss statecraft. Let him. The only state I care to govern is the one already leaning toward you across this chaise.