Page 139 of The Call of Crimson
He wipes the errant crumbs from his lips with a gold napkin before responding. “I highly doubt there are any suitable matches for a bastard such as myself.”
Charlotte leans over, clearing a bit of debris he had missed.
The move is so intimate that it makes me sick. I avert my eyes, clenching my fists beneath the table in an attempt to control my temper.
The lord chuckles. “It looks like there’s a perfectly suitable match at your side right now.”
I reach for my wine goblet, swallowing a generous amount to cool the rage pooling in my core.
“I don’t?—”
“Aurelius and I make a handsome couple, don’t we?” Charlotte cuts in, a coy smile firmly in place as she leans in and kisses Aurelius.
Her delicate hand traces his jaw as my own burns.
“Princess Breyla,” the queen gasps. “Are you quite alright?”
I glance down to find the crystal wine glass shattered, red wine mixing with the pooling blood and dripping onto the table.
Only then do I recognize the fire in my palm to be from a broken shard of glass lodged under my flesh.
I hiss, dropping the remaining pieces of the goblet, and push my chair back. Standing swiftly, I sputter, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I had a firmer grip than I realized. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to clean this.”
Not waiting for her dismissal, I stand, hurriedly making my way out of the room and away from the eyes of a thousand people.
I find an empty room off the grand hall and slip inside.
As the door clicks shut, my entire body shudders as I lean my back against a wall.
The room is dark, so dark I can hardly make out what its purpose might be. Just as my eyes begin to adjust, light flares from the door opening.
It shuts, leaving us in the dark once more.
And somehow, I know without seeing, it’s him.
“What do you want, Aurelius?” My voice is cold and flat, revealing none of the storm inside me.
“Are you okay?” He asks, reaching for me.
I see only the vague outline of him, but I feel his hands finding my face.
“My well-being is none of your concern,” I respond, willing cold indifference into my tone.
“Horse shit,” he hisses.
His breath dances across the skin of my cheek, telling me he’s close enough to kiss.
A soft glow grows from the Faerie light he casts, bathing his features and the room in a soft amber hue.
He lifts my still-bleeding palm to his face, inspecting the gash.
“It’s just a cut,” I say, attempting to pull my hand from his grasp.
His eyes harden, connecting with mine as he tightens his hold on my wrist. “Quit moving, brat. There’s still glass in your hand. It’s embedded under the skin.”
I feel the blood in my hand move in an unnatural pattern and understand he must be using his Gift to direct it. Two thin shards of glass work their way from under my skin, and I grunt at the sharp sting, but the relief is immediate.
“Thanks. Are we done here?” I ask, trying to free myself.
