I still have no updates for you (sadly), so please accept this VERY rough draft of a future chapter I've been working on ✨✨✨
“You seem to have thought a lot about my marriage,” she remarks. “Any suggestions?”
Still, he doesn’t look up from the paperwork scattered across his desk. “Several,” Baltor says. “The Prince of Dolona, for example. He’s of noble birth, born to a bloodline spanning generations. And if my reports are correct, he has acquired an impressive military background since joining the war effort.”
He pauses, writing something down, and Bloom waits, expecting him to continue.
But he doesn’t. After placing his pen back down, Baltor simply continues his work in silence, as if he hadn’t been mid-conversation moments ago. As if she wasn’t even in the room.
“That’s it?” she asks. “I thought you knew of several matches for me?”
“I do,” he finally replies, deadpan. “However, like the viper you are, you’ve viciously spurned all except the Prince of Dolona; therefore, it’s superfluous to discuss them.”
Her annoyance gets the best of her, and the words burst out of her mouth. “And you?”
The sound of shuffling papers is snuffed out. Everything from the breath in her lungs to the distant cry of seagulls circling the port have fallen silent.
And Baltor.
Baltor is so still Bloom convinces herself the entire planet has screeched to a halt.
She waits. She isn’t sure what for, but the tension in his shoulders warns her to be prepared for anything.
“What of me?”
His voice is hard, but surprisingly calm. However, it does little to ease her nerves. Bloom swallows, fighting to calm her pounding heart. “You don’t consider yourself a suitable match?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I possess wealth, power, and beauty,” Baltor says. “I’m a suitable match for anyone and an overqualified match for most.”
His ego truly knows no bounds. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
“Then what are you asking?”
Her mouth snaps shut. It’s the last thing she wants to do, but it’s everything she needs to know. “I haven’t spurned you ... yet, at least, I don’t think,” she stammers. “Do you not think of yourself as a suitable match for me?”
Hours drag by in mere seconds. Briefly, she wonders if it’s on purpose. Maybe he’s using magic to alter the environment just so he can watch her stew in her indignity. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s used reticence to torture her. With how blatantly he’d expressed his enjoyment in her suffering, she knows he’s not above it.
Then, slowly, he looks up at her.
Regret punches her in the gut.
An absolutely unbearable smirk stretches across his face. “Bloom,” he drawls. “Are you asking me to court you?”
