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His words—and the image they evoke—make my legs feel hollowed out. I fight the tug of sensual need, though it bombards me from every direction, I’m desperately clinging to my train of thought.
‘The marriage agreement was formed a long time ago. It’s binding.’
‘And were you part of this agreement?’ he prompts, with a hint of cynicism in his tone.
‘I didn’t know anything about it until my parents died.’
His eyes flash. ‘So they never spoke of this to you?’
‘I’m sure they would have,’ I respond defensively. ‘When I was old enough.’
‘Then how do you know this is what they wanted?’
I blink at him, confused.
‘You say they made this arrangement many years ago. What if their intentions changed?’
‘Then they would have torn up the contract. It was kept in the family safe with all their most important documents.’
‘Isn’t it possible they simply forgot?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘So you will live your life as they dictated many years ago. But this is a decision you make. You are complicit in your fate, Freja.’
‘I know that. Why do you think I’m here with you?’
His eyes pierce mine.
‘Rebellion.’ I answer my own question. ‘A taste of freedom before I return to the palace and take on all that is expected of me.’
A muscle in his jaw flexes but he says nothing. I feel his disapproval and for the first time in my life see my decisions as exactly that—decisions I’ve made.
‘What would you have done? If your parents had laid out this plan for you?’
His lips tighten into a grimace. ‘Run a mile in the opposite direction.’ He moves closer. ‘But it’s a poor comparison. I am not close to my parents and generally choose to feel the opposite to them about everything.’
‘Oh.’ It’s enough of a revelation to pull me out of my own angst. ‘Why aren’t you close to them?’
His shrug is a study in indifference, but I see beneath it the harsh resolution, the determination to push me away. ‘Many reasons, querida, all of them boring.’ He holds out a hand, his eyes sparking with mine. ‘And I’d much rather help you rebel.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE SUN IS low in the sky, a golden orb blazing across the horizon spreading purple and peach colours into the heavens.
I know that we need to go back soon, that my security will be wondering where I am, worrying about me, and yet my limbs are heavy, filled with a reluctance to leave this sanctuary. If embassies are slices outside of a country’s borders then this yacht is like a fragment of life existing beyond my reality. Here time has stopped and, even though I know that’s not possible, I’m almost incapable of caring about the outside world right now.
‘I have a question for you.’
In the kitchen, Santiago pauses, looking at me through shuttered eyes before returning to the platter he’s arranging.
‘Go on.’ There’s hesitation in his voice and I dip my head to hide a smile. He can read me like a book yet he pushes me away at every opportunity. It’s frustrating and hurtful––yes, hurtful.
‘You’re...how old?’
Relief lightens his eyes. ‘Your question is to ask my age?’
‘I’m going somewhere with this,’ I warn.
