Rebel Spring A Falling Kingdoms(90)

Helena laughed lightly. “Don’t you think the princess has the right to know that her new husband is said to have forbidden feelings for Princess Lucia, and she for him? Such love between siblings . . . quite the scandal if many learned of this.”

“Pardon my sister,” Dora said, her cheeks reddening. “She has been drinking tonight in celebration of your wedding. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

Cleo narrowed her eyes. “I’ll remember you attempted to save her from spreading such unsavory lies.” She would never admit that this information was very interesting to her, whether true or not.

Without another word, the girls moved away from her and were gone from the room like wisps of smoke. Cronus pulled the door shut behind them. Cleo ran to it and tried the handle, only to find it locked from the outside.

She was trapped.

Before, when she’d been able to walk around freely, she could almost fool herself into believing she still had some power. That was such a lie. She had no power here at all.

Magnus would dominate her. He would abuse her as his father had today. As the attendants prepared her for her wedding night, the mirror had reflected the faint bruise on her cheekbone where the king had struck her and on her throat where he’d come close to strangling her.

But Cleo had chosen this. She could have escaped with Jonas, but she’d chosen to stay here. There had to be a reason for that . . . a higher goal than fleeing with the rebel.

She ran over to her discarded banquet dress. Her amethyst ring glinted in the candlelight as she pulled out the gift Prince Ashur had given her. She slowly unwrapped it, only to see an unexpected edge of gold.

It was a golden dagger. A beautiful one, with an artfully carved hilt and a curved blade. She remembered the prince’s words: “It is something given in my land to a bride on her wedding night.” With a chill she recognized its purpose: something that could be used by an unhappy bride to take her own life if she felt she had no other choice.

Or . . . the life of her new husband.

The sound of the door unlocking and opening had her scrambling to hide the weapon behind her back. A moment later, Magnus entered. His black gaze moved through the large room, pausing on the candles, the rose petals, and then finally coming to rest on her.

Again, she regretted having drunk so much wine. She desperately needed her thoughts to be sharp, not muddy.

“So it seems we’re finally alone,” he said.

Cleo was certain he could hear how loud her heart now beat.

Magnus leaned over and picked up a red rose petal, squeezing it between his fingers. “Did they really think this all was necessary?”

She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “You don’t find it . . . romantic?”

He released the petal and it fluttered slowly down to the floor, where it landed like a splash of blood. “As if I care about such drivel.”

“Many men would on their wedding night.”

“About roses and candles? No, princess. Most men couldn’t care less about such things. There’s only one thing men are interested in on their wedding night and I think you’re already very aware what that is.”

Her heart doubled its pace.

Whatever stricken expression she now wore coaxed a low chuckle from his throat. “That look . . . such contempt. Am I really that ugly to you?”

The question took her by surprise. Ugly? Despite the scar, he was far from ugly—at least, physically.

“Far worse,” she said honestly.

He trailed his fingers over the length of his scar as he studied her for a moment.

She clutched the dagger. If he came any closer she would use it.

“Believe me, princess, I have no illusions of any of this. I know you hate me and that will never change.”

“Should it?” Her words came out hoarse. “Actually, I can’t think of a single reason why I should feel anything toward you.”

“No, it’s well within your rights to feel nothing toward me at all—as it is in many arranged marriages. But hate is something. The problem with hate, however, is it leaves you at a disadvantage. It clouds your mind every bit as much as five goblets of wine can.”

Magnus moved toward the bed, his gaze focused on the thick mahogany posters. He traced his index finger along the carving on one of them. He was now closer to her. Too close. She didn’t step away. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear, especially now that there was no one around to intervene.

“This reminds me of my grandfather.” Magnus’s tone turned wistful. “He had a book about sea creatures and he told me stories about them when I was a child. He snuck past my father so he could do so, after my nursemaid put me to bed. My father never cared much for amusing stories—or amusing anything, really. If I couldn’t learn something tangible from a book it was banned from the palace. Or burned. But when my grandfather was king it was different.”