Stolen by the Rebel King
Chapter 64: Way to a Woman’s Heart

Chapter 64: Way to a Woman’s Heart

"Come down for dinner."

A frown.

"Join me for dinner?"

A shake of the head, paired with a disparaging glance.

Atticus cleared his throat and tried again. "I would like to invite you for dinner."

"Better, but still not enough groveling." Sirona sighed, looking at her nails in boredom. She was a healer, but somehow she was once again dragged into fixing Atticus’s relationship.

When the king came to look for her, she had expected another emergency. Perhaps the queen had gone into shock, or maybe she had decided to make a drastic escape attempt by jumping out the window.

What she had not expected was for her to watch Atticus ask himself out in the mirror and turn around after every sentence, expecting feedback.

Sirona’s eyelid twitched.

"How do I grovel?" Atticus wasn’t whining but he had been trying to think of ways to mend the relationship for the past few hours.

"Look sadder. Give her the puppy eyes. Put away your ego for a moment and remember, this is all your fault." Sirona instructed severely. "If you can’t even do that, why would she want to spend another meal with you? Did you already forget what happened at breakfast?"

Sirona was, of course, referring to the time when Atticus had milk poured over his head. Jonah had recounted the story with much vigor and it had been a hilarious tale to listen to.

Atticus winced and then turned back to the mirror, trying to look appropriately chastised. Sad. He had to look devastated. Yet hopeful. Wishing for the barest glimpse of his goddess. Yes.

Behind him, Sirona rolled her eyes. She had suggested that they eat dinner together, partly to get Atticus to stop pacing a hole in her floor, and partly because it would be the least catastrophic option.

After all, if Atticus used his mouth to eat, there would be less opportunity for him to use it to talk and piss his wife off further. Who wouldn’t like food prepared by Vramid’s best chefs?

Apparently, only the queen. Daphne had told Jonah to chase away Atticus from her room as though he was a pest. No matter how much Atticus knocked, Daphne merely ignored him as though he was a particularly noisy piece of furniture, calling for Jonah to fix the problem.

Jonah could only shrug at Atticus helplessly. He didn’t want a front-row seat for their romantic drama, and since he was still busy guarding Daphne, Atticus could only bother Sirona for help.

Sirona was this close to simply knocking down the door and shoving Atticus into the room with Daphne for them to sort out their issues. If this dinner didn’t work...

"I got it. Perfect," Atticus said, nodding to himself firmly as he touched his face. "I’ll remember this expression and use it."

"Great, now get out," Sirona said, applauding his efforts. "I want to rest."

"You can’t. You have to teach me how to cook for her."

Sirona’s mouth fell open.

"Are you trying to poison your queen? Am I an accomplice to your assassination attempt?"

"I can cook!" Atticus protested. He paused, recalling his past attempts. "Somewhat! I just need someone to check on me!"

"Get the chefs to do it," Sirona said firmly. "Or I’ll add laxatives to your dishes."

Atticus grumbled but finally left her room. Sirona relished in her peace and quiet before another thought crept into her mind.

’Wait... If Atticus attempts to cook a couple of dishes, will this castle go up in flames?’

***

"You’re cooking?" Jonah asked with no small amount of dismay. Atticus had pulled him away from his guard duty to drag him to the kitchens.

Jonah could only look forlornly as his men got to eat their dinners in the spare dining hall, while he could only look at an uncooked chicken, and then at his beloved king.

"What has Daphne done to deserve this? She hasn’t caused any trouble since being imprisoned!"

"Not you too. Where is the support? You’re my best friend!" Atticus complained.

"I support you not burning the castle to the ground, since it’s winter now and we can’t live anywhere else," Jonah said worriedly. "You do realize that unfrozen water is a very rare resource to come by at the moment, right?"

"It’s perfectly fine. All I have to do is follow these instructions! How hard can it be?" Atticus waved a parchment in his hand.

Jonah recalled Atticus’s previous culinary disasters and could only give him a worried look.

"Daphne might hate you more if you cause her to have the runs. Sirona too."

"You of little faith," Atticus said, rolling his sleeves up as he stared down at the kitchen. "This is going to be fine. I’ll cook a fantastic meal, and Daphne will fall back in love with me. The way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach. Women love a home-cooked meal!"

"Women love a well-cooked meal," Jonah corrected him. "Besides, she hasn’t even agreed to eat with you yet." Jonah couldn’t help but point out. "What are you going to do, lob this chicken through the window?"

"Of course not, this isn’t cooked," Atticus said, as though Jonah was the ridiculous one. Jonah rolled his eyes. "And she’ll definitely eat with me when she gets hungry. She can’t hold on forever. I’ll be ready when she is. I already prepared my ’groveling face’."

Jonah could only give him a somber salute before turning away. "Your Majesty, I can only wish you the best of luck. You’re going to need it."

"Wait, you aren’t helping me? Jonah? Jonah!"

Jonah ran off, pretending he couldn’t hear Atticus calling out for him. He had his own dinner to take care of!

***

Daphne listened carefully, her ear pressed against the door. The hallway was silent, almost suspiciously so. There were no footsteps or breaths from the guards. Maisie had not returned from her trip to the dungeons, and with dinnertime fast approaching, Daphne was becoming a lot hungrier than she was used to.

Normally she would have asked Jonah to grab her something from the kitchens, but Atticus kept on asking her to eat dinner with him.

So Daphne pretended she wasn’t hungry. She would rather starve than eat with him!

Knowing Atticus, he might just stop people from delivering food to her so she had no choice but to share a meal together.

That thought steeled her resolve to escape. She had to beat him at his own game and this was the prime opportunity. She gingerly opened the door and peered outside, a smile blooming on her face when she saw the blessedly empty hallways.

Perfect. Daphne didn’t waste any time. She hiked up her skirts and straight for the kitchens, her stomach grumbling all the while. She already knew where the servant entrances were, it was...

Wait, where was it again?

She was sure that she had found it multiple times since arriving at the castle, but it always seemed like the routes would change every time she crossed these corridors. Either the castle was enchanted or Daphne was getting an early onset of dementia, none of which were in her favor at the current moment.

What’s worse, she couldn’t even ask for help from servants this time around since she wasn’t even supposed to be out of her room! She wasn’t sure if all of the castle staff knew about her current confinement order but she wasn’t about to risk a guard running after her.

Thankfully, it didn’t take long for her to catch a whiff of what smelled oddly like cooking. Only, it was so putrid and rancid that Daphne wasn’t sure if she was actually smelling a sewer leakage or if it was really something that could come out of the kitchens. Her gut was telling her that it was the right path and she, thinking that it would bring about not much harm, decided to listen.

When she had finally traced the smell down to the source, Daphne could only gape at the scene, horrified by what she witnessed.

The high and almighty king of Vramid stood in the center of the kitchen behind the counters, a knife in one hand and a spatula in another. His face and hands had been decorated with a thin layer of what seemed to be a mixture of soot and flour.

There was a whole pile of pots and pans that were stacked to the right of the stove. Inside each cooking ware was either bubbling gray liquid or a charred mess that left flakes everywhere. The charred food caused a rise in a strong, unpleasant odor that lingered and permeated the surroundings.

Atticus seemed to be working on his latest project. He had roughly chopped what looked like chicken breast and had chucked it in boiling hot water, causing drops of water to jump up. He immediately capped the pot, bustling about to chop up some vegetables.

Within moments, bubbles had started to appear at the edge of the shallow pot, spilling out the sides as steam gushed from the gaps between the lid and the pot itself.

"Shit," Atticus cursed, rushing over to pull the lid off. But by then, it was already too late.

The sizzling sound that filled the room was enough to tell Daphne that this was soon to be another cooking disaster.

One look and Daphne could already point out all of the things that had gone wrong, even from a distance away― the fire was too big, the water had boiled down to nearly nothing, and judging by the charred smell that was quickly adding to what was already present in the room, Daphne could bet that Atticus hadn’t added any oil or lard and the protein had thus stuck to the bottom now that the water was gone.

Unable to help herself, she actually let out a bark of laughter, watching as Atticus tried to use the spatula to separate the meat from the bottom of the pot.

Upon hearing her voice, Atticus quickly turned around, his eyes widening when he realized who it was. His wary expression morphed into surprise when their gazes clashed.

"You look absolutely miserable!"