Page 48 of The Midnight King
How can he smile when we’re in this situation? How can he stand there, knowing me as intimately as he does, knowing also that his son is probably going to propose before the end of the night?
“Welcome, Celinda,” says the King in that rich, deep voice, and I glance around despairingly, certain that I’m going to pass out from sheer panic. None of the servants are close enough to catch me.
The King jerks his head slightly, and Brantley hurries to pull out my chair for me himself, rather than having one of the servants do it. I drop gratefully onto the cushioned seat and try to remember my manners. I didn’t curtsy, but I’m sure neither of them will mention it. Thank Fate my stepmother’s order from last night no longer applies, so I don’t have to listen to rude phrases spilling from my mouth without my consent.
“Thank you for having me,” I say as calmly as I can manage.
“We’re having roast duck,” says the Prince eagerly. “My favorite. But first, an autumn soup, very light and foamy. I think you’ll enjoy it, though the primary ingredient is the humble squash. So many kinds of squash, you know, and so much that can be done with them.”
He launches into a lesson on the types of squash and their uses, including whole recipes complete with the quantities of each ingredient. One of the servants approaches and offers me a sort of bib that I can drape over my gown, but I decline, not wishing to look even more foolish before the two royals. When the soup arrives, I do spill a few drops on my dress, but the material absorbs it instantly, leaving no stain.
I could get used to wearing magical clothing.
When the Prince pauses for breath and a mouthful of soup, I smile at him and say, “It’s incredible how you can remember all those recipes. I’ve never met anyone with such a wonderful memory.”
“Thank you.” His smile is so delighted and genuine that warmth floods my heart.
I truly care about Brantley. I want him to be safe and happy. I want him to have a partner who appreciates his strengths and complements his weaknesses. Maybe, if I’m forced into the role of his wife, I will find some way to bear it—to help him govern and free us both from my stepmother.
But then I glance at the King, and my heart breaks. He’s smiling too, looking at me with so much affection and appreciation for my kindness to his son that nausea surges in my stomach.
I can’t do this. I can’t be married to his son, be part of his family, and move in the same circles as him. Much as I might try to resist him, I will fall at his feet again. I know it.
How did my life become such a tangled mess?
It’s allher, of course. My fucking stepmother. Without her, none of this would have happened.
“Are you well, my dear?” asks the King. “You look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Excellent. Tell me about your family.”
He’s behaving like any father would when his grown son brings a potential bride to the family dinner table. He’s acting as if he doesn’t know me, as if his tongue hasn’t been inside me. I can still feel the brush of his scruff on my inner thighs, and I pin my legs together under the table.
I do my best to tell him about my family, but my stepmother has surrounded that topic with so many rules and laws that I find myself pausing constantly to skirt around things I’m not allowed to mention. At last I manage to turn the topic back to food, specifically the best ways to cook different cuts of meat, a topic which allows Brantley to exercise both his memory and his love of detail.
At last, after thin slices of chocolate cake, the King rises. “We should prepare for the ball. I’ll be attending tonight, and Brantley, if you will permit it, I would like to claim one dance with Celinda.”
“Of course, Father,” replies the Prince. There’s not a trace of suspicion in his face or voice. I suspect that despite Brantley’s expertise in everything else, he’s not good at reading expressions, or he would have picked up on the meaning of my blushes and discomfort during dinner.
“Celinda, there’s a chamber prepared for you upstairs if you need to freshen up before the ball,” the King says. “I’ll escort you there, if you like.”
I should say no. But I want to speak with him, to question him about what the fuck he’s doing and how we’ll manage to stay away from each other if I’m married to his son. So againstmy better judgment I hear myself saying, “That would be lovely, thank you.”
I don’t miss the way the King waves off the guards who try to follow us, or the way his large hand presses lightly at the small of my back on the way upstairs. The hallway is cloaked in beautiful paper, vines and flowers swirling over the walls. The lamps are shaped like hands holding glass flames.
The King opens a door and beckons me inside. I enter, my mouth and throat dry as bone despite the water I drank at dinner. Did I eat more than a few bites? I can’t remember. My stomach is twisting itself into knots.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I spin around, hoping he left, hoping I’ll be alone.
But he’s there, in the room with me, his fingers still on the door handle. He’s looking at me like a beast who has finally cornered his prey.
“Kneel before your King, Celinda,” he says quietly.
“Your Majesty, we should talk.”
He’s taking off his belt. I can’t tear my gaze away from those large, masculine hands. I watch him undo his pants, and I melt to the ground in my scarlet dress. Fuck him… I can’t resist.