The female swept down the ramp, ignoring the question.She ignored Emily too, turning instead to the nearest Lathar guard, a young warrior blinking and trying not to choke on the wall of perfume.
“I am Miranda Evans,” she announced, lifting her chin.“The Empress-Mother.I assume my quarters have been prepared?I require a suite with a view of the planet, not space.Space is depressing.”
Raaevik frowned.The Empress-Mother?There was no such title in the Empire.The mothers of mates were honored, certainly, but they held no rank.They were guests.
The young warrior hesitated, sliding Raaevik a sideways look for guidance.“I...uh...Ma’am, I have no orders regarding?—”
Miranda’s laugh cracked off the metal walls, too sharp to be real.
“Orders?I am the mother of the Empress.I don’t needorders.What I need is a porter for my luggage.There are twelve cases.Be careful with the blue ones, they’re very delicate.”
Waving a hand dismissively at the guard, she finally turned her attention to her daughter.
He’d expected...something.Relief, maybe?Affection, definitely.In Latharian society, children were prized and precious.He remembered his own mother’s reaction when separated from him and his brother for any length of time.There was weeping...tears of happiness as she clutched them close, and checked them for injury.It had been cute when they were five, not so much by the time they’d hit fifteen.
But Miranda didn’t weep.She inspected instead.
She walked a slow circle around Emily, her gaze cold and calculating, raking over her daughter from head to toe.It was the way a quartermaster inspected a shipment of grain, looking for rot.
“The blue is a good color for you,” she sniffed, pausing to flick a piece of lint off Emily’s shoulder.“It hides your complexion.You look sallow, darling.Have you been eating properly?Or just stress-eating again?”
Emily didn’t flinch this time.She swatted her mother’s hand away, jaw tight.“I’ve been a little busy being kidnapped, Mom.My diet wasn’t exactly a priority.”
“Kidnapped?Don’t be dramatic.”Miranda reached out again, not to stroke Emily’s cheek, but to tug at a loose curl that had escaped her daughter’s messy bun.She pulled it straight, then let it snap back with a sigh.“It was an arrangement.A very lucrative one, might I add.I told you to get a treatment before you left.Frizz is not regal, Emily.It’s messy.”
His anger simmered under his skin, restless.Every word out of that female's mouth was poison.He forced his hands to unclench.This was her mother… her family.He couldn’t just throw her out an airlock because she was rude.But gods, he wanted to.Hereallywanted to.
Circling back to the front, Miranda stepped away to look her daughter up and down.Her attention dropped and froze.
“Emily,” she said, the words dropped an octave.Became sharp and deadly.“What.Are.Those.”
Emily stared down at her feet.The scuffed brown boots peeked out from beneath her skirts.She lifted her chin and met her mother’s gaze.
“They’re my boots.”
Miranda leaned in.“They are garbage.”She glanced around the docking bay.Her expression registered for the first time that they had an audience.
“You are meeting the Emperor of the Latharian Empire,” she said, her voice rising with growing anger.“You are representing our family.Representingme.And you are wearing shoes that look like they were pulled out of a dumpster?”
“They fit,” Emily snapped back, though her voice wavered.“The other shoes hurt.And the floor is slippery.I’m not going to break my neck just so you can have a photo op.”
“Pain is part of the package, darling.If it hurts, it’s working.Welcome to being important.”Miranda loomed over her daughter.“Look at you.You’re slouching again.You’ve gained weight in your hips, haven’t you?Even in that dress, I can tell.You look like a peasant playing dress-up.”
“I look like a person who didn’t ask for this,” Emily shot back, but he could see that the fire was dying.Her shoulders slumped, just a fraction.
Raaevik moved forward.
He didn’t mean to.It was instinct.A sudden need to put himself between Emily and the female hurting her.
“And who is this?”she asked, gesturing in his direction.“Your handler?Does he speak, or is he just decorative muscle?”
“He is my guard,” Emily said.“Sub-Commander Raaevik K’Vass.”
Miranda turned back to Emily, a sneer curling her painted lips.“Well, have the servant explain to you that when one marries a king, one does not dress like a stable hand.It reflects poorly on all of us.”
Servant.
He stared at her.He was a Latharian warrior and a Sub-Commander of the Imperial Guard.He had killed males with his bare hands for less disrespect than this female offered with a wave of her wrist.
