Chapter Seven #2
A combination of expressions flickered over Isandro’s handsome face, gone so fast she couldn’t tell what they were.
But in his eyes, she could see shock. She must have hidden her feelings better than she’d thought if he found this confession shocking.
Either that or he’d simply never thought about her feelings at all.
Perhaps, even five minutes ago, that would have hurt. But while she felt a fleeting pain, like a pinch, she was able to ignore it. Because he certainly knew what her feelings were now. She’d made it impossible for him to misunderstand.
A muscle flicked in his jaw as he stared back, his mouth in a hard line. ‘Love,’ he said eventually, sounding out the word as if he didn’t know what it meant. ‘That’s what you’ve been hiding from me? That’s all?’
The kernel of anger inside her flared hot.
‘That’s all? I bare my heart to you, tell you my deepest secret, and that’s all you’ve got to say?
’ Before she knew what she was doing, Wren lifted her hands, slapped them onto his chest and pushed him, hard, making him stumble back a few steps.
‘Well, fuck you, Your Majesty. Most sincerely, fuck you.’
* * *
Isandro was conscious of the shock moving through him, a shock that, all things considered, he shouldn’t have felt.
In fact, he should have known what she felt for him a long time before this, and maybe, if he was being really honest with himself, some part of him had.
Some part of him had even encouraged it, because he’d liked it.
He’d liked how she’d looked at him sometimes, as if he was the one star in her sky.
A mistake. Because if he’d listened to that part of himself, perhaps none of this would have happened. He’d have had her reassigned somewhere else, taken her out of his orbit to save them both. But he hadn’t, because he’d wanted her. An obsession he’d never been able to break free from.
And now, because he hadn’t, he was in yet another situation of his own making. A situation that would hurt an innocent woman whom he’d encouraged when he shouldn’t have.
You’ve already hurt her with that careless comment.
He shouldn’t have responded like that, especially when he’d accused her of being passive. He’d just been angry that she’d been avoiding him for two weeks, and he’d come to the end of his patience with it.
He’d given her all the space he was capable of giving, but now it was time to get down to brass tacks. He’d wanted the truth from her come hell or high water, and, well… He’d got it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his tone flat and hard, because there was no way to pretty this up. No way to make it sound better than it was. And besides, he’d already led her on for years, he couldn’t keep doing it. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. But I can’t give you any of those things, Wren.’
She stood on her little platform in the most beautiful wedding gown he’d ever seen, regal as the queen she would soon be.
All silver and white floating skirts, and a bodice that glittered when she moved.
Her hair was loose down her back, the way he liked it, her shoulders bare, her skin like porcelain against the white silk.
But there were no shutters behind her eyes now. No locked doors. Heat glowed there, molten as liquid mercury, all fierce anger and demand.
She was so beautiful.
‘Why not?’ she challenged. ‘Plenty of other people seem to manage it. Why can’t you? What makes you so special?’
He didn’t know how to say it, or what words to use, but he tried. ‘I was brought up by two people. They weren’t my parents. They were just people, like all the other people who lived in the palace.’
‘What do you mean “just people”?’
‘I mean, they may as well have been strangers for all the affection they gave me. My father was dismissive of me. My mother was too busy being in love with him and making him notice her to pay attention to me.’ He paused. ‘It’s natural, isn’t it, to love one’s parents?’
A crease appeared between her brows. ‘Yes. I mean, I loved my mother.’
‘I didn’t love mine. And I didn’t love my father, either.
Or Carlotta.’ Another woman he’d hurt. Another reason he couldn’t soften anything or dress it up to make it look like something else.
She had to know the truth about him, something he should have told Carlotta that day he’d asked her to marry him.
‘I’ve never loved anyone, Wren. The men in our family simply aren’t capable of it. ’
She blinked. ‘The men? What do you mean?’
‘My grandfather didn’t love his wife, and my father never loved my mother. I tried with Carlotta, but never felt anything more than a certain sense of responsibility towards her.’
‘But you’ll love our child, won’t you?’
Automatically, he looked down at her stomach covered by layers of silk tulle.
Where their child grew. Would he love the baby when he or she was born?
He felt possessive of it, that was true, and he was certain that if anyone tried to hurt it, he would do violence to them. But was that love? How would he know?
You should love your child. Isn’t that what being a good father is all about?
Yes, he should. Except, what if he really couldn’t? What if he felt nothing for their baby beyond that deep possessiveness?
An unfamiliar pain curled through him, sharp and bright, but he shoved it away before it could take root. There was nothing he could do about the vacuum where his heart should be. That was just how he’d been made. He’d accepted that about himself, and so should she.
‘I don’t know,’ he said with brutal honesty. ‘I’m told it’s natural to love one’s children, but my father didn’t love me. I have some of his flaws, and the inability to love is definitely one of them.’
She’d gone pale at that. It seemed both of them had unpalatable truths to give each other.
‘What about friends?’ she asked after a moment. ‘Did you have any? Or a pet? A nanny, even?’
‘No, I had no friends. There were security concerns, so my father had me schooled here. And I wasn’t allowed any pets.’ He’d wanted a dog, once, but his father hadn’t liked dogs and hadn’t permitted animals in the palace anyway. His mother hadn’t cared either way.
Wren was staring at him as if that had shocked her. ‘But you must have been so lonely.’
For a second he didn’t know quite what she meant.
Lonely. Had he been lonely? He’d been isolated, yes, and sometimes it had felt strange to be a child in a palace full of adults, full of strangers.
It had been easy to detach, though, because he was going to be king, and a king had to be detached to a certain extent.
Certainly his father could have done with more detachment—he’d been far too driven by his emotions, and so Isandro had simply decided that he wouldn’t be driven or controlled by his.
It had been an easy decision to make, made easier by the fact that he had no one but himself to be concerned about.
‘No,’ he said, with absolute truth. ‘Not lonely at all. Isolated maybe, but I was fine. I didn’t grow up to be my father, at least.’