He rounded a corner and collided with a petite, soft frame that let out a melodious cry of alarm. Grasping her elbows to steady her, recognition hit far more gently
than it would have a month ago. “Artaynte. Are you all right?”
She tilted her head to look up at him. Dark hair cascaded back, wide eyes gleamed. Her rosebud lips parted. Small aspects that played into her staggering beauty. Yet his
feet no longer faltered. His heart barely tripped.
Strange as it seemed, he missed the torment of loving her. Now . . . he wanted her, yes. And there was still no better choice for his future queen. But he had to wonder
what, if anything, went on behind those lovely eyes. All he thought he knew of her was false, so what did that leave?
“Prince Darius.” Her voice trembled. “The court just heard the news of the defeat. I was coming to see how you . . . that is, to make sure . . .” She blinked, swallowed,
and straightened. “You must be distressed. Is there anything I can do?”
He hated the cynicism that slicked through his veins. “Did your mother decide you should comfort me and let me think I had finally won your love and respect?”
Her eyes registered guilty shock before she dropped her gaze. “I know not what you mean. I was concerned for you, that is all.”
“You need not worry for me. Not now.” Her skin was warm and soft under his fingers, and he put the gentlest of pressure on her elbows to draw her a fraction nearer. “I
have well learned how to handle disappointment—mostly at your hand.”
She focused on his chin. “You never seemed terribly disappointed as you seduced every beautiful commoner you could find.”
“You are jealous.” He smirked, but it did not give him the pleasure he expected. “Surely you knew it was you I wanted. Had you quirked your little finger, I would have
fallen at your feet.”
She moistened her lips and darted a quick glance at his eyes. “Would have?”
He drew in a long breath. “In all likelihood, our fathers will arrange a match. You will be my queen, and I imagine we will find pleasure enough in each other’s arms. But
I do not intend to trust you with my heart, Artaynte. You would only ask your mother what you should do with it.”
She winced, turned her face half away. “That is unfair.”
“Is it? Either you have been acting on your mother’s advice, my sweet, or you hate me.”
“No. No, I . . .” It looked to take considerable effort for her to meet his gaze and hold it. “Why can we not put the years behind us and start fresh? From this moment.”
“What good would that do? You think I can forget that every word you spoke to me for the last five years was an insult?”
She lifted a shaking hand and rested it on his chest. Desire flared up, but he restrained it easily. She took a fortifying breath. “I want a relationship with you, Darius.
I want the chance to get to know you honestly, so that we can come to love each other.”
He released her elbow so that he might run his fingers through her hair and anchor her head where he wanted it. Leaning down, he hovered over her lips. “It is too late for
that.” He kissed her before she could argue, and wasted no time with a slow, gentle start. Better to let her see now what he wanted from her, what he would expect.
She would be his—but he would remain his own.
When he ended the kiss, he stepped away, around her. Smirked at the eunuch behind her who stood with clenched fists. Any other man he could defend her against, but not the
next king. Darius could have tossed her to the ground, and it would have been death to the slave if he raised a hand to stop him.
But he would give her the honor her station—and her future station—deserved.
She spun to follow him, looking undone. “Darius, wait. Please.”
He strode down the hall, toward his chamber.
Artaynte scurried to keep up. “Darius, just . . . just tell me you do not love her. Please.”
His heart sputtered—not at her words, but at the fact that he knew exactly who she meant. What did it mean? That Kasia was so present in his thoughts even while he dealt
with Artaynte? He could not be in love with his father’s wife. It was one thing to consider a dalliance with her, but love . . . that would be dangerous.
Although on the other hand, perhaps only love could make it worth the risk.
He shook that off and focused on the pleading face beside him. “What business is it of yours?”
She looked about a finger-width from tears. “She is my friend.”
“Is she? One would never know it.” He opened the door to his room, stepped inside, and slammed it behind him.
He had had enough of that conversation.
Thirty-Two
Susa, Persia
Amestris crossed her arms and surveyed the masses of mourning Persians outside the walls. They rent their garments, wept, cried out in seeming agony. She shook her head at
the theatrics and turned to her eunuch, newly returned from the city. “You would think we had been invaded. It is only one lost battle. Why do they carry on so?”