Page 81 of The Princess Trap
Ruben swallowed, hard. “Lydia—”
“Please,” she whispered, the word echoing around the grand room.
“Alright,” Ruben said, his voice a ghost. “I’m sorry.” Then he turned to face his brother and said it again. “I’m sorry.”
Harald cocked his head. “I beg your pardon?”
Through gritted teeth, he repeated himself. “I apologise for my behaviour, Your Majesty.”
Harald nodded graciously. “I see. I accept your apology.” He returned to the table and sat down with easy grace. Across the table, Sophronia sipped at her wine. Lydia sank miserably into her seat and picked up her knife and fork, her hands shaking.
Bile rose in Cherry’s throat, but she kept her face carefully blank. “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I’m not feeling well.”
She turned and headed for the door, not bothering to wait for Harald’s permission. If he spoke to her right now, she might lose her mind and stab him with a butter knife. And she was still a British citizen. It would probably cause a political incident.
As she reached the door, she realised that Ruben wasn’t following her. She turned back to find him standing there, staring after her with something hopeless in his eyes.
Clearing her throat, Cherry called, “Ruben, I need you to come with me. I don’t know how to get back.”
He nodded stiffly. Came to join her.
They left together.
They strode through the halls in silence, and every footstep reverberated through Ruben’s mind like the sound of a door slamming shut.
When they were safely in their own quarters, he held his breath, waiting for the blow. For the words, or the complete lack of words, that would tell him it really was over. That she couldn’t even look at him, never mind care for him, because what kind of man found himself in this position?
She turned to face him, her skin leached of its usual glow. And she said, “Explain.”
Where to fucking start?
“I don’t know what just happened,” he admitted, his voice shaking. “Harald never—he’s never—”
“That’s not a common occurrence, then?”
He looked up sharply. “No. I never thought… I thought he loved her. A twisted sort of love, the only kind he’s capable of, but—I thought I was the only one he’d…”
Cherry caught his hands in hers. She pulled them, big and rough and clearly fucking useless as they were, to her lips. Kissed his knuckles. “He hurt you. When you were a child.”
It felt like freedom to say, “Yes.”
“Men like that are never satisfied,” she whispered. “They’re empty, and the pain of the vulnerable is all that sustains them. We need to do something.”
Ruben shoved down the panic that clouded his mind, the memories that suffocated him, and focused on her words. “You’re right. God, who knows how fucking long he’s been doing this. I should never have left. What was I thinking?”
“You were thinking that this place is hell, and you needed to escape,” Cherry said. “That’s called survival. Never regret it.” She stepped closer to him, her hands cradling his face. In the midst of his horror and confusion and guilt he wished, just for a second, that she was touching him the way she used to. Not out of pity or obligation, but because she cared for him.
He’d ruined that. Add it to the fucking list.
“Listen to me,” she said softly. “We’re here for a week. You know Lydia well?”
He nodded shakily. “They married when I was a child. She was always nice to me.”
“Good. You spend this week convincing her. Reassure her that we can protect her, whatever it takes.”
Ruben nodded, her meaning dawning on him slowly but surely. “And if she agrees, we’ll take them all. Out of the country. To England, even.”
“Exactly.”
