Page 168 of The Call of Crimson
But I knew the truth. He left me in this bed because I, the general and princess of Rimor, was moping. We had taken the first batch of cookies out three days ago, and since then, I had grown increasingly irritable.
I am not blind to my own shortcomings. I’m quick-tempered, and yes, I’m impulsive at times. But lately, control over myemotions has become elusive. No matter how desperately I grasp for it.
I lie staring at the ceiling, a small tendril of shadow twirling between my fingers as I recall the incident from yesterday.
“Breyla, would you prefer cream or ivory linens on the wedding banquet tables?” Queen Josephina asked.
“Does it really matter?” I sighed.
They had asked me this and a dozen other questions over the last hour. None of them was of any great importance or interest to me. If I were being forced down an aisle, they could dress me in a potato sack for all I cared.
“Of course it matters,” the queen scoffed, indignation sharpening her tone. “You will only wed my son once. It must be perfect.”
“The only thing that could make it perfect is if I didn’t have to do it,” I muttered.
“Excuse me?” She clutched her chest, head rearing back as though I’d physically assaulted her.
“You heard me, Your Majesty,” I snapped.
“You will listen to me now, Breyla.” Queen Josephina’s gilded eyes hardened, her tone dropping low. “In two months’ time, you will walk down that aisle, you will marry my son and rule by his side, you will joyfully bear his children—and you will do it all happily.”
I shot to my feet, the pitiful excuse for needlework falling to the floor. Anger flooded my veins, a heat scorching through my core at her demands. “I will do no such thing. Your son may control my future, but you do not control my feelings on the matter.”
“You are a stupid, impulsive child,” she seethed.
My eyes hardened, narrowing into slits. “Impulsive, yes. Stupid? Never.”
“What would Raynor and Genevieve think of you now?”
The blow is low, meant to hurt me. It enraged me.
“Fuck you,” I snarled, my hand lifting, ready to strike.
Before I could do something punishable by death, strong fingers wrapped around my wrist, stopping it in midair. The grip was firm but not painful.
Ayden.
“Leave us, Mother,” his deep voice commanded.
She opened her mouth as if to protest, but he cut her off. “Now.”
With an exasperated huff, she turned to go.
I didn’t bother to face her, calling over my shoulder, “Keep my parents’ names out of your fucking mouth.”
“What was that about, darling?” Ayden asked, far calmer than I expected.
With the absence of the queen, my anger receded, replaced by a wave of nausea. Ayden’s skin on mine turned my stomach, and I swallowed, resisting the urge to lose my breakfast all over his shoes.
I pulled my hand from his grip, surprised by how easily it slipped free.
“I can handle her opinions of me, her thinking I’m stupid and impulsive, but I cannot tolerate her insulting my parents’ memory. Or dictating how she believes I should feel.”
Tears stream down my cheeks before I can process the sudden shift in emotion. Ayden didn’t even have time to respond before I was full-on sobbing.
Blinking hard, I shake the memory away.
Ayden had carried me to bed, completely unsure of what to do with me. The moment I hit the mattress, every ounce of fight had left me, leaving me so exhausted that I fell asleep almost immediately.
