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“Thank you, but no,” I tell my secretary. “I think I’ll take a long shower and get some sleep. You should too.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She hesitates. “If I may be so bold…”
“You always may,” I tell her, forcing a little laugh. “But I’ve got to warn you that I might not always like it.”
She looks down at her stylish but sensible heels as she speaks, like she knows what she’s about to say is embarrassing but she’s determined to say it anyway. “Before the missionaries came to Manaroa, unmarried women—and even married women—had a lot more control over their bodies. Who they took to bed. And often royal women in the palace were able to, ah, discreetly seek comp
anionship from the palace guards.” Her hands twist together, but she keeps going. “My queen, it pains us all to see you so alone. You’ve raised a healthy young son to follow in King Rua’s footsteps, but you don’t have to sacrifice the rest of your life now. Forgive me for saying so, but I saw you and Brock Grimsby tonight, and if you’re interested in a man like him, there are good men in the palace who would be honored to serve their queen in this way.”
A man like him…
How can I explain to Vashti that I have never, ever in my life met a man like Brock Grimsby? Never seen a man of such brooding sinfulness, of such massive, possessive strength?
He didn’t want to possess you, though. Remember?
The knot in my throat pulls tight at something in my chest. Shame maybe, or anger, or hurt. A scrape bloodying the soft curves of my heart.
People call me brave often; people call me generous and strong. But my bravery and strength has always been for Manaroa and its royal family, and for the first time in my entire life, I wanted to be brave for myself. I wanted someone to lavish generosity and strength on me.
I wanted Grim. I wanted his body and his intensity and his gruff, gravelly voice telling me all the things he wanted to do to me in Manaroan and English and every other language he knew. I wanted to feel those giant, muscular thighs against the back of mine as he bent me over a table; I wanted his large, capable hands in my hair pulling my head back so he could suck and lick at my neck. I wanted that magnificent bulge I saw between his legs.
I wanted just one night with someone who saw me. Who wanted me. Someone so strong that for an entire night, I wouldn’t have to be strong at all, because he’d have enough strength for us both.
But we don’t always get what we want.
Or in my case, never.
I force another little laugh so Vashti knows I’m not angry or offended. “I’ve heard the old stories too,” I say, as she lifts her head, looking visibly relieved. “And I know you only want the best for me. Hehu hinted at something similar tonight, and I can’t promise that I’ll find a palace guard to entertain myself, but I can promise that I’ll try to be more cheerful.”
Vashti looks sad. “Your Majesty, you are cheerful. And polite and kind and confident. That’s why we worry. You need something just for you.”
She’s right about that, but talking about this anymore is going to cinch the knot so tight in my throat that speaking will be impossible, and I can’t have that. That would hardly be the way to convince her I’m completely fine and not lonely in the least.
“I’ve got plenty just for me,” I lie, coming away from the window to walk her to the door. “And right now, I have a long shower and Netflix waiting more patiently than any palace lover ever would.”
She seems doubtful, as she should, but she doesn’t press, and for that I’m eternally grateful. Because the minute we say good night and I close the door behind her, my face crumples and my nose stings. I see Grim in my mind’s eye, snow falling feather-soft on those powerful shoulders and on the rugged, masculine planes of his face. I see the small snowflake dissolving on his lower lip as he carefully refused me.
I don’t think that’s a good idea, Your Majesty.
It really is for the best.
Just like everything else in my life. For the best, but not for me.
Vashti already helped me out of my dress and shoes, so I pad silk-robed and barefooted into the bathroom to clean the makeup from my face. I reach up to pluck the diamond flower from my hair—and then stop, deciding to fortify myself with a drink before I relive that embarrassing moment in the snow with Grim.
I wander out to the bar area near the sitting room, mulling over all the high-end booze I find there. Plenty of expensive wine, plenty of champagne, and even some single malt scotches—but no vanilla rum.
Apparently not having any vanilla rum is the last straw. Humiliated tears burn at my eyelids, and I sink to the floor as I feel everything from tonight, from the last year, from my entire life.
Groomed to be Rua’s but unwanted by him.
Groomed to be a queen but not a woman.
Groomed for high-end wine and views over Lafayette Square but not vanilla rum and Netflix . . . spiked liberally with filthy, thigh-trembling orgasms.
The knock sounds at the door as the first sob escapes me.
I scramble to my feet, swiping hard at my face. I can’t ignore the knock; the terrible price of being a queen is that you lose the right to ignore anything, even if it comes while you’re trying to cry. At least if it’s Vashti or Hehu, they’ll know to make it brief, and I can return to my moping soon.
