Page 157 of Reign

“What troubles you?” I asked, my voice gentle yet hesitant.

I tried to catch his eye, silently praying that I was merely overthinking his quietude and that he wasn’t truly seething. But he remained mute, sitting to sift through the scrolls that had been left in his absence. I edged forward cautiously until my shadow eclipsed him. Only then did his strong brow furrow as his gaze met mine.

“You still care for the carpenter?” he asked.

My heartbeat quickened. “You were eavesdropping?”

A smirk played on Fitzroy’s lips as he glanced down at the parchment he’d just crumpled in his fist.

“Last night, you were begging for me to bed you. Now you’re alone with a different man, declaring your affection for him.”

“Of course I care for him,” I replied, baffled that he believed I could so swiftly cast aside my feelings for Bash. “You know I do—but that doesn’t lessen the affection I feel for you.”

He slammed his fist against the desk, causing me to flinch.

“I shall not compete with another man for any woman, let alone a commoner,” he declared in a loud, firm tone.

Though his words would wound if spoken by another, I knew Fitzroy often deployed cruelty to provoke a reaction.

“Hold your tongue—let me speak,” I pleaded. “I’m not asking you to duel for my hand—”

“He can have you,” he cut in, dismissing my protest with a sweeping gesture as though commanding the wind to carry me away. “Not that I imagine he’ll want you in your pitiful state.”

“Pardon?”

“You’ve sullied yourself.” He sneered as his eyes roamed from my head to my heel like the very sight of me repulsed him. “I’d never entertain a woman for more than a night if she’s been touched by another man. If the carpenter has any sense of pride, he’ll feel the same.”

My throat constricted as if twining honeysuckle vines had coiled around it.

“But—I—”

“Look at Elizebeth,” Fitzroy interrupted, his sharp tone matching his gaze. “Destined to die an old spinster for lacking control over her desires.”

Angry tears brimmed in my eyes.

“You told me not to care about my piety—that I was too talented a blacksmith…” I trailed off, feeling foolish for trusting his words. “You said I was a gemstone—”

“Tarry here a moment,” he said, speaking over me once more. “You believed me? Did you also believe I’d entertain the idea of courting you, too?”

He snorted, shaking his head like the idea was absurd.

“I’ve no interest in a woman who lacks scruples. Unlike you, I uphold my morals for the gods.”

For the first time, I was utterly speechless. My mouth opened and closed, desperate for furious words to fall out, but none did. I wasn’t angry—I was deeply hurt.

“Good night, Smith,” Fitzroy said, turning his attention back to the stacks of parchment.

“Everything you said to me—was it all a lie just to part my legs?”

I waited for an answer, hoping he’d say he meant those kind words, for he’d made me feel seen in a way I never had before. But Fitzroy didn’t answer. Instead, he pretended he was alone in his tent.

“You might bear the blood of a king, but you remain the son of a whore,” I snapped, trying to hurt him with my words like he had hurt me. “If you win this war and become a king, never forget—behind your back, your subjects will call you nothing but a bastard.”

After I spoke, I lingered—desperate for even a flicker of a reaction—but he didn’t look up. I stormed out of the royal tent.

The moment I ducked beneath the flap, the sound of shattering glass rang in my ears—Fitzroy, no longer composed, had succumbed to one of his fits of rage. Though he could mend his wounds with magic, I hoped he’d cut his hands on the broken shards.

I paced the camp, the echo of his cruel words stinging as anger coursed through me. With time, I crafted perfect retorts to each of his biting remarks. Humiliation and hurt weighed upon me—I’d been a fool for trusting him.