One look at that concern and I burst into tears.
14
I stand where I am, stunned and weeping my eyes out like a child.
“I’m sorry,” I say around an unwilling sob. “I’m so sorry.”
What is the matter with me? There’s nothing wrong with crying, of course, but I’ve done so more in the past fewdaysthan I have in the past fewyears. The tears come so fast and thick that I can’t see anything but a blurred figure in place of Soren’s rigid frame. I wipe frantically at my face.
“If you’ll only give me a moment, Your Majesty, I’ll—I’ll compose myself, and we can—”
Suddenly, he’s there in front of me, his hands lifting my face.
“Did someone hurt you?”
The darkness in his gaze isn’t meant for me, and yet my heart quails for its would-be target. I shake my head within his grip. “No, no.”
“Was someone disrespectful? A servant? A guard?”
I repeat my denial. “No, not at all.”
“Are you unwell?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
Eyes steady on me, he brushes a tear from my cheek. “I told you not to call me that.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
And then he’s wrapping me in his arms, easing my head into the curve of his shoulder, whispering against my ear.
“Stop apologizing, Princess.”
I fold like one of the little stick houses I would make as a girl, not with the slow, dignified crumbling of a real house, but with a sudden collapse against him like a pile of twigs. He eases us to the ground as I cry, as great, heaving sobs break from me, the sound startling even to my own ears.
When he draws me into his lap, I don’t object; I cling tighter, fisting his robe in my hands and burying my face in his chest. Then I think of Princess Rosa touching him there, and I cry all the more.
Ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous.
Hands, strong yet gentle, come up to stroke my back and hair. In time, my eyes slip shut. The tears lessen. I soon find myself only sniffling and in desperate need of a handkerchief.
“Was it me?” These words he speaks so softly that I’m forced to steel myself against more tears. “Did my first form frighten you?”
A little laugh huffs out of me. “No.”
I doubt I’ll ever be brave enough to tell him how his first form affected me.
With reluctance, I pry myself from his grasp so that I can sit in front of him, though I’m finding it difficult to raise my eyes from the rug beneath us. His robe is rumpled from whatever fit I just had, leaving him even less covered than before.
“I was told,” I begin, but have to stop to clear my throat. “I was told these challenges can sometimes end poorly, and I think I let my worry get the best of me.”
I hoped that would be enough, that he might fill in the blanks himself, but Soren says nothing, compelling me to continue.
“I was told that should the challenger win, that should there be a loss…” I clench my hands together. How far is too far?
“Should there be a loss…?” Soren prompts.
He doesn’t sound angry, but speaking of a king losing his throne is dangerous territory. Mother never would have dared say such a thing while my father was alive. I know how he would have responded—with his hands, and not ones bearing the soothing touches Soren just offered.
