Chapter Five #2
Isandro sat in his office, moodily sipping on a tumbler of very old and very good Scotch. He’d finally been able to escape the ballroom after the majority of the guests had left, but, despite the hour, he wasn’t tired. There were too many thoughts going around and round in his head.
He should be thinking about the ball, and how he and Wren had been received, perhaps setting up some meetings with the palace PR for the next morning, so he could have a debrief. But he wasn’t.
All he could think about was Wren.
He’d been so pleased with himself about that kiss on the terrace. She’d responded as passionately as he’d hoped, and he’d been conscious of how she’d kept looking at him afterwards, as if she couldn’t bring herself to look away.
He’d thought that, after the ball, she might want more of that kiss, and he’d planned to take her somewhere private, to relive the moment. Priming her for their wedding night. Making her think about that afternoon on his desk. Making her want more, then leaving her hungry.
But…she’d seen through his plan. She’d known exactly what he was doing. He’d tried to sidestep it, and she hadn’t let him, so, of course, he’d challenged her about how much she’d wanted that kiss.
She hadn’t denied it, not that she could, but yet again she’d insisted that she wasn’t sleeping with him, determination glowing in her eyes.
He didn’t know why she was resisting him so hard.
She hadn’t that afternoon in his office, no, she’d kissed him as passionately as he’d kissed her, clinging to him as if she never wanted to let him go.
It made no sense. There had been strong reasons to hold back before, but now those reasons had gone. There was nothing to keep them from each other, so why was she so determined to stay away?
There had been that moment, though, when she’d turned her face unexpectedly and her mouth had brushed over his in a kiss he hadn’t expected. Then she’d touched his cheek so very gently. Something fierce had glowed in her silver eyes, something molten, and she’d challenged him very directly.
Don’t cross me, my king.
The words were liquid heat in his veins, a red rag to a bull, and when he’d accepted that challenge…
He’d seen the answering thrill in her gaze, an electricity that had lit him up inside.
That had happened sometimes when they’d been working together.
He’d have an idea, and Wren would run with it, making sure it could work, getting all the details in order and managing everything with the effortless calm she seemed to have no end of.
It had been thrilling working with someone so in tune with him, and that moment in the ballroom had seemed to capture that thrill, making him burn.
Making him want to cross her. Making him want to know how she’d make him regret it.
Yet then she’d suddenly turned away and it had been as if she’d switched a light off inside him, leaving him in the darkness. Why had she done that? Why had she looked away?
She was hiding something and he wanted to know what it was.
He took another sip of his Scotch and rested his head on the back of the armchair, staring up at the ceiling. He was half tempted to go to her rooms right now, but he didn’t want to wake her. She needed her rest, especially now she was pregnant.
Isandro drained his tumbler, debated having a second, then dismissed the idea.
His father had often drunk himself into a stupor in this very study, sometimes sleeping in this same armchair.
His mother, before she’d left, used to get the staff to check the room whenever the King hadn’t slept in his bed.
He never slept with his wife after Isandro was born, or at least, that’s what he’d told Isandro.
Again, he’d been drunk and had treated Isandro to a litany of complaints about Lucia, Isandro’s mother.
It had been an arranged marriage that he’d entered into in good faith, only to find that his new wife was clingy, demanding, and unstable—his words.
Lucia had loved him and Xavier had tried to love her back, but he’d soon realised that he couldn’t even pretend to.
He was incapable of love, he’d told Isandro.
In fact, all the men in the family were incapable of it.
Even Isandro’s grandfather had tried to love his queen, yet had ended up scandalously divorcing her after she’d given birth to Isandro’s father.
Relationships were problematic, Isandro learned, especially when one person was in love and the other wasn’t, and most especially in arranged royal marriages.
Xavier’s lack of feeling for his queen had prompted him to find his comforts elsewhere, regardless of the consequences, and led his wife to depression.
She’d gone, in the end, without a word to anyone, even Isandro.
One day she was there, the next she wasn’t.
His father had been furious, mainly because he hadn’t wanted to mobilise the entire Valdoran police force into finding out where she’d gone, so he hadn’t. ‘Good riddance,’ he’d said instead.
By that point in his childhood—he’d been twelve years old—Isandro was used to being on his own, so his mother’s departure hadn’t upset him unduly.
In fact, after she’d gone, he’d decided that his lack of feeling meant he was as incapable of love as his father and grandfather had been.
Still, he hadn’t liked the thought of hurting anyone, so when it came time for his own marriage, he’d pretend.
He would treat his queen with respect and care.
Be a better husband than his father had been at least.
And look how that turned out with Carlotta. You might be a better king than your father, but you’re not a better husband.
His mood, already dark, darkened even further.
Yes, it was true, he’d failed with Carlotta.
He’d got too caught up in his own duties and had neglected her.
He hadn’t seen how difficult she’d found it being his queen until it had been too late, and he’d been impatient with her complaints.
He hadn’t listened, had let his own irritation get in the way, and one night, after yet another confrontation, she’d left the palace and had promptly driven her car over a cliff.
That had been a terrible shock. Afterwards, he’d been consumed with guilt, his own childish decisions about being a good husband coming back to haunt him.
If he’d been more attentive, more loving—even if that was a pretence—she might not have turned to substances to cope with her unhappiness.
She might not have driven off that cliff.
She died because of you.
Self-loathing gripped him, and he growled, slamming the tumbler onto the table and pushing himself out of his armchair. It was bad for him to sit here brooding. He needed distraction.