Chapter 14
I stand where I am, stunned and weeping my eyes out like a child.
“I’m sorry,” I say around an unwilling sob. “I’m so sorry.”
What is the matter with me? There’s nothing wrong with crying, of course, but I’ve done so more in the past few days than I have in the past few years. The tears come so fast and thick that I can’t see anything but a blurred figure in place of Soren’s rigid frame. I wipe frantically at my face.
“If you’ll only give me a moment, Your Majesty, I’ll—I’ll compose myself, and we can—”
Suddenly, he’s there in front of me, his hands lifting my face.
“Did someone hurt you?”
The darkness in his gaze isn’t meant for me, and yet my heart quails for its would-be target. I shake my head within his grip. “No, no.”
“Was someone disrespectful? A servant? A guard?”
I repeat my denial. “No, not at all.”
“Are you unwell?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
Eyes steady on me, he brushes a tear from my cheek. “I told you not to call me that.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
And then he’s wrapping me in his arms, easing my head into the curve of his shoulder, whispering against my ear.
“Stop apologizing, Princess.”
I fold like one of the little stick houses I would make as a girl, not with the slow, dignified crumbling of a real house, but with a sudden collapse against him like a pile of twigs. He eases us to the ground as I cry, as great, heaving sobs break from me, the sound startling even to my own ears.
When he draws me into his lap, I don’t object; I cling tighter, fisting his robe in my hands and burying my face in his chest. Then I think of Princess Rosa touching him there, and I cry all the more.
Ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous.
Hands, strong yet gentle, come up to stroke my back and hair. In time, my eyes slip shut. The tears lessen. I soon find myself only sniffling and in desperate need of a handkerchief.
“Was it me?” These words he speaks so softly that I’m forced to steel myself against more tears. “Did my first form frighten you?”
A little laugh huffs out of me. “No.”
I doubt I’ll ever be brave enough to tell him how his first form affected me.
With reluctance, I pry myself from his grasp so that I can sit in front of him, though I’m finding it difficult to raise my eyes from the rug beneath us. His robe is rumpled from whatever fit I just had, leaving him even less covered than before.
“I was told,” I begin, but have to stop to clear my throat. “I was told these challenges can sometimes end poorly, and I think I let my worry get the best of me.”
I hoped that would be enough, that he might fill in the blanks himself, but Soren says nothing, compelling me to continue.
“I was told that should the challenger win, that should there be a loss…” I clench my hands together. How far is too far?
“Should there be a loss…?” Soren prompts.
He doesn’t sound angry, but speaking of a king losing his throne is dangerous territory. Mother never would have dared say such a thing while my father was alive. I know how he would have responded—with his hands, and not ones bearing the soothing touches Soren just offered.
I peek up at him, the Dragon King. His face is grave, but still, I can’t convince myself he looks angry. I suppose there’s only one way to know if he will be.
“I was told that if you lost the throne,” I say, “all your possessions would go with it. Including me.”
There. I’ve said it.
Part of it, at least.
A hand does reach toward me then, but it’s only to smooth away a bit of sand from my neck.
“Do you think I would risk you?” he says, his gaze tracing the path of his fingers along my jaw.
I don’t know how to answer that, and yet I feel the need to say something. Anything, really, to distract myself from the way his touch is disorienting me. “I know your kingdom is in dire need of water.”
His eyes snap to mine. “What does water have to do with it?”
I startle at this. Everything, I almost say. It’s why I’m here.
Yet what I see in the king’s face, what I feel in the warmth, in the near-reverence of his touch, tells a different story, one where he yearns for me, not just my power.
Some part of me aches to cry out, “You don’t have to look at me like that. You don’t have to pretend. I know this isn’t a love match. I know you can have anyone you want.”
Another part—whether weaker or stronger, I don’t know—only wants him to keep looking at me like that, to keep kissing me as he did before, pretend or not.
His fingers reach my mouth, and he lingers there, drawing the pad of his thumb across my lower lip.
“You don’t know what I would do for you,” he says. “What I…”
Here, he stops, and his fingers still. The hand withdraws to his lap, and in a blink, he’s on his feet, pacing like a trapped animal while I stare at him.
“Are you all right?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer. He’s busy pushing his hands through his hair and muttering to himself as if arguing with someone else.
I begin to wonder if he struck his head while in the arena.
With a growl, he pivots toward me.
“Wait here,” he says. And without another word, he thunders out, the speed of his departure enough to make the nearby lanterns sputter.
Well, that was an interesting turn of events.
If it weren’t so strange, I’m sure I would fret over what I said wrong. As it is, I ponder whether I should send for a physician. Maybe we both need one. Maybe he’s off to fetch one for his overly emotional betrothed.
I draw my knees to my chest and sit there, chin on knees, and wait.
In less than five minutes, he bursts back into the tent, forcing me to avert my eyes. He left in his robe, he’s still in his robe, and the garment is now hanging on for dear life.
Striding by me, he drops a pack on the floor and disappears behind the paneled dressing screen, reappearing a moment later in dark pants.
Only dark pants.
“Your shirt,” I say, my mouth utterly betraying me.
The king ignores this and, coming to stand over me, bends to offer me his hand. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “To the stars, Princess.”