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xjoonchildx · 2 years

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kanalia | jhs x reader |chapter four: good men and temptation

banner by the amazing @kth1

⚜️summary: secrets and uncertainty plague a young queen in her arranged marriage to a kind but distant king. the farther she drifts from her husband, the closer she gets to one of his most trusted men.

⚜️pairing: queen!reader x royalguard!hoseok

⚜️rating: mature, 18+

⚜️genre: royal AU, historical AU, smut, slow burn & pining

⚜️warnings: infidelity (it’s complicated, y’all) mentions of pregnancy, fertility issues. OC struggles with depressive thoughts and episodes.

⚜️word count: 10K

⚜️notes: thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who has continued to follow this story. i went through a period of terrible writer's block and self-doubt over the course of this chapter and it would not be complete without my fic accountability coach and A1 since day one @hobi-gif. also a huge thank you to @yeoldontknow and the possums who lent me their amazing eyeballs and brains -- i love you guys so much @wwilloww @reliablemitten @miscelunaaa you guys aren't just amazing writers, you're amazing people. i hope you guys enjoy this chapter 💕

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There was a time when you’d been certain the thing you wanted most was for the King to suffer.

You would fantasize about it; spend your waking hours longing for it – certain the only thing that could bring you some semblance of peace was your husband’s utter distress. Certain that seeing him broken would be the only way to feel whole.

But it’s strange, isn’t it?

The heaviness with which he drops into the ornate wingback chair at your bedside does not make you feel any lighter. The sober expression on his face as he regards you does not make you feel in any way vindicated. Nor is there any triumph to be had in the guilt that seems to radiate from his every pore, subtle as a beacon.

“How are you feeling?”

You stifle a sigh. It’s the King’s second visit to your chamber today alone and by now there is little polite, meaningless conversation left to be had.

“Much the same as I felt two hours ago, Your Grace,” you answer, regretting the blunt edge to your words when his face falls. You’re careful to soften your tone as you add, “Which is to say much improved. Thank you.”

A heavy quiet falls over the chamber again. You can’t make out the sound of the maids walking the halls outside or the ever-present din of chattering footmen on the floors below. Even the motes of dust in the air seem suspended in place, hanging motionless in the shafts of sunlight that stream in from behind your heavy curtains.

“I’ve yet to leave this bed but I think I’m feeling a bit stronger today,” you offer feebly, speaking only when the King seems to have resigned himself to silence. “The doctor assures me this is a passing malaise, nothing more.”

Your husband nods, the corners of his mouth lifting in a weak attempt at a smile.

There was a time when you might have relished the melancholy on his face. Might have found the uncharacteristic slump of his shoulders gratifying. Or taken some sordid pleasure in the way he smooths his damp palms over the thick weave of his breeches, over and over again.

But it’s strange, isn’t it?

None of it brings you any satisfaction. Seeing the King wounded does not make you less wounded. And his unhappiness does not in any way alleviate your own.

“I’ll be sure to share the details of your recovery with the many people who’ve asked after you,” he says with a joyless chuckle. “I think they’ll have my head if I don’t bring them good news in short order.”

But is Lord Jung among them?

As they so often do, your thoughts wander from the man before you—your husband—to the enigmatic Royal Guardsman. You think back to the last time you saw him, to the way he’d taken the lead in seeing you cared for when you’d been burning with fever. You think of the quiet authority and reassurance in his voice as he’d helped you reach your chambers and bed. You think of the way that voice had hardened in the tense moments after Lord Jeon had confessed to not being able to find the King.

You think of that perplexing confrontation in the courtyard.

You’ve had little more to do than contemplate the circumstances of that exchange for days now, turning the strange scene over in your mind while confined to your sickbed. What you would give to have just an inkling of what transpired between those men that night, to have any small insight into the words spoken during that terse conversation. Though in truth, some part of you suspects you already know.

Certainly something is behind your husband’s sudden bout of attentiveness.

You roll your shoulders and knead at the stiff muscles of your neck, body strained and sore from days of idleness. The pillows pressed against your lower back have slipped just enough to cause discomfort and you reach behind yourself to rearrange them.

“I can do that for you,” the King says, rushing to his feet.

He is standing at your side before you have a chance to protest the matter, carefully slipping the pillows out from behind you, painstakingly fluffing the feathers inside them until he’s satisfied with their new shape. Then he leans over the bed, solid body hovering over yours as he replaces them. You will yourself not to stiffen at his nearness, but the truth is that you’re not accustomed to being this close to your husband. Physically or otherwise.

“How does that feel?” he asks, deep voice at your ear as he moulds the pillows to the curve of your back.

“Much better, thank you,” you murmur, feeling a ripple of tension work its way up your spine when Namjoon straightens and stands back to assess his work. Your husband holds your gaze for a few slow, tortuous seconds, lips parted as though he means to speak.

Then he seems to think better of it, clearing his throat instead and looking away.

You watch his eyes move to the table at your bedside, where a fine crystal vase houses what is sure to be the two most pitiful daisies in the entire Kingdom. Boram’s note had said that Yeona selected them for you herself, the evidence of her indelicate touch plain on the flowers’ bruised petals and flattened stems. You treasure the mangled blooms anyway.

“They’re a bit worse for the wear, I’m afraid,” you comment lightly, watching the King stroke a wilted white petal with his fingertip. “Yeona is still too young to understand that some things must be handled with care.”

“So it would seem,” he says, lips twitching with amusement.

But the humor in his expression falls away as his eyes move from the daisies to the tiny bauble seated beside the delicate crystal vase. He stares at it for a while before reaching for it, the small trinket dwarfed in the palm of his large hand. You study him as he studies it, expression somber as he strokes a thumb over the bird’s smooth green wings.

And for the very first time, you see it.

No. You allow yourself to see it.

The turmoil etched into the deep crease between your husband’s brows. The regret in the firm press of his lips and the embarrassment simmering in his eyes. The remorse that shrouds him like a dark halo, hovering over him like a storm cloud.

You see it quite clearly now, don’t you? As though you’ve been wearing your pride and resentment like a blindfold and it’s suddenly fallen away, allowing you to recognize what’s been in front of you all this time.

When the King flicks his weary, dark eyes to meet yours, you don’t see your philandering husband – though certainly he is that. You see a deeply conflicted man, fighting a war on two sides. Married to one woman and in love with another. Condemning both to a strange kind of half-life in which neither will ever truly be happy. Condemning himself, too.

“I should let you rest,” he says at last, setting the bird down and you nod, a sudden tightness in your throat.

“Yes,” you agree, voice thick. “I think that’s best.”

The King leans close to you again, this time to press a soft kiss to your cheek. His hands find yours on the duvet and he squeezes them tight, causing ludicrous tears to spring to your eyes. You lower them so as not to give yourself away.

It is only when he has gone, when the door to your chamber is firmly shut, that you finally allow yourself to breathe. And then you sit there for a while, stupefied.

There was a time when you’d thought you would never share anything with your husband. But you’d been wrong.

The two of you share the same muted misery, the same low thrum of sadness that taints all things, good and bad. You share the same bone-deep unhappiness borne from this arrangement and the same secret fury at being powerless to change it.

Husband and wife, bound to one another for life. Both damned to have happiness dangle at your fingertips, but never the ability to grasp it.

Till death do you part.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Though you feel remarkably improved after four days of confinement, Hyeri insists you stay in bed for an entire week.

The older woman has always fancied herself a bit of a mother hen, but since the onset of your illness she’s become more like a guard dog. She’s taken to sleeping on a cot in your chamber and keeping fastidious notes on your care and progress. And she’s safeguarded you like a sentry, allowing no one but the doctor and the King past the threshold to your private rooms.

You’ve taken great pains to endure her meddling with grace – in part because you’ve been in no position to fight such battles in your weakened state and in part because you understand that her coddling is rooted in genuine care and concern. Surely she must long for the children she raised and who’ve long since left her nest to start their own families. And so in their absence, you must do.

But that does not mean you intend to spend a single second longer than necessary trapped inside this chamber.

So you rise with the sun on the seventh day of your captivity, filled with a newfound determination. You are determined to leave the staid air of this chamber and breathe fresh air into your lungs. You are determined to stretch your sore muscles with a vigorous walk. And you are absolutely determined to put your foot down, lovingly, with your handmaid turned nursemaid turned jailer.

And you’ll not allow anything – certainly not the arrival of your monthly courses – to put a damper on this day.

“We’re going to have to take your gowns in,” Hyeri grumbles as her nimble fingers pull at the laces of your corset. She’d made an unhappy sound when you’d announced plans for a morning walk, but has thus far managed to refrain from voicing her discontent out loud. “Too many days without eating properly. You ought to take two servings at every meal until you’re filled out again.”

“I assure you, my appetite is fully restored along with my health,” you say, stomach rumbling beneath your skirts at the very mention of food. “I could probably take three servings in a sitting if I put my mind to it.”

“Very good then,” Hyeri chuckles, patting your back once the dress is fully secured. “I’ll have breakfast brought up at once.”

“No, you absolutely will not,” you protest, whirling on her. “I’ll go mad if I spend another minute locked away in this chamber. I’ll take my breakfast down in the kitchens, thank you very much.”

Hyeri huffs under her breath and you mimic the sound back. The older woman’s eyes narrow and you return that gesture as well, crossing your arms in challenge. The two of you stand there for a while, glowering at one another like petulant children until the sound of a singing kettle breaks the stalemate.

It’s been days since you’ve heard that sound, you realize. Days since Hyeri has set a steaming cup of that foul tea before you, only to watch you like a hawk until every last drop is gone. The shrill sound of that blasted kettle raises the hairs on the nape of your neck and sets your teeth on edge.

And it brings to mind something else you intend to put your foot down about today.

You clear your throat as Hyeri moves to see to the kettle.

“I won’t be taking the tea today, Hyeri,” you announce, straightening your spine as your brace for the argument that is sure to come. Hyeri turns away from the fire, kettle in hand, and levels you with a look.

“You’re rather spirited today, Your Grace. Do you intend to put more silver in my hair now that you are fully recovered?”

“No I do not,” you say hotly. “But I also do not intend to drink that tea. Today, tomorrow, or ever again.”

Hyeri’s rheumy eyes grow wide with shock. The playful arch of her brow falls and the teasing twist to her mouth slowly recedes. She stares at you as though she sees a stranger, not the young woman she’s come to know well after nearly one year in your service.

Maybe you are a stranger now. You certainly don’t feel like the same woman who’d fallen into that sickbed one week ago, burning with fever. Something inside of you feels like it’s shifted; like you’ve emerged from this illness stronger in ways that go beyond the physical.

“I understand that your courses have come, Your Grace, but these things take time,” she insists slowly, the paper-thin skin at the hollow of her throat wavering as she stops to swallow thickly. “I do not think now is the time to abandon this regimen. “This requires time and dedication. If you’ll just stay the course, you’ll see.”

Your bravado falters a bit at the wounded note in her voice, at the way her eyes start to pink around the rims. A tiny voice in your head warns not to press forward with the words that threaten to tumble out of your mouth but a louder voice urges you on, pushes you to make the cut as quick and clean as possible.

“Hyeri, I owe you only gratitude for the way you’ve treated me. And for your kindness in trying to help me conceive a child. But I’ve grown tired of pretending that this course of action will remedy my particular situation.” You allow yourself a deep breath before adding, “Or his.”

Hyeri blinks at you.

“I don’t understand what you mean, Your Grace.”

“Don’t you?”

You lift your chin to look Hyeri directly in the eyes, allowing your implication to hang in the air. Slowly, your nursemaid blanches, the color draining from her sweet face until all that remains are two spots of color on her cheeks. She takes a step towards the table and slowly sinks into the chair, face frozen in an expression of disbelief.

“You can’t –” the older woman starts and stops, looking bewildered. “– You can’t know that, Your Grace. You cannot be certain of such a thing.”

“You’re right,” you concede quietly, “I cannot. But there is ample reason to suspect it.”

You’re careful to temper your argument to Hyeri, though in truth you are quite convinced of your husband’s inability to produce a child. If nothing else, your last encounter with the King has only strengthened the idea in your mind. It’s the very first time in your young marriage that you’ve looked past your husband’s station and allowed yourself to see him as he truly is. His Grace – Kim Namjoon – is just a man. As fallible as any other.

But Hyeri has yet to come to any such realization. Her eyes shine bright with unshed tears from where she remains seated at the table, chin trembling.

You cross the room to go to her, carefully settling in the seat beside her and taking one of her hands into yours. You remind yourself that Hyeri has devoted years of her life to working in service of the King, that her deference for him and the very institution he represents is in her blood. That some part of her likely still thinks of Namjoon as the gangly boy she’d helped rear and not the grown man he is now.

And you remind yourself that despite her allegiance to your husband, she’s shown you nothing but kindness – and for that alone, she deserves your respect.

“Hyeri, please,” you whisper, squeezing her fingers gently. “Please know that I do not mean to upset you. I mean only to speak plainly, not to cause you any pain.”

“I had thought – I had thought there was some growth between the two of you, Your Grace. All those visits he’s made to your chamber while you’ve been ill. The way he’d fretted over your health and care. I thought – “ She pauses to shake her head as though chastising herself for entertaining such notions, “I thought that maybe something good could come of something bad.”

Your heart squeezes at Hyeri’s confession, at her well-meaning but poorly-placed idealism. You cannot fathom how despite everything she’s seen and heard, she can still hold onto the dream that what is broken between you and Namjoon can be fixed.

But you cannot fault her for it, either.

“Something good has come of it,” you say gently. “I’m not angry anymore. Not with the King and not with myself. It was weighing me down, Hyeri. As though I walked through this first year of my marriage with stones in my pockets.”

Hyeri dabs at the corners of her eyes with a sleeve.

“I know the King cares for me. I accept that.” You speak the words out loud and they strike a chord inside your chest. You know they ring true. “Just as I accept that at the very same time, he does not love me. And now I must accept that there may never be a child.”

“But there must be a child, Your Grace.” Hyeri sniffles under her breath as she wrenches her gaze from your joined hands to look you in the eye. “The future of the throne depends on it. What will come of the King’s line if he does not have an heir?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, thumb tracing an absentminded pattern over the soft, diaphanous skin of her knuckles. “Perhaps he will send me away.”

“He wouldn’t,” Hyeri protests, indignation flaring behind her muted dark eyes.

You suspect that Hyeri has the right of it. Namjoon does not strike you as the kind of man who’d want to court such a scandal, nor does he seem uncaring enough to want to cut you loose in such a humiliating fashion. And as many times as you’ve daydreamed about being freed from the shackles of this loveless marriage, the mere thought of returning home to your mother – of bringing your entire family that kind of shame – is devastating.

You’d sooner throw yourself from the carriage tasked with taking you home than endure that fate.

“I say these things not to upset you, Hyeri. Or to speak ill of the King. I say them only because if I’ve learned nothing else since coming here, I’ve learned to guard my heart. This is me guarding my heart.”

The tears gathered at the corners of Hyeri’s eyes spill over, though she does not make a sound. You dab at them with your own sleeve now, earning a sad smile from your handmaid.

“There could still be a child, Your Grace,” she says softly, “Some day. None of us know what’s written on the days that are yet to come.”

“You are right,” you concede with a sad smile. “And I would be very glad to be wrong.”

“So there is always hope,” Hyeri concludes, squaring her shoulders. Just speaking the words out loud seems to have reinforced her spirit. In this moment, she reminds you of the daisies at your bedside – battered but still bending towards the sunlight.

“Yes,” you agree, if only to bring her some solace. “There is always hope.”

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The King calls for dinner to be held in the great hall to celebrate your return to good health.

He surprises you by seeing to many of the details himself, though you suspect Hyeri has played some part in bringing his vision to life. The generous spread wheeled out and served to the guests in attendance consists of only your most beloved dishes and desserts. And the hall is decorated in a bevy of cosmos flowers – the very kind that grow in abundance in Namjoon’s grand aviary.

It’s not all his doing, of course. It is the kitchen staff that spends hours preparing the food and the steward who sees to each plush flower centerpiece placed at the tables. But it is the King who directs their steps, and in doing so you cannot help but feel flattered by his consideration.

But you also cannot help but be flustered by his attention.

Whereas Namjoon would normally spend the lion’s share of his evening consorting with the assembled guests, tonight he has yet to stray more than an arm’s length from your side. You are keenly aware of his nearness as smiling people approach you from all sides, each expressing what seems to be genuine relief at news of your recovery.

It’s been months since the last communal dinner was held in this hall, and perhaps that is why it seems as though you could be swallowed whole in the sea of people gathered here tonight. Foreign and familiar faces alike swim by in all directions. Children cut narrow paths through the fray, darting between legs as they chase one another around, their laughter barely audible over the din of clinking cups and clattering dishes.

You do not know at what point you start searching each passing face for a pair of searing almond-shaped eyes and a heart-shaped mouth. But you do know at which point you realize it.

“You are not fatigued, are you?”

The sound of your husband’s deep baritone at the shell of your ear nearly makes you jump. You turn to him, careful to keep your eyes downcast. Certain that if you allow him too close a look he’ll recognize the guilt written all over your face.

Certainly he would know what it looks like.

“Not at all. Though I must admit to my feet being tired,” you sigh, gesturing to the beautiful calfskin boots that peek out from beneath your heavy skirts. “I’m afraid these are not quite broken in yet.”

“Then I’ll get you a chair,” the King says without hesitation, turning at once to make good on that promise. You stop him with one firm tug to his arm.

“Please no,” you protest, by now thoroughly unsettled by your husband’s careful oversight. “That’s not necessary, truly. I think I’ll walk around a bit and see if I can find Boram. I can rest my feet while we speak.”

“Very well,” Namjoon agrees, dark eyes boring into yours. “Send word immediately if you need me.”

You are bowing to him before the words are even fully out his mouth, quickling slipping away and into the current of moving bodies around you. You try not to call attention to yourself, but it cannot be helped. The crowds part to make way as you walk, people stopping to bow as you pass. You acknowledge each with an absentminded smile as you resume your search for those familiar dark eyes. You cannot find them.

“Your Grace!”

But it is only moments later that a familiar voice finds you. It breaks clear through the commotion and you turn toward it to find Boram waving at you from her seat at the longtable, sweet Yeona perched on her lap. The baby mimics her mother’s gesture, flapping her own hand wildly in greeting. The sight of them both is enough to make your heart burst.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you girls,” you sigh, surging forward to envelop both in an indelicate hug. You take a seat at Boram’s side and she proudly lifts Yeona to her feet. The baby plants them firmly on her mother’s lap, legs strong and steady beneath her.

“How is it possible she’s changed so much in little more than a week?” you wonder aloud, smiling in response to Yeona’s happy gurgle and wide grin. “She looks like a child ready to walk and not the little dumpling I saw last.”

“She really does,” Boram agrees with a wistful smile. “It’s all happening so fast. But you, My Grace, you look changed too! Even more vibrant than before. I would scarcely believe you’ve just emerged from your sickbed if I did not know it to be true.”

Your friend’s praise sends a pleasant heat to your cheeks.

“You flatter me,” you demur with a soft smile. “I’m so relieved to be free from confinement that I must be wearing my happiness for everyone to see, that’s all.”

“Well, it suits you,” Boram declares. “We were all quite worried about you. When Yoongi came home that day, he’d told me you were in a terrible state. I pestered him for news every day until he told me of your recovery.”

“I cannot recall ever feeling so ill,” you admit. “But I was well cared for, thankfully. And Yeona’s flowers were at my bedside to brighten my spirits. And I have yet to see Lord Min and thank him personally for helping me that day. Is he here tonight?”

“Somewhere,” Boram laughs. “Off with the men, I suppose. I’ve been waiting on him to return so that I might have an opportunity to stretch my legs and greet some of the old friends I’ve seen walking about.” She gestures to a tankard at the empty space beside her. “But he can’t have wandered too far if he’s left his ale behind.”

You laugh, reaching out to tickle Yeona’s belly and the baby squeals in response.

“Go on then,” you say, reaching for Yeona. She comes to you without hesitation, grin wide enough to bare the tiny teeth that have broken through her bottom gums. “I can sit with Yeona and you can have a few minutes to yourself. We’ll be right here when you return.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind? She’s dry and fed and I won’t be gone long.”

“I don’t mind at all,” you insist, bouncing Yeona on your knee and earning another squeal. “I’m happy to keep her any time you need a break.”

Boram’s smile is genuine and grateful. She puts a hand on your knee and squeezes it as she leans in to kiss her baby girl’s cheek.

“You are very kind, Your Grace. Thank you.”

You smile back, passing a hand over the soft hair at Yeona’s crown, smoothing down the tiny curls that have sprung up around her ears. “It’s no trouble at all.”

Boram casts a backward glance at you both as she leaves and you reassure her with a wave, which Yeona is quick to mimic.

“Such a smart girl, aren’t you?” you coo, pressing a kiss to her temple and inhaling her sweet scent. “Smartest girl in the entire kingdom. Perhaps some day you will be queen, hmm?”

“That would be an interesting turn of events,” a voice that is certainly not Yeona’s answers. The sound of it steals your breath and you turn towards it slowly, only to find Lord Jung standing before you. His dark eyes dance with amusement. “Although I think poor Yoongi would perish at the very notion of a royal bride price.”

It’s a wonder that Yeona does not fuss when your hold on her goes a bit tight in response to his sudden appearance. Your heart rattles inside your ribcage.

“My Lord,” you breathe, eyes wide as you watch him take a seat beside you. “Forgive me, I did not see you there.”

“Perhaps you ought to forgive me,” he says playfully, offering Yeona a finger that she immediately seizes with one chubby fist. “I did not announce myself.”

He smiles at Yeona then – full and brilliant – and she surprises you by turning coquettishly away to bury her face in the crook of your neck. Lord Jung chuckles and you find yourself staring at him, dazzled stupid by his beauty. Breath caught in your throat as your eyes sweep over his long, sooty lashes and sunkissed skin.

Has he always been this breathtaking?

Yeona lifts her head to peek at him once more. He reaches out to tickle her and then she’s hiding her face again, smothering her giggles against you.

“I think she fancies you,” you say at last, swallowing thickly when Lord Jung lifts his dark eyes to meet yours.

“I’m a bit too old for her, I’m afraid,” he teases, mouth curved into a soft smile. It slowly falls away as his expression grows more serious.

“It’s a relief to see you looking so well, Your Grace,” he murmurs. “Truly.”

There is a sincerity in that declaration that makes you feel warm and pliant inside. You shift Yeona on your lap so that you might have a plausible reason to look away, though truly it is only because looking him in the eye makes you feel vulnerable.

“It is a relief to be well,” you admit shyly. “And that is in large part due to you, My Lord. The other men, as well,” you add, almost as an afterthought. “I still shudder to think what might have happened that day had Lord Jeon not found me when he did.”

“Yes, I think we are all grateful for his vigilance. And I am glad that we were able to help,” Lord Jung says, watching you rub circles across Yeona’s back. The baby settles into your hold, soft cheek pressed to the juncture of your neck. “I hate to see anyone in that condition.”

You flick your eyes up at the note of melancholy in that statement. Surely he must be thinking of his late wife and her untimely death. To hear Boram tell it, the young woman passed nearly a year before your arrival here but something about his somber expression makes you wonder if that wound is still fresh. If you were a more courageous woman, you would ask.

But you are not.

“Well I am healthy now, My Lord,” you reassure him. “Fully recovered and feeling more like myself than I have in ages.”

He smiles as he reaches one hand out to stroke the soft curls at the base of Yeona’s neck. The baby sighs under her breath, but does not stir.

“I’m working at the stables this week,” he says after a moment. “Perhaps now that you feel – “

“There you are! I think I’ve walked nearly this entire hall looking for you.”

Both you and Lord Jung startle when the sound of a new voice joins the fray. You turn your head to find the King standing in front of you, eyes moving from you to the Royal Guardsman and back. And though there is a smile on his face, it does not quite reach his eyes.

“Your Grace.” Lord Jung quickly stands to his feet and bows in one fluid motion. You make no move to follow suit with Yeona in your arms, her breaths soft and slow and even at your ear. But you do manage a smile for the King, a weak one, even though both your heart and mind are racing. Even though in some way it feels as though he’s interrupted a moment of intimacy.

You wonder if the King feels it, too.

“I’ve not seen you all night, Jung,” Namjoon says pleasantly enough, clapping a hand over the Guardsman’s shoulder. Lord Jung returns Namjoon’s smile with an easy one of his own. You watch them both with careful curiosity, searching each man’s face for any sign of the tension you’d witnessed the other night in the courtyard. You find none, but you cannot be sure if that is because it no longer exists – or because both are accomplished in the art of diplomacy.

“I’ve been milling about,” Lord Jung explains, gesturing to you. “This is the first time I’ve seen the Queen since her confinement and I wanted to ask after her. I’m sure you both are quite glad of her recovery.”

“That we are,” the King says. He brushes past Lord Jung to take the man’s place on the bench beside you. “Though I suspect I’ve kept her out too late tonight and she’ll need her rest.”

You nearly open your mouth to protest but decide against it.

“Perhaps it’s time for me to retire as well,” Lord Jung says lightly. “I have an early morning ahead of me with the horses. It’s best I take my leave now and bid a good night to you both.”

He wastes no time in quickly bowing to you both before turning to leave.

You’re careful not to watch him go, though the King certainly does. Namjoon’s dark eyes follow Lord Jung’s steps until he is too far gone into the crowd to spot any longer. Your stomach churns at the expression on your husband’s face, at the dark curiosity in his narrowed eyes and arched brow.

“He’s restless of late,” the King says under his breath. Though you’ve heard him quite clearly, it seems safer somehow to pretend otherwise.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

“Lord Jung,” he clarifies, shifting his gaze back to you. “He’s not been himself these last months. Unsettled. Tense, perhaps.”

Your pulse leaps at your husband’s observation though you cannot be sure if the cause is excitement or fear. Yeona feels like a cinder in your arms now, her little body radiating an uncomfortable warmth against your already heated skin. You feel sweat start to bead at the back of your neck.

“I – do not know him as well as you do, Your Grace,” you say slowly, reaching for each word as carefully as fine crystal. “And therefore, I am in no position to say. But I trust that you have the right of it.”

The King strokes a soft hand down Yeona’s back and you hold perfectly still, as though you fear any sudden move will incite him. As though the reserved man you’ve been married to for all these months might spring on you like a bear trap if he’s managed to discern all the traitorous thoughts you’ve entertained.

But your husband does nothing of the sort.

His mouth tilts thoughtfully as he sits back to watch you, babe in arms. And in this picture of you and Yeona together, woman and child, he must see what he believes to be the solution to this dilemma concerning his lifelong friend. That can be the only explanation for what he says next.

“I think Hoseok is in need of a wife.”

You taste iron in your mouth.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

My Dearest Sister –

It has been some time since your last letter, but I have decided not to be cross. A forgiving spirit is but one of my enviable qualities and thus I have chosen to grant you a modicum of grace.

I write to you today with very exciting news. I’m in love!

His name is Chul and no, he is not of your acquaintance. It has been but three months since he and his father arrived in this village. He is frightfully handsome and best of all, prefers me to all the other young women who’ve been vying for his attention. I am the envy of the lot when we walk together in the evenings and always make sure to take the path closest to Park Myeong’s home because I know it vexes her to no end.

Dear Sister, he has asked me to marry him!

And while I suspect Father will be more than happy to see me married off in short order, I am quite certain that Mother will object. Chul is only yet a blacksmith’s apprentice but once he completes his training, he will be an expert. And I have no doubt of his ability to provide me with a comfortable life, though it will likely never meet our Mother’s exacting standards.

There is something else I must confess before I end this letter, something quite scandalous. And as I am unable to utter a word of this to anyone, I feel as though I might burst if I do not write it down.

A wondrous new world has been opened up to me!

I understand that the private delights enjoyed between a man and woman are nothing new to you, but this discovery has been a rather thrilling one for me. Chul and I are soon to be married and I cannot find good reason to forgo the heady pleasure of an afternoon spent with his hand up my skirts.

I will say no more, lest you faint dead away and someone find this letter next to your body.

I can barely contain my happiness. It feels as though I’m standing at the edge of my old life and preparing to dive into the new. The next time I write you, it will be to announce my formal betrothal and to share the happy news of my wedding plans.

With love,

Chaehee

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You fold the paper in your hands and stare blankly into the fire in the hearth, watching the flames dance as you consider every startling revelation in your sister’s letter. At this very moment you should be seated at your desk, furiously scribbling a stern missive back to your wayward Chaehee and warning her of the ruin that almost certainly lies ahead. But you cannot. You sit in your plush chair immobilized, unable to move or act or think of anything beyond her words.

Happiness. Love. Pleasure.

Your poor sister would be aghast to discover that you know precisely nothing about any of them. That despite your status as a married woman – a Queen! – you are no more enlightened on these matters than she is. Probably less so now.

The flames in the hearth are dying by the time you finally manage to lift yourself out of that chair. You drop the letter onto the glowing embers below and watch as the paper burns bright orange and then black.

You watch until the edges curl into themselves and the pieces turn to ash and the fire consumes it whole.

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Love, it would seem, is catching these days.

Your sister is hardly the only one to fall under its spell. Everywhere you look, you see it – in the kitchens where the cooks titter about their suitors, in the laundry where the washgirls trade heated glances with the butlers. In the halls where a footman and maid break apart when you turn a corner, cheeks flushed and breaths labored as you pass.

It’s as though love is a contagion being carried on the crisp fall air, infecting everyone who breathes it in.

Well, perhaps not everyone.

The King remains unaffected by whatever madness has come over his people. His peculiar interest in you proves to be a fleeting thing, one that wanes as life returns to routine in the days following your illness. You take up your daily morning walks and afternoon excursions to the aviary once again and the King resumes his own afternoon pursuits, vanishing at midday with such punctuality that you wonder if he’s actually being timed.

But you cannot find it in yourself to be surprised or even angry at this turn of events. In truth, there is a sense of relief that comes with the respite from your husband’s attentions. Too much time in the presence of the King muddies the waters. And in many ways you find that it is easier to live between clearly drawn lines.

But there are other lines, too. Ones that are far less clear.

Not unlike the neat line of stones that frame the path you are walking this morning. You round the curve that passes close to the stables with a basket in hand, stealing glances from beneath the brim of the hat Hyeri had insisted you wear today. Slowly, the horse pen comes into view.

He comes into view.

It is astonishing that the man can steal your breath like this. That just one glimpse of him – lean arms crossed over his chest, brow knit in concentration, dark hair falling into his eyes – is capable of making your pulse quicken.

You find yourself drifting off the neat stone path, body moving of its own volition in the direction of the stables. The ground beneath you, dusty and dry from weeks without rain, crunches loudly beneath your walking boots and Lord Jung turns at the sound.

The slow smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth is enough to make you lightheaded with excitement.

But the sensation vanishes nearly as quickly as it comes on.

“I think Hoseok is in need of a wife.”

The King’s words come back to you in that moment, ringing in your ears like the steady clang of a watchtower bell. How much longer will it be before Lord Jung succumbs to the madness that’s taken over this place? How much longer before he announces his betrothal? The man could be in the throes of a grand love affair at this very minute and you would be none the wiser.

The thought makes the blood in your veins turn to ice.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” he greets kindly from his side of the fence, paying his respects with a deep bow. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

A surprise to him perhaps, but not to you. In the days since Lord Jung declared his plans to work in the stables this week, you’ve been able to think of little else. And though you’d not been entirely certain of your intentions as you’d set out for this morning’s walk, you’d become quite certain of them as soon as you’d spotted his lithe frame in the distance.

“Good morning,” you breathe, damning the blasted hat that forces you to lift your chin in order to see him properly. You raise a hand to your brow to shield your eyes from the sunlight. “I hope you do not mind this disruption. I saw new horses in the pen and could not resist the urge to stop and admire them.”

It’s a half-truth, of course, though you must admit the horses are quite beautiful. You crane your neck to take a better look at them, a pair of pretty females with small statures and amber coats. One stands patiently still as a stablehand inspects its hooves, the other trots gentle circles around a second man.

“They’re good horses,” Lord Jung says. “Docile demeanors. Fast learners. Nothing like that hellion I worked with last.” He shakes his head at the memory and you cannot help but smile. “I don’t know that I’ll ever come across another animal quite like him.”

“Well, that’s probably for the best,” you laugh and he laughs too, the honeyed sound of it making your heart soar.

“Is this visit made in haste?” He motions to the basket in your hands and you blink down at it dumbly, as though you’d forgotten it was there at all. “Or do you have time to come in and see them for yourself?”

You drop your head a bit, just enough to allow the brim of your hat to conceal the way you flush with happiness at his invitation.

“I’m in no hurry. And I would like that very much.”

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You stroke the horse’s muzzle with an open palm and the animal blinks its huge eyes, tail swaying back and forth in the wind.

She likes you – even without your knowledge of horses you’d be able to discern that from her relaxed stance and the happy sound of her nickering. She keeps her head dropped low and you reward her obedience with a firm scratch behind her ears.

Beside you, Lord Jung works a coarse-bristled brush through the horse’s mane, stroking through the strands until they shine. It’s mesmerizing to watch him work, to watch the tendons of his strong forearms strain and the muscles ripple beneath his golden skin.

“She’s comfortable with you.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the steady work of his hands, but your skin prickles with awareness at his casual observation. It makes you wonder what else he has taken note of when you’ve assumed his attention has been elsewhere.

“And I with her,” you return, patting the animal’s strong neck. “She reminds me of my mare back home.”

“Oh?”

“Not in her appearance exactly,” you explain, “But in her temperament. She has a very sweet spirit.”

“That she does,” Lord Jung agrees, dropping the brush into a bucket at his feet. He reaches into his pocket to produce a small oat cake, a reward for the animal’s obedience which the horse is quick to accept.

“What is her name?”

“She doesn’t have one,” he admits, lips pursing thoughtfully. “I don’t think the King intends to keep her. I expect that he will sell them both in order to acquire a more powerful horse. One better suited to heavy labor.”

“What a shame,” you say under your breath, hand coming to rest on the bridge of the horse’s nose. She nudges you with it, urging you to resume your attentions and you oblige with a sad smile. “Not fair is it, girl? Being cast aside like that.”

Lord Jung is quiet for a moment, long enough that you lift your head to search for him and find him already looking at you. There is something stormy swirling in his dark gaze. He quickly averts it to look away in the direction of the castle and you watch with careful curiosity as he drags a hand down his jaw before turning back to you.

“There’s a creek in the woods behind me. Do you know it?”

“I do,” you say slowly, uncertainty flooding your bloodstream.

“Do you know how to get to the mouth of it?”

“Yes,” you admit, heart starting to beat double-time. “I do.”

“Will you meet me there tomorrow? In the afternoon. At the time you would normally visit the aviary.”

At best, the proposition is improper – and at worst, scandalous. You know very well that no married woman of good standing should ever agree to a clandestine encounter with a man who is not her husband.

But still you answer without hesitation.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I will.”

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Try as you might, sleep will not come.

You lie in the dark for what feels like an eternity, imagining shapes in the shadows cast overhead. Your entire body tingles with a nervous energy that makes it impossible to lie still or allow your mind to rest. So you toss and turn – until your bedding becomes a mess and your sheets become impossibly tangled about your limbs. Until you have no choice but to abandon the endeavor entirely and decide to shake off your blankets and climb out of bed.

You grab your shawl and sink into the chair beside the fire, pensive as you watch the embers dim and cool.

Somewhere in the belly of the hearth at your feet lies the remnants of Chaehee’s letter. The pages are little more than ash and soot by now, surely, but the words inscribed on them remain seared into your heart and mind. Impulsive as she can be – reckless as she can be – your brave little sister has still managed to secure the things you covet most in this life.

Happiness. Love. Pleasure.

They all have it, don’t they? The cooks and the washgirls and the maids. They flit about this castle like doves, preening as they exchange knowing smiles. All partaking together in some grand shared secret while you remain grounded, tethered by decorum and duty.

Well, no more.

You’ll not spend one more moment sitting idly by as the women around you do exactly as they please, paying no mind to the rules that have dictated every circumstance in your life. You’ll not devote another ounce of your energy to resenting anyone fearless enough to do the things you’ve always been too timid to attempt.

So you tiptoe back to bed, as though any errant sound might bring every servant in the castle running to your chamber.

You peel back the duvet and burrow back into your bedding, heart pounding in your ears. And then you slide one unsteady hand beneath the gauzy material of your nightgown and down to the apex of your thighs. Then you touch yourself – there – with a light press of your open palm.

Nothing happens.

So you do it again – firmer – spreading your legs a bit wider and feeling for the hidden place that has produced an unexpected shock of sensation for you before.

Nothing happens.

But you keep pressing. Again and again and again until your hips start to move of their own accord. You keep pressing until you feel a strange pulse there, the steady motion earning you an enticing friction that comes each time you rock against the heel of your hand.

You keep pressing and rocking until the feeling becomes a pleasant ache between your thighs, as frustrating as it is fascinating. Because though you find the sensation agreeable, it is nothing like what Chaehee had described to you so long ago. And though you can feel it – the promise of something more – you have no idea how to harness it.

You have no understanding of what comes next or how to make it more.

Eventually you have no choice but to abandon that endeavor too, limbs and eyelids heavy when sleep finally comes for you. And when you submit to it, finally allow it to pull you under, your very last thought is that you will try again.

You must.

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“Is the meal not to your liking, Your Grace?”

Hyeri lifts one thin gray eyebrow as she fixes you with a strange look from across the table. She nudges the plate in front of you and you blink, rousing from your daze.

The food is perfectly to your liking actually, the smell of the sugared toast and eggs enticing enough to make your mouth water. But your stomach is wildly unsettled this morning, already roiling beneath your skirts at the thought of seeing Lord Jung and you fear partaking in more than just a few bites of food will cause you to retch.

“No, no, not at all,” you shake your head as you collect your thoughts. “It looks delicious. But my stomach feels a bit weak this morning and I would rather not test it.”

“You’re not feeling poorly again, are you?” Hyeri asks, frowning as she reaches for the glass jar of jam between you. “Perhaps you ought to stay in bed today, allow your body to rest.”

“No.” The word flies out of your mouth with much more force and much more volume than you’d intended. Hyeri’s eyes narrow as she nibbles at the corner of a toast point.

“There’s something curious about you this morning, Your Grace,” she says slyly. “You woke up with your head in the clouds and now you’re as skittish as a colt. Is there something afoot you need to tell me about?”

A self-conscious heat rises to your cheeks. “Of course not,” you sniff.

But the skeptical look on Hyeri’s face remains intact. “You look well,” she murmurs, as though assessing the veracity of your claim to good health. Her eyes rake down the pretty walking dress you’d selected for today, one of your best. “You look very well, actually.”

Oh, you must leave this chamber at once.

When Hyeri looks at you like this, you feel as transparent as a pane of glass. The porcelain plates and cups on top of the table rattle as you quickly get to your feet.

“You are far too kind to me, Hyeri,” you say, careful to avoid direct contact with her as you gather your shawl and basket. “Truly. And I think a morning walk is just the thing to improve my appetite.”

“But – ”

“ – I have a very busy day planned,” you say, ignoring Hyeri’s half-hearted objections as you hurry towards the chamber door. “And I may decide to visit with the Min girls, as well,” you lie, grateful to have your back turned towards your handmaid.

“But – ”

You fling the heavy door open and briefly turn in the threshold, just long enough to see Hyeri’s wide eyes and slack jaw.

“Don’t wait for me!” you insist, forcing a wide smile. “I’ll return before dinner tonight.”

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You spend what remains of your morning in the aviary, alternating between attempting to read the book in your hands and staring up at the birds overhead, lost in thought.

What does Lord Jung want with you?

Contemplating the answer to that question is thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. You are in many ways – too many ways – still quite naive about the ways of men. Is he simply extending you a kindness or is there something more? The very prospect is fraught with danger.

But not even the risk of ruin is enough to stop you from seeking him out. And when the agreed-upon time for your rendezvous finally arrives, not even the threat of being discovered in a secret meeting with a man who is not your husband is enough to keep you away.

So you go to him – one careful step at a time, hiking your skirts to step over the roots dotted across the forest floor.

As you walk, a flash of movement catches your eye and you squint at it through the thinning trees. It starts to take shape as you near, the amber color of it sparking a realization in your mind.

A horse. No – horses.

Both animals come into view as you step into the clearing – the pretty mare from the stables secured to one tree and the King’s magnificent warhorse to another. Lord Jung stands at the warhorse’s side, his delicate mouth curved into a devastating smile.

“Your Grace.” He dips into his customary bow and you nod, incredulous as you take in the entire scene. “I thought you might like to go for a ride.”

Oh, but you would. In fact, your pulse leaps with excitement at the very suggestion. But you look down at your fine walking dress and sigh. “I would love to, truly. But I’m not dressed to ride.”

“If you think me capable of spiriting away both a pair of horses and a set of riding clothes, I’m afraid you’ve overestimated my abilities,” Lord Jung teases, causing heat to creep up the line of your back. “But the decision is entirely up to you.”

You silently scold yourself for voicing your hesitation out loud. This man has gone out of his way to offer you this opportunity, one you’ve craved since the moment you stepped foot on the King’s land.

You want to go. You will go.

“Well, I – “ you flush a bit as you gesture at the amber mare, then down to your long skirts. “-- I’ll need some help getting onto her, you see.”

Lord Jung’s dark eyes crinkle with amusement.

“Yes, of course.”

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The ride is glorious.

You’ll be saddle sore tomorrow, no doubt, but today you can only think of how free you feel riding on top of your amber mare. She’s an ideal mount for you, both in size and demeanor and you find that she follows your cues exceptionally well.

You follow Lord Jung’s lead through parts of the Kingdom you’ve never seen before — green hills and rolling fields dotted with wildflowers. And when you arrive at a particularly open stretch of land, you urge your mount to move faster and she complies, taking you from an easy trot to a gallop with surprising speed.

But soon – far too soon – it’s time to rest the horses.

Lord Jung helps you down from your mount, his hands firm about your waist as he carefully sets you on the ground. Surely it is only your imagination that he holds you just a bit too close and for just a bit too long. You breathe him in – take in his masculine scent of leather and sweat.

Being this close to the man scrambles your wits.

You let go of a breath when he breaks away from you to rifle through the contents of his bag. Within moments, he produces a skin of water and two apples, one of which you happily accept as the two of you sit down amongst the wildflowers to rest.

“This has been a wonderful afternoon, My Lord,” you say genuinely. “I hadn’t realized just how much I missed riding.”

“You’re good at it,” he compliments kindly, tipping his head back to take a drink. “And the two of you pair well together. She responds to you quite naturally.”

“Yes, I believe she does,” you agree, looking over your shoulder to where both horses are tethered. “And Jeonsa? He seems to do quite well with you. Is he biddable for the King, as well?”

Lord Jung puts on an amused expression and shakes his head.

“The relationship between horse and rider is a bit like courtship. Let’s just say the King has a bit more courting to do.”

The two of you share a laugh.

“Thank you My Lord,” you say after a while, “Truly, for all of this. I don’t know that anyone has ever gone to such trouble for me.”

Lord Jung’s dark eyes snap up to meet yours. There’s something puzzling about his gaze, something entirely at odds with your sincere statement of thanks.

“I wonder if I might ask you something of a personal nature, Your Grace.”

Your nails immediately curl into the fine material of your skirts, the pressure turning your knuckles white. But you are careful to keep your expression calm.

“Yes of course,” you say with a strained laugh. “Though I may decide not to divulge my answer.”

He looks away from you then, reaching for a long blade of grass at his feet. His expression inscrutable as he plucks it and begins to worry the blade between his fingers.

“Are you unhappy here?”

You take in a sharp breath. The question is far too personal, far too intimate to be proper in any way. But you find yourself answering it – truthfully – because he’s caught you so off guard you have no choice but to respond with candor.

“Some days,” you admit quietly. “But not today.”

Lord Jung says nothing for a while and the blade of grass between his fingers eventually breaks apart. He throws it down and reaches for another.

“The King is by no means perfect, Your Grace,” he starts, pausing as though he’s giving great thought to each word. “But he is a brother to me in all but blood. I’ve spent the better part of my life at his side. He’s a good man.”

The hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end.

Is this why he’s brought you here today? To make a case on behalf of the King? Your cheeks heat at the thought of every silly notion you’d entertained otherwise.

“Did he ask you to do this?” you demand, “Did he tell you to speak to me?”

“No.” His answer is firm, immediate. “No, I swear it. But I know that you have been unhappy since coming here and I just ask that you give His Grace a chance to make things right.”

You’ll hear none of it. The magic of the afternoon is gone now, the entire outing tainted by this tense exchange. By this reminder that Lord Jung’s loyalties lie with your husband, and that any kindness he’s shown you is little more than an extension of his service to the King.

What a fool you’ve been.

“You needn’t defend the King,” you say tightly, getting to your feet and dusting your hands off on your skirts. “I assure you, he has no shortage of people to come to his defense. And I think we should go now.”

“Your Grace, “ Lord Jung is on his feet now, too. “By no means would I ever want to upset you.”

It’s far too late for that, you think – the disappointment so acute it makes you want to double over. You turn your back to him and stalk off towards your mount, blinking back the angry tears that threaten.

“I’m not explaining myself well,” he insists, following you and taking firm hold of your arm. He turns you to face him. “I mean only to say that I know the King to be a good man. But even good men are weak to certain temptations.”

“And you, Lord Jung?”

You challenge him without thinking, the words flying out of your mouth before you can stop them. “What temptation are you weak to?”

The man’s dark eyes glint dangerously as he regards you for a moment, jaw tight.

“You’re right, Your Grace,” he says at last. “It’s time to go.”

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