Blue eyes coolly assess me as if he can't fathom someone speaking of their Queen so boldly, staring wordlessly at me like Tristan does those puzzles he’s so fond of. That is, until a small blonde female smacks into his chest, molding to his body and hugging him around the neck.
He grunts on impact, but then he smiles, raising his arms to snake around her waist.
Aurora giggles into his neck, squeezing him tightly. When she pulls back to place a sweet, affectionate kiss on Darius’ cheek, my puzzlement quickly shifts to a roiling in my stomach.
They're together?
Eyes darting between the two lovers, my chest tightens in realization. Unsure if I want to curl into a ball and sob or tear the offending limbs from her body, I instead stand paralyzed, helpless to endure the horror of how I could have so grossly misread their relationship.
“You're not coming home tonight,” he says, not as a question but a statement.
Aurora skates her palms down his neck to grip his massive shoulders. “I'm going to sleep in the loft above the shop.”
“Again?” he asks, still fucking holding her.
She nods.
How did I not see this?
Aurora drops down to the street and pivots to face me, completely unaware of my devastation. “You'll be coming by the shop in the morning, won’t you? With Amara?”
It doesn't matter if he's taken. That's not why you're here, I chide myself.
Disappointed and embarrassed by my own flaunting behavior, my words lodge in my throat, but I still manage to give her a jerk of my head.
A bright smile crosses her perfect little princess face that I instantly wish to slap off before she wanders away, moving towards a shop with a sign above labeling it Rory's Swords and Daggers.
“She won't be pleased,” Darius calls out.
With a wicked smile, Aurora turns to face us, but continues walking backwards. “When have I ever wished to please her?” She laughs. “Goodnight, little brother.”
Brother?
Breath hitching and heart quickening, I recite her words over and over in my mind, taking much longer than I would admit to determine I didn’t imagine it.
Aurora points at me in warning. “Don't eat the inn’s porridge.” She shrugs, then drops her hand. “Unless you enjoy having the shits.”
Tension easing at the knowledge that they're siblings, I laugh in relief. “Not especially.”
Spinning towards the shop, she skips onto the side street and tosses a wave over her shoulder as she opens the door before disappearing from sight.
“Sister?” I ask, biting my lip.
“Unfortunately,” he grunts, but his words are diminished by his dimpled smile.
I've always been a sucker for dimples.
Basically chewing through my lip at this point, I release it with a pop. “Then that would make you a prince.”
His face shutters instantly. Snapping his gaze from mine, he continues toward our companions, but his strides lose their previous leisure. “No, just a Captain.”
Hastening my steps to match his, I frown. “Are your parents royalty?” When I realize he doesn't intend to answer, I press, “Are they?”
“Yes,” he admits through gritted teeth.
I'm all but running at this point to keep up with his long strides, and I grip his forearm to slow his gait. “I believe that makes you a prince.”
Ignoring the physical hum from our contact, I retain my grip but take a step back when he rounds on me and snaps, “I'm a bastard!”
Meeting that challenging stare, most would see only irritation and anger. But when I search his eyes, I see the pain and hurt such a word can cause. The scars of ill treatment and the acceptance of what others labeled him as. My daily vocabulary consists of many nasty, vulgar words, but bastard’s not one of them. Children are born pure and innocent and have no say in how they were born or to even be born at all. How anyone can judge another person by the actions of their parents, at how they were conceived, is bewildering.
“And?”
He opens his mouth to speak but quickly shuts it. “I'm not legitimate.”
“I know what a bastard is, thank you.” Placing my hands on my hips, I step closer towards him. “Do you have royal blood?”
Silence.
Unwilling to cede, my brows arch. Waiting for a response. Demanding one.
Hands tightening into fists, his orange topaz and starlight jewels flash as he grudgingly admits, “Yes.”
“Then that makes you a prince. Being a bastard doesn’t change that, and don’t call yourself that,” I chastise, swatting his shoulder.
His eyes still burn with anger, but I see the surprise glinting beneath.
“It’s what I am.”
