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Carrying the King's Pride(22)

By:Jennifer Hayward


How some things never changed.

Pursing her lips, she scooped her hair off her neck and twisted it atop her head rather than ruminate about things she couldn’t change. Up, her hair looked elegant; down, it looked a little wild with the curls the salty Akathinian air was inspiring.

Nik appeared in the mirror behind her, sleek in a dark suit that made him look like a particularly lethal jungle cat. Her pulse sped up into an agitated, jagged rhythm as his blue gaze slid over her in a slow, thorough perusal. “Wear it down.”

She pulled her gaze from him. “It channels a bit of Grace Kelly if I wear it up.”

His mouth curved. “There is no Grace Kelly in you, Sofía. You are all fire with some ice thrown in to keep things interesting. Be yourself.”

She reached for a clip and secured the curls into a loose chignon. Nik’s eyes glittered as she turned to face him. “If I told you you look incredible in that dress,” he drawled, “would you put something else on?”

“Quite possibly,” she retorted. “So please refrain. We’re out of time.”

She went to move past him to find her shoes. Nik caught her hand in his. A current ran through her, as if she’d curled her fingers around a dangling electrical wire, jamming her breath in her throat. Dammit. She had to get over this. Him. She hated him for thinking the worst of her.

He lifted his other hand, a jaw-droppingly beautiful square-cut pink sapphire held between his fingers. “This could make a nice accessory.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Surrounded by a double row of tiny white diamonds, the brilliance of the light pink stone was further enhanced by pave-set diamonds that covered the entire band.

It was unbelievably beautiful. Utterly perfect.

“Do you like it?” Nik prodded.

She sank her teeth into her lip. Once, when she and Nik had been walking down Madison Avenue after dinner out, they’d passed a swish jewelry store, the appointment-only kind. She’d jokingly commented to Nik that the pink sapphire in the window could persuade her to get married someday.

He had remembered.

She stifled the desperate urge to tell him she couldn’t put that ring on her finger and perhaps he should take it back and get another.

“You could fund the entire Akathinian army with that ring,” she said huskily.

“I bought it personally. And no, I don’t think it would quite do it.”

He lifted her hand to slide the ring on, moving it past her knuckle to sit on her finger like a blinding pink fire.

“It’s beautiful,” she said woodenly. Minus the heartfelt sentiment behind it.

She pulled away from him and crossed the room to retrieve her shoes. Nik’s piercing blue gaze followed her, probing, assessing. “Are you all right?”

“Perfect.” She bent to slip a shoe on.

“Greet my father first,” he said. “Don’t bow, he hates it, wait for him to take the lead. My mother won’t wish formalities, either.”

“And Stella?”

His mouth tipped up at one corner. “Stella eschews formality whenever she can get away with it.”

He took her arm and escorted her down the massive circular staircase to the gold-accented foyer and through to the drawing room, where Nik’s family was gathered for drinks before dinner.

Her first impression of King Gregorios as he sat in a high-back chair near the windows was of flashing blue eyes the exact light aquamarine color of Nik’s, a thinning head of pure white hair and a lined face that seemed to tell the colorful story of his almost four decades of rule.

Nik placed a palm to her back and directed her to his father’s chair. King Gregorios stood as his son made the introductions, his vivid blue eyes inspecting her from head to foot.

“Ms. Ramirez,” the king said, inclining his head. “We had anticipated welcoming a countess to the family, but life takes unexpected turns, doesn’t it?”

Stella gasped. Nik’s fingers tightened against her back. “Behave, Father.”

The heat that she was sure heightened color in her cheeks was the only indication Sofía allowed that the king’s barb had landed. Queen Amara stepped forward and took Sofía’s hands. She was just as elegantly beautiful as her photographs, her silver hair caught up in a knot at the back of her head, her dark brown eyes discerning beneath sharply arched brows. “Sofía,” she murmured, brushing a kiss to each of her cheeks, “it is so good to meet you.”

The queen pulled back, a wry twist to her mouth. “Don’t mind my husband. The men in this family have a tendency to speak their minds as I’m sure you’ve learned from Nik.”

She forced a smile to her lips. “Somewhat. It’s an honor to meet you, Your Highness.”