He looks up as though only now realizing that I’m here, even though I know that can’t be true. “What the hell is this?” He angles the screen toward me.
I have to step forward to make out the image, but I freeze in horror. It’s a video of me, this morning, waking up. And it’s worse than I thought. My entire thigh is exposed, and as I stir and begin to wake, I pull the fabric up several centimeters higher. The camera gets a very clear shot of the rounded curve of my…lower cheek.
A flush works its way across my chest and up my neck, and I hate that His Majesty is seeing this. In a horrifying moment of clarity, I realize that having a hundred random tourists see half of my rear is infinitely preferable to this one man’s getting to see it, even secondhand.
“Please tell me you didn’t pull such a stunt on purpose.” I almost miss the twitch at the side of his mouth. He’s amused by this débacle!
“As if I would.” My voice sounds calm, and I feel vaguely proud of myself. I’m not sure where I dredged up the will to speak at all.
He stares at me and says nothing for a long moment. When at last he speaks, each word is slow and measured. “It’s never easy to tell when something is accidental with you. I can’t read you.”
I say nothing.
“This is unacceptable,” he continues at last, snapping the cover of his tablet closed.
“In the future I will endeavor to control my every motion while sleeping, Justin,” I retort.
“Where was your staff?”
“Staff?” I feign ignorance. We may as well both lie.
“Six ladies for the lever. It was advertised. We sold premium-price tickets, and believe me, they were not impressed.”
“You advertised my first lever and yet told me nothing of it?” I arch an eyebrow. What I want to do is shriek at him for his infernal stupidity. Or drive for revenge. Sometimes it’s difficult to read him as well.
“Your mother didn’t inform you?”
“My mother wasn’t the one selling tickets, was she?”
“I thought every little girl in Sonoman-Versailles dreamed of being part of the lever one day.”
“Considering I wasn’t noble enough to reside in the palace as a little girl, I wouldn’t know.”
“You didn’t have big dreams?” he says, his voice soft, dangerous with its vague lilt of seduction.
“Not of being in this hellish position.”
He rises and pushes the lapels of his elaborate coat back, baring a similarly exquisite waistcoat, and fists his hands against his hips. There’s no subtlety or nuance in his sarcasm. “It is indeed difficult to imagine a greater hardship than being Queen of the wealthiest pocket sovereignty in the entire world.”
“I meant being married to you.”
The only sound in the room is his heavy breathing. He leans forward, his knuckles white on his desk, and I can practically hear his mind shouting at him to lash back.
But he can’t fight truth.
“Get a staff,” he says very quietly. “It’s a well-paid position, with a side of prestige. M.A.R.I.E. has a full training program. We’ll be selling premium tickets again next week, and a full lever will be expected. Sans the peep show this time, if you would. Now you’ve been told. Are you happy?”
A bitter laugh rolls from my glittering lips. “Happy? Let’s not exaggerate to absurdity.”
He slams his hand down on his desk. “I expect a full lever next week. That’s a royal command. Why the hell do you think I moved you into that room before the wedding?” He looks chagrined at his own admission and toys with the lace at his cuffs, avoiding my eyes. “Too damn many people staring at me. It’s the Queen’s lever that’s always been the draw, and ever since my mom died, they’ve all had nothing better to do than come in and gawk at me.”
Of course. This upset to my entire life—both physically and emotionally—came about simply because Justin would rather fewer people witnessed his own rising from what, under other circumstances, would be his private bed. For a moment, I want to feel sorry for him when I recall that he’s been performing the King’s lever since he was barely fifteen. Likely only days after his parents’ deaths. But only a moment. “If you had mentioned anything of the sort a few days ago, I feel confident in vowing that I could have risen to the occasion.” I want to continue and call him out for creating a problem for the sole purpose of berating me for it, but his odd confession stops me.
He says nothing and avoids my eyes for an uncomfortable stretch. When he speaks at last, he merely says, “Mateus.”
The office doors fly open. I swear the man must have been standing with his ear pressed to the door.
“My gloves and sash.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” The door closes again.
And then we’re alone. Truly this time. No one listening at the door. He circles me, like a predator. It’s his favorite move, but he’s overused it, so it doesn’t make me uneasy anymore. It reminds me that he’s young, like me, and thinks far more of his sexual prowess than he ought. Like every other teen male at court. In this arena, what truly is the difference between the King and other boys?