15. 14 #2
She nodded once, then looked between the brothers. “Now,” she said, “shall we move on before someone starts throwing chairs?”
Theodore’s gaze darkened, narrowing on her.
“Hold,” he called to the guards. “Don’t let the next one in.” He leaned in, voice low and clipped. “Do not undermine me in front of the commoners.”
Mabel didn’t flinch. “I wouldn’t have to if you two could put aside whatever petty differences you have and actually lead.”
Both men stilled. Lance looked up from his clothes, eyes landing on the pink scar running up Theodore’s neck.
Lance snorted. Petty differences.
Theodore didn’t bother looking back. His jaw tightened. “Do you not see that I’m trying?” he snapped. “If I didn’t have the two of you speaking over me, maybe I could lead.”
“A bull and a cow is hardly trying,” she scoffed.
Lance barked out a laugh, and Theodore’s glare snapped toward him before swinging back to Mabel.
“I invited you simply as company, not to govern,” he said, voice cutting. “This is my court. My responsibility. Not yours.”
Mabel pursed her lips. “Apologies, my prince. I’ll remember my place next time.”
Theodore’s scowl fell, his lips parting slightly, searching for any words that could possibly save him.
“Prince Theodore, shall we bring in the next visitor?” the royal guard called from the large wooden doors.
Mabel crossed her arms, raising a brow.
Theodore reached for her. “No—”
“Yes,” she called, gaze fixing forward.
The doors opened. And the people kept coming.
If Theodore had summoned her to impress, he was failing spectacularly.
His people might still be dazzled by his charm and clever rhetoric, but Mabel wasn’t. Not anymore. She sat silently as the brothers bickered in front of their subjects, rarely able to come to an agreement without their advisers chiming in.
The line of citizens dwindled, one by one, until none remained. Then the door shut for the final time, a dull, resonant thud that settled over the chamber.
“Are we done here?” Mabel asked, rising from her chair.
Theodore took hold of her wrist. “I have not dismissed the court.”
She turned a glare on him. “Then do it.”
“Sit down,” he said, doing his best to ease his tone.
Mabel tried and failed to pull her arm from his grasp. “Let me go.”
“Mabel,” his voice was edged. “Do not make a fool of me. Sit. Down.”
She leaned in, voice dropping. “You made a fool of me. Maybe it’s what you deserve.”
He rose to his feet instantly, towering over her. “Court is dismissed. Everyone out.”
The advisers scattered, tripping over their robes in a rush to escape the storm brewing between all three royals.
“You would purposely humiliate me in front of my council?” His silver eyes locked onto hers, cold and cutting.
“You humiliated me in front of everyone,” she seethed. “Even now, you silence me in front of your court—”
“It is not your place!” he roared, his last thread of composure snapping. His grip on her arm tightened, dragging her down.
She hit the chair with a thud, a gasp ripping from her throat as she stared wide-eyed at him—then directly past him.
Lance.
He was already moving, his hand fisting around Theodore’s collar and yanking him back with enough force to make him stumble. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on her.”
Theodore recovered instantly, pivoting to face him. “Or what?”
“How does a matching scar sound?”
Mabel surged to her feet, slipping between them before either could lunge. Her palms pressed to Theodore’s chest, holding him back. For a heartbeat, his weight leaned into her hands, coiled and dangerous.
His glare stayed fixed on Lance … until it slid down to her. Slowly. Eerily.
The silence that followed cut right through her.
Mabel felt his stare settle on her like a weight. Not angry—not yet—but assessing. Calculating. His chest rose beneath her palms slowly, as if he were steadying himself. “Theo,” her voice trembled, heart threatening to escape her chest.
“Interesting,” he said under his breath, the sound low enough to vibrate against her ribs. The ease in his voice chilled her more than any shout.
His arm slid around her waist, possessive, fingers tracing the line of her spine as if mapping every inch.
His other hand caught her chin, guiding her face upward until she had no choice but to meet his gaze.
He studied her—slowly, intently—his thumb brushing her jaw in a gesture that looked tender but felt like a warning.
Beneath each touch, she sensed the tension in him, the fury he was holding back by sheer force of will.
Every glance, every measured breath, carried the weight of a man trying to decide whether he was imagining things … or whether the truth was standing right in front of him. “What have you done, Princess?” He leaned in close.
“W-what do you mean?” she whispered.
“Why does he care for your safety? Why is he still standing there as if he is a part of any of this?” he growled.
Mabel opened her mouth to speak, but no words fell.
“Someone has to,” Lance interjected. His hands tucked themselves firmly behind his back to keep from hitting him, but mostly to keep from touching her.
Theodore took a deep breath, trying to settle the rage building in his chest. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Come now, brother. How you treat the princess is no secret. Half the kingdom saw her running from you.” Lance shook his head. “I’ve dealt with your temper firsthand. I don’t think it wise to leave her unattended at the height of it.”
“I can handle myself.” Mabel turned to him. “Leave.” Then silently, she mouthed, “Please.”
Lance’s brows drew together, eyes searching her for any sign telling him to stay. He nodded once and turned on his heel. “Remember, strike her, and you’ll regret it.” He threw the words over his shoulder as he stepped out of the throne room.
Mabel spun back toward Theodore, hesitant as she assessed him.
He stepped back from her, hands clenching and unclenching as he tried to regain his composure. “Are you fucking him?”
“No,” she answered. Not yet.
He was quiet for a long moment, analyzing every flicker in her face, the rising of her chest, the near-constant flush of her skin. He sank back onto the throne. Then, finally, softly, “I’m sorry.”
Mabel had to fight from rolling her eyes. “I tire of your apologies.”
Theodore reached out, slowly linking their fingers together. His touch was tentative. Like he wasn’t sure he had the right anymore. And he didn’t. “I know.”
Mabel let their hands rest together for a breath longer, just long enough to acknowledge what had been, before she pulled away.
“I’m not ready to forgive you,” she said, turning her back to him. “Not yet.”
Theodore’s gaze fell, brows knitting as he curled the hand that had held hers into a fist. “I understand,” he said.
She let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t think you do. Do you really think so little of me—that I shouldn’t have a voice at your side?”
“That’s not it,” he said quickly. “I’m supposed to lead. My father entrusted me with this. I can’t have a princess speaking over me in front of the court.”
She turned then, eyes sweeping over him with judgment. “I’ll be their queen one day,” she said. “If you can’t trust me to lead beside you, how can they trust me to lead at all?”
Theodore didn’t answer.
He just stared at his lap, the silence between them thick with everything he couldn’t say.
Her expression softened just slightly. She stepped forward, laying a hand gently over his clenched fingers.
“You’ll make a good king,” she sighed. “But only if you learn to hear advice without mistaking it for insult. Don’t push away help just because it challenges you.
” Then her tone sharpened, steel threading through silk.
“And if you ever speak to me like that again in front of the court,” she said, “you’ll regret it. ”
She held his gaze. And this time, he didn’t look away. He smirked. “Noted. So another week, then?”
She didn’t offer him a reply.
She left the chamber with every ounce of fury wrapped in grace, her steps measured, her spine unyielding.
And he watched her leave, a smirk on his lips.
He didn’t mind a challenge.