I force myself not to twitch under his gaze, instead raising one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug.
“Duke Tremain has been rallying support to overthrow me. It’s an age-old story: a kingdom is created, succession rolls forth for a few generations, the kingdom thrives, the people are happy, and some bastard says, well, can’t have that. Need a good bloody war.”
I remain silent. He has a point.
“Only, these days we fight with votes and numbers instead of swords and guns.” The King flicks over a few pieces on a half-played chessboard. “He wants to replace me with that damned upstart Harrisford.”
Sir Spencer. I wonder if Lord Aaron knows. Or for that matter, I wonder if Sir Spencer knows. But he must. “One young king for another? Where’s his argument?”
But the King is already shaking his head. “A puppet. Tremain will rule through him for twenty years until he’s no longer a young king. Essentially a seamless succession. If my father were still alive…” His voice chokes off, and I feel an uncomfortable tightness in my throat.
“And you just assume I’ll support you with my shares?” I say, forcing a subject change. “I like Sir Spencer.” I raise an eyebrow at him, trying to look both calm and intimidating, but his eyes flash with a fiery hatred, and before I can take a breath he’s bearing down on me.
His hands go to my shoulders, shoving me backward so hard my head bounces off the wood paneling. Then—my nightmares made flesh—one large hand spans my throat and I struggle to breathe as his fingers tighten.
But they are not quite cutting off my air, I realize after a moment of blind panic. His fingers are higher, clenching at the sides of my jaw with aching strength, forcing my head up. “Your scheming mother left me with precious little choice but to marry you. In return, she promised to help me keep my kingdom.”
“But—”
“Shut up and listen!” he hisses, giving me a teeth-rattling shake. “I am a good CEO. A good goddamn King. I’ve planned this all very carefully, to disrupt the board’s coup while appearing to be an impulsive, lovesick fool. I’ve been planting seeds for weeks, and I will not let anyone—least of all you—get in my way.”
His hand is still bruisingly tight on my jaw, but his face softens and he steps closer, his body aligning with mine. His other hand trails lightly down my neck, rippling over my collarbones to the swell of my breasts pushed above my décolletage. “We could work well together, you know. I know you’re smart. Lord knows you’re headstrong. This engagement got off to a rocky start, but if you’ll give me a chance, I can be most accommodating.”
I try my best to squirm away, but he’s holding me fast and I’m afraid I’ll damage some tender part of me if I struggle too hard. His grip on my face is iron, and I don’t know which would break first: my jaw, or his hand.
“That said, marital bliss is not my top priority.” His fingers tighten suddenly, eliciting from me a squeal of pain. “You’ll vote with me at that meeting or I’ll transform your existence into a long and living hell. Don’t imagine your mother will save you. She couldn’t even if she wanted to.”
The tip of his tongue darts out to make a small sticky-wet spot on my neck, and I close my eyes against the violation. Then, abruptly, he releases me. He steps back so swiftly it’s almost as though there’s a hole in the air where he used to be.
“You underestimate me,” he says, and I’m so disoriented it takes me a moment to figure out where he is—back behind his desk, looking every centimeter the King he is. “You always have. Hell, everyone does. I’m nineteen, what could I know? But while you were reciting times tables, I was studying economics and statistics. You wrote stories about what you wanted to be when you grew up; I wrote analytical reports on administrative coups in multinational corporations. About the time you got your first crush, I took an entire corporation as my mistress.” He’s speaking quietly, scarce above a whisper, but every word strikes my eardrums like a shout. “I will not give up my company without a fight, and, Danica, I’ve been trained in the deadliest of corporate combat. I don’t take prisoners and I’m not particularly concerned about casualties. If you don’t want to be one of them, you’ll play the part your clueless mother has finagled for you and then you’ll stay the hell out of my way.”
I don’t flee. Not quite. I can’t bring myself to speak—I’m not certain I can open my mouth without breaking down.
But I don’t run. I pause and drop a curtsy, slow and graceful. Then, feeling the King’s eyes on my every movement, I turn and walk out of the room.