Page 80 of The Princess Trap
Cherry’s jaw set. How strange; the colonial name sounded fine coming from the lips of her migrant grandparents, but corrosive from Sophronia.
“I am a British Jamaican,” she said slowly. “Third generation.”
“Is that what they call it? Fascinating.”
“Sophronia,” Ruben said calmly. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
At the head of the table—which put him a good two metres away from Cherry—the king slammed a hand against the smooth, dark wood.
Silence fell. Sophronia rolled her eyes. Lydia gazed firmly down at her plate, looking even paler than usual.
“I will not have cursing at my table,” Harald said.
Ruben sighed, leaning back in his seat. He laced his hands behind his head as if he were lying around in the sun rather than dining with a king. He looked at his brother and said, “Fuck. You.”
Cherry tried very hard not to smile.
But then Harald leaned forward with a look on his face that erased all humour. His pale eyes shone with raw fury for asecond—just a second—before the disturbing flash of anger was hidden behind a benevolent smile. A smile that looked more like a mask. The monster beneath flickered in and out of view, a twisted merging of the real and the false that sent shivers down her spine.
Harald stared at Ruben for one, long moment. But then his gaze slid to Lydia.
“Get up,” he said.
Lydia stood.
So did Ruben. “Harald. What are you doing?”
Sophronia sat back in her chair, surveying the scene with obvious satisfaction. She really was beautiful. Cherry wouldn’t mind if she died.
Harald smiled blandly at Ruben, as if they were discussing the weather. “You appear to have forgotten how things work here, little brother. Allow me to remind you. Lydia, come here.”
The pale woman kept her gaze to the floor as she walked around the table towards her husband. Ruben looked like he was going to be sick. Cherry’s heart settled in her throat, threatening to choke her.
Harald stood up and took his wife’s hand, but his gaze stayed pinned to Ruben. “You remember the fun we used to have, little brother. You’re too big for those games now, but Lydia isn’t. I think we’ll retire early this evening.”
“What the fuck? Harald, no.” Ruben shoved back his chair. “Stop it.”
“Or what?” The king smiled. “Tell me. What will happen if I don’t? What willyoudo?”
A muscle leapt in Ruben’s jaw as he clenched his fists, his body coiled tight as a spring. “Don’t think I’ll allow this. I will tear your head from your fucking body before I let you leave this room with her.”
Harald shrugged. “I know how your baser instincts rule you. Always so violent. Enough of my guard are stationed around this room to guarantee my safety. Your threats don’t bother me.”
Ruben closed his eyes, pain written all over his face. Cherry felt the echoes of his panic, his fury, his helplessness, as if their feelings were connected.
She stood and joined him, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. And he looked at her, first with shock, then with awe, as if she’d performed a miracle. But Cherry couldn’t focus on that. She turned her gaze to the trembling woman on Harald’s arm and said, her voice gentle, “Come with us, Lydia. Come with us now, and we’ll leave.”
“The girls—”
“We’ll fetch them,” Ruben said. “I’ll get them myself. We’ll all go now.”
Before she could reply, peals of tinkling laughter rent the air. Sophronia watched them all with obvious delight, swirling her wine glass in hand. “Take the king’s heirs?” She said. “Ruben, darling. Do be sensible. It pays to know when you’re beaten.”
At those words, Lydia’s face crumpled in on itself. She shook her head. “Your sister is right, Ruben. It’s not a good idea.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Say the word, Lydia.”
“It’s not so bad. I’m being dramatic. If you’d just…” She smiled, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “If you’d just stop provoking him… If we can all be civil, everything will be fine.”
