“To apologize,” he says into my face.
I go even more rigid. “Well. Yes. That is the purpose of this whole—”
“Oh, no. No, hardly. The events of the next few days will be to enjoy some time together, St. Patrick’s Day and Christmas. But today, this right here? Ach, the people want your apology!”
He throws a smile at the journalists, and one of them melts, blushes at his princely charade, traitors. They have their cameras ready, recorders out.
My mouth dries and it’s my turn to burn the side of Lochlann’s face with my gaze. “You mean—”
“Apologize,” he commands. “To me. Now.”
I knew it was coming. But he’sdemandingit. I haven’tofferedit. And there’s a spark in his eyes that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Apologizing is why I’m here. This is what Coal needs me to do. Eat crow.
That reasoning is suddenly hard to see clearly.
Because right now, being in Lochlann’s presence, that heavy, choking wave of pretentiousness quaking off of him, I’m livid.
I don’tgetlivid in a way that doesn’t turn into depression.
Except, it seems, around him.
He still has his arm around me, a pinning vise, so I throw my arm around him too, playing up this buddy-buddy bullshit.
Then, to the journalists, “What happened in the library study room involving Prince Lochlann was nothing more than a harmless prank between friends. But I am sorry, Prince Lochlann, for the negative spin it put on you.”
That’s the apology I wrote. Simple. Effective. Done—
“And?” Lochlann presses, talking out of the side of his mouth.
I fix him with my sweetest smile. “And what?” I hiss.
“And that’s na good enough.”
All smiles. Happy, grinning, friendly smiles for the cameras.
“You can’t be serious.”
Lochlann laughs like I said something funny. He tips his head closer to me, eyes on the journalists, and growls for only me to hear, “You’re lucky I do na make you get down on your knees and beg. Though you did call mehot,so would you enjoy that, hm?”
My whole body goes molten so aggressively I get dizzy.
It fades, tapped by a slow drain of fury, head to toe, and with that drain goes my thinning resolve.
He wants a performance?
I’ll give him a performance.
“And,” I say to the journalists, “our misunderstanding in the library was entirely my fault. Prince Lochlann was merely a harmless, ignorant—”
His grip pinches on my shoulder. “All right, now.”
“—witless, I mean, unwitting, victim. I am honored to spend these next few days with him to draw light to what the press should be focused on: St. Patrick’s Day’s magnificent grandness. Their outstanding generosity. Their kind, welcoming, marvelous spirit that I have seen reflected so beatifically in Prince Lochlann himself.”
A few of the journalists blink at me, mouths slightly agape.
I hear a rumble in the deep of Lochlann’s chest. Annoyance.
