Carrying the King's Pride(25)

“Signomi?”

“You picked me apart that night in New York, Nik. You pointed out things about me I hadn’t necessarily had the courage to address. So I could see myself clearly. Are you too afraid to do the same?”

“I see myself just fine,” he growled. “I let my temper get in the way today. Forgive me if it’s a bit much to have what my brother would have done thrown in my face one too many times.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Did your brother’s philosophies differ from yours?”

His mouth flattened. “My ideas on how to run this country, on life, are pragmatic, progressive. I have a more international view. My father and Athamos preferred to remain mired in the past. Enamored of traditions and ideals that no longer make sense. Athamos did not always recognize the need to forge his own path.”

And how difficult must that have been? For his brother and father to have been on the same page and Nik on another entirely? To be on the outside of that bond?

And now, she thought, studying the deeply etched lines on his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes, him as the new king, with the weight of a nation on his shoulders, still gaining his sea legs in a role she suspected he wouldn’t have chosen. A father mired in grief and of no help to him. A man in the middle of a storm.

“You called me philosophical that night in New York,” she said, “about my father. I was angry, too, Nik. For a long time. I didn’t understand why he was taken from me. Couldn’t stop thinking what if. I didn’t get there overnight. You won’t, either.”

“Your father’s death was a tragic accident, Sofía. Athamos’s was senseless. Selfish. He got in that car and threw his life away over a woman.”

“And the airline could have properly serviced my father’s plane. If I had carried that around with me my entire life, kept assigning blame, I would have ended up bitter and angry. Don’t do that to yourself.”

“This isn’t the same thing.”

“Why?”

“Because he played with something that wasn’t his to give.” His voice rose until he was nearly shouting at her. “He was the heir to the throne. He threw my country into crisis without thinking of the consequences.”

“And he put you in this position.”

A stillness enveloped him. The icy anger in his blue eyes morphed into a white-hot fury that made her heart race. “I do not begrudge the role I have been given, Sofía.”

She drew in a breath, her heart pounding. “I wasn’t suggesting that. I was merely saying it would be understandable for you to feel resentment for having your life turned upside down. For having all of this thrust upon you.”

He stepped closer, the smoky scent of whiskey filling her senses as he set his glittering blue gaze on hers. “I don’t need your understanding. What I need from you is less complication.”

Her chin came up. “It took two of us to produce this particular complication.”

His eyes moved over her in a hot, deliberate appraisal that melted her insides. “And it was a hell of a good time doing it, wasn’t it? That kind of comfort I can take. Otherwise, go to bed.”

Her mouth dropped open. Nails biting into her palms she stood there staring at him. He was hurting, no doubt about it. Had ghosts she’d barely scratched the surface of. But that wasn’t going to happen.

Spinning on her heel, she stalked inside.

* * *

Nik took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his hands gripping the railing as he leaned back and flexed his arms. Sofía telling him how to feel, how to manage the maelstrom of emotions storming his head after the day he’d just had was too much. Much too much.

You need to give yourself time to grieve. When was there time to grieve when he spent every waking hour trying to find his way out of this hell he’d been bequeathed? Of course he was angry with Athamos. Furious with his brother for playing not only with his own life but with his, as well. For landing him back in an arena where his father had made it clear he didn’t belong. Athamos’s domain. Athamos the born diplomat.

And maybe his father had been right. Hadn’t he walked right into Idas’s trap today? Done exactly what he’d expected him to? What everyone had expected him to—the reckless, rebel prince turned king? Proved them all right about him?

He would rectify his mistake, he knew he would. He was mostly furious with himself for allowing his emotions to get the best of him. His weakness. What his father called his Achilles’ heel.

He brought the tumbler to his mouth and downed the rest of the whiskey. But it wasn’t having its usual dulling effect. He was too tense, too on edge. When he was like this, when a shot of something strong couldn’t block out the furor in his head there was only one thing that could relax him, and that one thing had just turned on her heel and walked away from him. Had made it clear there would be no sex until they reached an understanding of each other.