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And I can’t help but wonder if she would allow her son, her heir, to be put through all this savagery even though he was born with the right to his crown.
Because none of this privilege is won or earned. Christopher was born for this—it’s in his blood and engrained in his being.
Today is just a vicious and sadistic sport made to make the weaker, inferior beings content with their roles. They may have power, but only the chosen one can yield it.
Fleeting to Stanton, I narrow my gaze on him.
Is he really worthy?
His fair appearance does nothing to disguise the darkness inside him. And I hope to God above that Christopher never loses his light. That despite his roughness and brutality, he remains the man he is. The man I have fallen irrevocably in love with. The warm, caring soul that has become my own, and with which I cannot part.
Dropping her hand from my chin, Emily holds her pointer finger up as if to ensure I daren’t look down as Christopher endures beating after beating, dunk after dunk…
Why are they making me watch?
“You’ll need to stand strong even when he’s weak,” Penny whispers, our hands clawing tighter together. I feel her trembles even as she tries to hold herself removed. Surely, she must feel every slap, backhand, and punch driven into her son’s flesh. She must feel every icy knife daggering into his flesh. “You’ll need to fight when he cannot, no matter the cost.”
“And it will be great, child. The price we pay is always the greatest. It’s always the one with the most power to destroy our world. But if my grandson can endure lash after lash, so must you.”
It dawns on me then.
This isn’t Christopher’s test.
It’s ours.
/> Standing taller, I squeeze Penny’s hand back, crushing hers harder.
“The role of a true queen is to protect the king.” With a kiss to the top of my head, she murmurs, “Even when our hands are tied. Even if it means sacrificing ourselves.”
“Only the king delivers victory; we are all but pawns in an endless game.” Stroking the back of my hand lightly with the back of her fingers, Emily asks, “Can you be a worthy queen, child?”
Yes.
The answer is autonomous. There is no doubt or fear. No hesitation.
Yes, I can be Christopher’s queen.
Besides, the queen can win the game, even if she requires the hand of the king. They lead the victory together.
Eyes glued to mine in the mirror, like he too was reliving that day, Christopher smiles softly. Kindly and lovingly, even as his hand teases my flesh…taunting my will.
His other pulls at the shirt until the gaps between the buttons gape and the fabric winces with his strength.
“Give me what I want, wife.”
Panic, as one of the buttons pops, tornadoes inside me. My toes curl deeper, and my hands claw at his thighs, fisting the rich fabric of his suit trousers.
“Or beg me to stop.”
The words are on the tip of my tongue. Rolling heavy, desperate to be released into the barely lit-up room.
I won’t.
I can’t.
Strength and resilience.
A loud knock breaks the silence, and I use that fissure in our moment to swallow the words down. I push them all the way down, imagining them going through me to my feet. Twisting them, I imagine snuffing out my weakness.
