Chapter Eleven #2
He was statue still, saying nothing, staring at her as if she’d suddenly turned into a stranger and he didn’t know who she was.
Well, perhaps it was time he found out who he’d married.
‘I think, Your Majesty,’ she said, moving even closer, staring him down, ‘that you tell yourself that you can’t love because it’s easier than opening yourself up to it.
It’s easier to detach yourself than to feel pain, and I think you’re in pain, Isandro.
’ She looked up into his eyes, watching the shadows move in them, seeing the hurt little boy behind them.
‘You were taught that your feelings weren’t important, that they didn’t matter, and so that’s what you told yourself, too.
Because it hurt, didn’t it? It hurt to be alone in this castle full of strangers. ’
* * *
Isandro stared down at his new wife as she stood in front of him, mere inches away.
She was small and so heartbreakingly lovely in her ice-blue gown.
Too lovely a woman to be firing all these bullets at him.
Bullets that seemed to find every place he was vulnerable, tearing through him, causing pain.
He hadn’t expected this. He’d expected her to nod and agree with him when he’d put his suggestion to her.
To see relief wash over her face once she understood that she would be free.
But there was no relief there, only anger burning in her dark charcoal eyes, and a sharp honesty that cut him down to the bone.
She’s right. You know she is.
No, she wasn’t right. No one had taught him anything.
All he’d had was lack of interest and neglect, so why would he love the people who’d brought him up?
Why would he feel anything at all for them?
When his mother had left, he’d felt nothing.
When his father had died, he’d felt nothing.
When he’d married Carlotta, he’d felt nothing.
It was true that anger had coloured the last couple of years of his life, but that was only anger. It wasn’t love.
Yet it’s not anger you feel something at the thought of sending her away.
She was so close, his bride. Smelling so sweet and soft, yet looking so indomitable. As if she would crush anyone who opposed her.
No, he wasn’t angry about sending her away.
It was…painful. Yet it was also necessary.
Because how could she be happy here with him?
A man who, in her own words, had detached himself because it was easier than dealing with the pain and the loneliness.
Which wasn’t true, of course. He hadn’t detached himself.
It was just that there was only vacuum where his heart should be.
If there’s only vacuum, why does all this hurt so much?
‘No,’ he said to her and to the growing pressure in his chest, as if by dismissing it, he could get rid of it. ‘Why the hell would I be in pain?’
She looked up at him, and abruptly something in her expression softened, the anger in her eyes fading.
‘Because it hurts to be ignored and dismissed. To be neglected. It hurts to have no one and nothing.’ Her voice lost its hard edge, something else tingeing the words that turned the pressure into an ache.
‘I know how it feels, Isandro. Don’t forget that.
I had nothing and no one growing up too. ’
He wanted to dismiss her, tell her he was done with the conversation.
Or, better yet, grip her and pull her close, cover her mouth with his to stop all those painful words from coming out.
But before he could, she abruptly lifted a hand to his cheek, cupping his jaw.
‘You know you didn’t fail anyone, don’t you? ’
He froze, completely unable to move. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You were failed, Isandro. By everyone. By your parents and those around you. By the strangers you grew up with who made no effort to get to know a child, and who showed him no care or love.’ Her thumb stroked his cheek. ‘But you were never the problem. It was all them.’
She’d told him that before and he’d agreed that, yes, his parents had failed him, and he’d been angry about it. A powerful, righteous anger that had felt good at the time. But this time… This time…
His anger had gone and he couldn’t seem to find it, couldn’t seem to grip onto it. And in its absence was pain. A feeling as if his heart had been put in a vice and that vice was tightening and tightening, crushing it inside his chest.
Memories filled his head. Memories of his mother dismissing him when he’d wanted to show her something. Of his father ignoring him when he’d asked if he would play with him. Of the procession of nannies who had been more interested in talking on their phones than in doing anything with him.
Of the terrible loneliness that had no end.
So you cut yourself off from it, pretended you didn’t feel it, because that was easier. So much easier.
Every muscle in his body tightened. He was so tense he ached.
Wren leaned in, brushing a kiss over his mouth, her softness and warmth surrounding him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, my king. There never was. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you, and have only fallen deeper in love the more I got to know you.’
He couldn’t move, the doubt that had lived in him for as long as he could remember, the doubt he’d tried to pretend didn’t exist, suddenly laid bare.
The doubt of a small boy who wondered why his parents didn’t love him, and thought that it had to be something to do with him, because why else would they ignore him so completely?
It had to be him. There had to be something wrong with him.
‘I didn’t try,’ he said hoarsely, still unable to accept it. ‘I detached myself from them and—’
‘You shouldn’t have needed to try,’ she interrupted with some gentleness. ‘They were your parents. They should have loved you.’
He looked down at her, felt the warmth of her palm against his cheek, the heat of her body close to his. The understanding in her eyes. There was no blame there, only a compassion that felt like a gut punch.
This is love. You’re looking at it right now.
His breath caught. She’d told him she loved him weeks ago, and he hadn’t understood what that meant, not fully.
But the look in her eyes… No dismissal, no lack of interest, no judgement, only tenderness.
She was the only one who’d ever said those words to him, the only one who’d stayed at his side, the only one who’d been there for him when no one else would.
The only one who’d ever given even the slightest thought about his own feelings.
Even when he didn’t care about them himself.
Except the problem was that he did care, and he couldn’t keep telling himself that he didn’t.
He couldn’t keep telling himself that he felt nothing for her, that it was only her happiness that was important, because it wasn’t only her happiness he was thinking about.
He was thinking about himself and what his life would look like if she wasn’t in it, and how it would feel…