He lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Explain that to my father.”
“I’m explaining it to you.”
“My father makes the decisions and he likes them followed without argument. You’re more than welcome to fight him on this.”
Her outrage had quickly dissipated and she was left only with disbelief. “This has to be a dream. No, not a dream. A nightmare—a horrible nightmare.”
Magnus’s lips thinned. “For us both, princess. Make no mistake about that.”
Queen Althea approached and clasped Cleo’s hands. Hers were dry and warm, just like her son’s. It seemed as if she were attempting a smile, but the expression looked as false on her finely lined face as feathers on a goat.
“My dear, it’s my honor to welcome you into our family. One day I’m sure you’ll make an extraordinary queen.”
Cleo bit her tongue nearly hard enough to draw blood in order to keep from blurting out that she already was queen. Only the King of Blood stood in the way of her rightful title.
“We will have a great deal to do to plan a wedding befitting my son,” the queen continued, as if she hadn’t noticed Cleo’s lack of reply. “And we’ll need to do it quickly given the swiftness of the wedding date. I have heard of an exemplary dressmaker in Hawk’s Brow who will be perfect to create your gown. We’ll make a trip there soon. It will be good for the people to see their beloved golden princess walking among them once again. It will raise spirits throughout the entire kingdom.”
Cleo couldn’t find enough words to speak, so she didn’t even try. She nodded and looked down, eyes lowered to conceal her rage. Through her lashes she saw Queen Althea glance at Magnus, as if delivering some sort of message through her pale blue eyes, before she nodded at them both and moved away down the hall.
“My mother knows a great deal about fashion and beauty,” Magnus said flippantly. “It’s her passion, one she always wished my sister shared.”
His sister—Princess Lucia. For three weeks now the Limerian princess lay comatose after being injured in the explosion that tore open the entrance to the palace and allowed King Gaius and his army their violent victory.
Cleo had noticed that the mention of his ailing sister was the only thing that ever seemed to bring a flicker of emotion to Magnus’s steely gaze. Many healers had come to see Lucia, some of the greatest and most accomplished in the land. No one could determine what was wrong with her or find any wound she’d sustained to explain her condition.
Cleo had suggested that her own dear friend, her sister’s former lady-in-waiting, Mira Cassian, be assigned as Lucia’s attendant in hopes that the king would find Mira too useful to demote to scullery maid. Thankfully, it had worked. Mira told Cleo the princess would rise up from her slumber as if in a trance, enough to consume food specially blended smooth to ensure her ongoing survival, but she was never truly conscious. It was a true mystery what had befallen the princess of Limeros.
“Let me make this very clear, Prince Magnus,” Cleo said evenly, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice. “I will never be forced to marry someone I hate. And I hate you.”
He regarded her for a moment, as if she was something he could easily crush beneath the sole of his boot if he chose to. “Be very careful how you speak to me, Princess Cleiona.”
She raised her chin. “Or what will you do? Will you run a sword through me when I turn my back on you as you did with Theon, you spineless coward?”
In an instant, he grabbed hold of her arm tight enough to make her shriek and pushed her up against the stone wall. Anger flashed through his gaze, and something unexpected—something like pain.
“Never, ever call me a coward again if you value your life, princess. Fair warning.”
His current fiery expression was so different from his usual look of ice that it confused her. Was he furious or wounded by her words? Could he be both?
“Release me,” she hissed.
His eyes—cold, like black diamonds, soulless, evil—pinned her for another moment before he let go of her so abruptly that she slumped down against the wall.
A guard wearing the all-too-familiar red Limerian uniform approached. “Prince Magnus, your father summons both you and the princess to his throne room immediately.”
Magnus finally tore his gaze from hers to cast a dark look toward the guard. “Very well.”
Cleo’s stomach tied itself into knots. Could Aron have been successful in his argument against this new betrothal?
In the throne room, King Gaius had draped himself upon her father’s golden chair. Sprawled on the floor at his feet were two of his horrible dogs—large, slobbering wolfhounds that growled whenever she came even a step too close. They always seemed more like demons from the darklands to Cleo than dogs.
A sudden memory from her childhood flashed before her eyes—her father seated upon this very throne, his arms stretched out to her when she’d successfully slipped away from her strict nursemaid to run directly toward him and crawl up on his lap.
She prayed that her eyes didn’t reveal how very much she wanted to avenge her father’s death. On the surface, she was just a girl not yet out of her teens, small in stature and slight in figure, born and bred into a spoiled life of excess and luxury. At first glance, no one would ever perceive her as a threat.
But she knew that she was. Her heart now beat for one reason, the only thing that helped staunch the flow of incapacitating grief.