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Chapter Nineteen
“Idon’t know what you mean.” Blood rushes into my ears.
Zander releases my hand, shifting to loom over me. “You don’t remember who you are, and yet you seem eager to play the role of queen.” His tone is thick with accusation.
“You’re the one who put me up there! I was only doing what you asked me to.”
“I asked you not to say a word. That back there?” He points to the door we just passed through. “That was more than a few words.”
“What else was I supposed to do? Smile and nod like a fool? Which would make you look like a fool, too, in case you didn’t realize.”
He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch. “You have been off since you arrived in the throne room.”
“Maybe because I wasn’t prepared for this ambush.”
“No,” he says resolutely. “It’s the way your pulse races. You are worried about something.” He searches my face. “What was it about your conversation with Wendeline today that unsettled you?”
“Nothing. I don’t … I’m not … I just …” I fumble for an answer, all while I try to process his words. “What do you mean, the way my pulse races?” Is that a figure of speech? “You can read my pulse?”
His head falls back with a humorless chuckle, showing off a long, columnar neck and pristinely white, straight teeth. “You are so naive. Sometimes it is delightful to watch.”
“I’m not naive,” I snap. “What are you talking about?”
His eyes are alight with dark mischief when they meet mine again. “I was never able to read you before. You veiled your emotions so well. But since you were brought back from the dead, your ability to do that is slipping, and quickly. Today, on that throne, your heart was a steady, hard thrum that flared every so often.” He drags a fingertip along my jugular, sending shivers through my body. “See? Just like that. You can’t hide that from me. So, I’ll ask you again, Romeria, what are you concealing?” The calm in his voice prickles the hairs on the back of my neck.
He may be able to read my pulse, but at least he can’t read my thoughts. If he could, I assume he would have the answer to that. “Nothing.” It comes out hoarse. Everything.
He steps forward, forcing me backward until I hit the wall. This feels like the prison tower all over again as he leans down, his mouth inches from mine, our stares locked. “Do you know what else I can sense, besides the way your heart beats when I am this close to you?” he whispers, his breath skating over my lips.
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
“The way it beats when you’re lying,” he hisses. Resentment flares in his eyes as he stares down at me.
“The happy couple,” a male voice cuts in from somewhere behind the wall of Zander.
Zander peels away and moves for the table, revealing a smug-faced Atticus standing in the doorway.
One … two … three …I take deep breaths as I count, regaining my composure. Meanwhile, Zander has seized the back of the chair in a white-knuckled grip, as if trying to choke the life out of it. Whatever semblance of trust I’ve been gaining with him—however small—I sense it slipping away.
If only I’d had time to myself to sort out my thoughts and worries before being thrown into this circus.
“It’s foolish to let the Ybarisans live. If I were king, I would make a point of executing them where they stand.”
“But you are not king,” Zander retorts through gritted teeth. “We will do this my way.”
Brushing off his brother’s brusque response, Atticus makes a grand display of bowing for me. “I suppose formal reintroductions are in order? It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Your Highness. I’m Atticus, Zander’s much younger brother. Certainly not the king, as I’ve just been reminded.” They have the same deep timbre in their voices, though Atticus has a youthful charisma, and that edge of disdain that laces Zander’s every word is missing.
I struggle to force away the panic Zander stirred. “I remember you from that day in this room.” When he looked ready to cut me down with his sword.
“Yes, I apologize if I wasn’t myself. I was having a difficult time accepting this theory the priestess concocted.”
“But you do now?”
“Let us just say that version back there?” He points behind him, toward the throne room. “I have never met her.”
Does he wish that version dead too? Elisaf said Atticus is hard to read. I see what he means. His steely gaze is so contrary to his light mood.
“Neither have I,” Zander mutters. “Who knew she had such reckless pride.”
