Page 118 of The Call of Crimson
“So perhaps pink for your accent color?” Charlie suggests brightly.
“Absolutely not,” I say firmly.
Her brows narrow in confusion. “But both flowers you mentioned are pink.”
“I detest pink,” I say. “While we’re on the topic, I also hate yellow, and orange isn’t my favorite.”
“What colors do you like?” Rowina asks.
“Purple, red, dark green, any shade of blue, and black.”
There’s a beat of silence as they absorb that.
Then the queen, as if she’s been waiting to pounce, asks casually, “Do you have any requests for who you would like present for the consummation?”
Surely I misheard her.
But then the needle bites deep into my finger, blood welling up and staining the handkerchief.
“Shit,” I hiss, sucking the wounded finger into my mouth.
“Mother!” Rowina scolds, aghast. “That tradition hasn’t been observed for hundreds of years.”
“This is different,” the queen argues. “For the sake of both kingdoms, we must have confirmation that the union is true.”
Bile rises in my throat.
I drop the bloodied needlepoint entirely, my hands trembling slightly. “There will be no one—” I start to say, my voice shaking with fury.
“Perhaps Aurelius?” the queen suggests, cutting me off. “He is your family, after all. Some familiarity might be comforting,”
With a wicked grin, Charlie heartily agrees, “Yes, I think Aurelius would be a perfect choice.”
For a breathless moment, I wonder if the queen somehow knows, if she suspects the true nature of my history with Aurelius.
Surely, if she did, she wouldn't be so casual. Would she?
“I have already been sold off like chattel, forced into a marriage I do not want,” I bite out. “So help me, if you putanyonein that room, you will be hearing reports of how your son fucked his hand on his wedding night. I will not consent to bedding him under those circumstances, and he doesn’t strike me as the type to violate a female.”
By the end of my declaration, my voice is nearly shaking with fury, but the point is made.
At least, I hope it is.
“We’ll see about that,” the queen says dismissively, returning to her needlepoint.
I stare at her, speechless with rage.
“I’m quite tired,” I say stiffly, dropping the blood-stained handkerchief onto the table without a second glance. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to retire.”
I don’t wait for their farewells. I storm down the hall, my breathing choppy, thoughts fogging into a maelstrom of panic and rage.
Halfway down the corridor, I’m accosted by the scent of bergamot and spices. A smell that, despite my current animosity towards its source, still feels like home.
Without thinking, I throw myself into Aurelius’ chest, burying my face against the solid warmth of him.
“Princess?” he asks, startled.
“I just need a moment,” I mumble into his chest, fighting back tears.
