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He studies my eyes for a few seconds. Then he nods. “That’s probably it.”
“But you being the rebel, the uncontrollable one, the one bucking his rules, is not helping him feel secure about you taking over a position that takes a lot of self-control and putting others in front of what you want and feel. It also requires a lot of transparency.”
I realize the truth of all of that even as I explain it out loud to Torin.
I’m the princess now. Torin’s wife. At least for now. I need to make sure people see him as the king they want and need him to be. And that means that sometimes—okay, often—the feelings and needs of other people are going to be more important than my own.
I squeeze his fingers. “Do you really think Diarmuid is a bad king?”
Torin looks startled. “I’ve never thought he is a bad king.”
“So why do you push so hard against him? You believe he cares about the people and wants what’s best for them. You believe that the things he does are done with good intentions. You will do things differently when you’re king, but you will do them with a heart for taking care of people. Just like he does.”
Torin takes a moment to answer. “It’s because he didn’t lean this hard on anyone else.”
“Do you mean Declan? When he was preparing to be king?”
Torin shakes his head. “My brother never seriously prepared to be king. Not really. I mean…” He takes a breath and blows it out. “My father.”
We haven’t talked much about his father. I’ve seen photos. I know he was killed in a car accident. I know he was beloved and his death devastated the family and the entire country.
“Your father was ready to be king?”
“Very. And the pressure of following in his footsteps was enormous. For Declan and then for me after Declan left. The country wanted my father. My grandfather wanted him.”
“So they saw eye to eye. Does it bother you that you would have disagreed with your father on a lot of things too?” I ask, wanting to understand Torin’s frustrations and reluctance about his future role.
He gives me a smile. “My father and I agreed on almost everything. He and my grandfather argued all the time. Loudly and passionately.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
He nods, running his thumb over my knuckles. “My father didn’t propose a conversion to a true democracy, but he also wanted more input from the people. He had ideas about how to include the people. I remember hiding in the secret chamber behind my grandfather’s office and listening to their ‘discussions’.” He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “They were passionate conversations, but they would talk for hours. I learned more history, and political science, and philosophy, and was introduced to more ethics ideas eavesdropping on them than I did in any university class.”
I smile, delighted by this insight. “And that’s how your ideas got planted?”
“My father never advocated for a move to a true democracy, but I’d like to think my father would have loved my presentation,” he says with a small smile.
“So you poke your grandfather in memory of your father?”
He laughs. “Not consciously. But I do get very…frustrated… that my grandfather won’t listen to me the way he did my father. It’s like after my father was gone, the king felt like he had to try even harder to control things.”
I nod. “That’s probably exactly how he felt, Torin.” I squeeze his hand again. “I can’t imagine how losing his child, not to mention that man who was assumed, by everyone, all his life, to be his successor—who wanted the job and who he believed would do a wonderful job—would make him feel.” I step closer. “In fact, that explains a lot. Diarmuid is comparing you to your father, and maybe that’s not fair, but I’m sure he can’t help it. You probably remind him so much of your dad…except you’ve got this rebellious streak that makes him nervous. And that’s what he’s trying to...”
“Squelch?” Torin asks dryly.
“Understand?” I offer.
He laughs softly. “That’s generous. But all of that makes sense.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t this make the perfect argument for elected leaders, though? So when someone dies, they’re easier to replace? It doesn’t throw everything into such turmoil?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, should our leaders be easy to replace? Shouldn’t they be the best of the best? People who really make a difference? People who are exceptional? I hate the idea that they might be a dime a dozen. And,” I add, “an easy, obvious line of succession—of good, honorable, worthy people, of course—is easier and comforting. When someone dies, you know who is next and you know they’ve been preparing and come from a long line of great leaders.”
He twists his lips.
I go ahead and say what we’re both thinking. “Unless, of course, they go rogue and spend a decade in another country, disassociating from their leadership responsibilities. That could make people a little nervous I guess.”
He growls and grasps my hips, pulling me close. “I can’t believe you’re not a thousand percent on my side.”
“Why? Just because you’re hot and dish out orgasms whether I’m good or bad, I should agree with everything you say and do?” I tease.
