Bride by Royal Decree

by Caitlin Crews

  He gazed down at her, his gray eyes like a storm, and she couldn’t understand that. Why he seemed as if this was hard for him when it had so little to do with him. He was a messenger, nothing more. He wasn’t the one who’d been discarded.

  You don’t know that you are, either, she snapped at herself.

  But then everything stopped. Inside her. Out in the world. Everywhere.

  Because he reached out his hand and he touched her.

  He touched her.

  He fit his hand to her cheek gently. Very gently. As touches went, it was innocuous. Maggy had fended off far more intimate grabs at her person as a matter of course when she’d worked in that cocktail bar.

  But this was Reza.

  And everything changed.

  His palm was hot. Hard. It molded to her jaw while his fingers brushed into her hair, then ran over that spot behind her ear where her birthmark lay. As if he knew exactly where it was. As if he knew exactly who she was. And something burst open inside of her. She’d never felt anything like it. It exploded wide-open, then rolled through her, sensation rocketing from her cheek to her limbs. She felt herself shake. Worse, she knew he could feel it.

  She told herself to jerk away from him. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

  Her eyes were too wide. His were too gray.

  “It is called an insult either way,” he said quietly, and she thought she heard an echo of that impossible explosion in his dark voice. She was sure of it when he dropped his hand and adjusted the cuff of his jacket and the crisp white shirt beneath it. “But most people, of course, would pretend it was a bit of flattery instead, simply because it came from me.”

  What Maggy wanted to pretend was that her heart wasn’t racing. That the lopsided heart behind her ear didn’t seem to burn like a brand because he’d touched it. That she didn’t feel trembling and silly and ridiculously vulnerable. That there wasn’t that ominous prickling behind her eyes, and that deep in her core, she wasn’t melting and much too soft.

  But she couldn’t quite get there. She took a deep breath instead.

  “It must be nice to be king,” Maggy said after a moment, and the funny thing was that there was no edge in her voice then. As if she’d forgotten to try to play the angles here. As if his touch had smoothed them all away, making her feel safe when she knew she wasn’t. “I bet no one tells you that you need to modify your tone and attitude or you’ll be out of a job.”

  His lips quirked. “Certainly not. No one would dare.”

  And suddenly, Maggy didn’t care if she looked weak. She needed to put space between them. She needed to keep his hands away from her, because she didn’t know what she might do with her own. She stepped back and she didn’t care how silver that gleam in his eyes was.

  “Come,” he said then, and she didn’t like that. The way his voice was so rich and warm, as if it was as much a part of the fire that crackled in the stone fireplace as it was of him.

  Get a grip, she ordered herself.

  He ushered her to one of the seats at that intimate table before the fire then, and everything got awkward as he held her seat. Or maybe she was the awkward thing here, while she could still feel his hand against her skin like a new tattoo, a red-hot pulse of sensation. She didn’t let herself look at him. She sat down and was aware of him all around her, looming and compelling, as he pushed her closer to the table. It was such an odd, old-world sort of gesture, she thought as he took the seat opposite her. There was no reason at all she should feel so...fluttery.

  She was absurdly glad that there was now a table between them.

  As if responding to some secret signal, a breath after Reza sat down the doors to the room opened and their dinner was wheeled in by more uniformed servants. As they bustled about the table, a different man appeared at her side. This one wore a dark suit and a diffident smile, and held what looked like medical supplies in his hands.

  “If I could take a quick sample, Ms. Strafford,” he murmured, but his gaze was on the king.

  Maggy’s eyes flew to Reza’s. Too much silver and too much hard gray beneath it. Yet Reza only gazed back at her, his mouth an unsmiling line.

  “Do you want to know?” he asked quietly. “I think you already suspect the truth. I know I do. But this is how we know for certain.”

  That question echoed inside of her like a drum, loud and low and long.

  Did she want to know? He’d offered her this lovely little fairy-tale explanation for her life earlier this evening. A mere handful of hours ago. But she’d risen to meet it, armed with twenty years of her own secret fairy tales to choose from, rattling around inside of her and making all of this feel a whole lot more fraught with peril and meaning than it should.

  Do you want to know?

  Maggy told herself—sternly—that she wanted to confirm the fact that she was not Magdalena Santa Domini. That the only reason she was here was to prove him wrong, and it had nothing at all to do with that scraped-raw hollow deep inside her, that unleashed sob she refused to let out. That it had nothing to do with a lost little girl, tossed aside like so much trash, who had waited her whole life to belong somewhere.

  That she was not a fairy-tale princess. That she’d gotten over imagining otherwise a long time ago. That there was nothing wrong with reality and who cared that once upon a time she’d wet her pillows every night with too many tears for too many fantastical stories that never came true.

  She told herself she’d exorcised that little girl a long time ago. And that this, right here, was a way to make sure she never came back—because that little girl was dangerous. She didn’t know any better than to want with abandon.

  Maggy refused to meet Reza’s gaze then. She ignored the little voice inside of her that warned her not to do this, no matter what might come of it. And then she held out her arm and let the smooth-faced man draw a vial of her blood, as quickly and efficiently as the other servants tended to the plating and presentation of the food.

  That was it, then, she thought as the man gathered up his supplies, bowed slightly to the king, and took his leave. The answer was coming at her whether she liked it or not. Like a train.

  “When will we know?” she asked. Despite her best attempt to keep from saying anything.

  “Shortly.” Reza’s gaze was still on her, she could feel it. She kept hers on the edge of her heavy silver fork. More precisely, one of her heavy silver forks. “I’ve assembled a makeshift laboratory in the solarium.”

  That didn’t surprise her at all. “Of course you have.”

  Maggy stared down at her plate as a first course was set there before her, not sure what it was and also not at all sure she could eat anything anyway. She told herself that was what happened when she had a needle stuck in her body three seconds before dinner, but she was fooling no one with that, least of all herself. She felt...outside herself. Turned inside out. Exposed in a way that didn’t make sense, when this man had no more idea who she really was than she ever had.

  The feeling only got worse when the staff retreated, leaving them alone in a bright little room that seemed to shrink tight around them.

  “It is a country paté,” Reza murmured, sounding remote and polite. As if he was commenting on the weather. “Locally sourced, I imagine.”

  Maggy blinked at her plate, then at him. And knew before she opened her mouth that she shouldn’t. That there were too many vast, unwieldy things rocking around inside of her and making her...not quite herself. But that didn’t stop her.

  “I don’t understand the point of this. You said you wanted to get to know me, which we both know isn’t true. You don’t want to know me. You have some fantasy about a lost princess. And I didn’t agree to eat—” she wrinkled up her nose “—whatever this is.”

  “Your palate is likely far more refined, I am sure.”

  “My palate is basically Cheetos and beer,” she retorted, which wasn’t exactly true. She also enjoyed ramen. “Does that dilute royal blood? If so, I’m afraid you’re
not going to get the answer you want.”

  She had the impression he was clenching his teeth again, though she couldn’t actually see it. Only that same muscle in his freshly shaved jaw, calling attention to the harsh perfection of his decidedly regal face.

  But when he spoke, his voice was smooth. Calm. “I notice that you seem to have accepted both that I am the king I claimed I was and that you, too, might indeed be Magdalena Santa Domini.”

  Maggy wouldn’t have called the feelings sloshing around inside of her just then acceptance. She shrugged, hoping to mask them a little.

  “You’re either the king of the Constantines or a very good impersonator,” she told him offhandedly. “And I’m not sure an impersonator would go to the trouble or expense of renting out this ridiculous place for the sole purpose of conning a broke coffee shop barista.” She considered that a moment. “I can’t see any reason why anyone would bother conning me.”

  Again, she saw that mix of affront and astonishment all over his regal face.

  “I am delighted that I have distinguished myself in some way from those charming individuals who clamber about in places like Times Square, dressed up as some or other famous fictional character. For tips.” He cut something on his plate, too precisely, as if tips was a filthy curse word. But then he looked at her instead of putting his food into his mouth, and she had the impression that edge in his voice made a far better knife than the one he held. In that hand of his she could still feel on her jaw. “The generations of monarchs who preceded me to the throne of the Constantines would no doubt be pleased that a son of the House of Argos has not been mistaken for a street corner hustler with a traveling act.”

  Maggy felt as if she was sitting on an earthquake, not a chair with a high, solid back. As if the more she pretended the whole planet wasn’t shaking there, directly underneath her, the more it actually tore through her, shifting whole continents and ripping up the ground.

  “I don’t want to talk about country paté or my clothes or wild animals,” she managed to say, her voice as edgy as his had been, if somewhat less precise. “You said a lot of things in the coffee shop today.”

  “I did.”

  “What happens...”

  “Eyes on me, if you please. Not your plate.”

  Her gaze rose and met his of its own accord. As if she had nothing to do with it—because if left to her own devices, Maggy knew she would have ignored that order. Especially when she was lost in all that intent gray, focused on her as if nothing else existed.

  And she couldn’t believe she was going to ask the question. She couldn’t believe that after all this time she was going to take so little care of herself when it most mattered—when she most needed to protect what little was left of her that could still be hurt. But she couldn’t seem to keep herself from it.

  “What happens if the blood test says what you think it will?” she asked, because she couldn’t seem to help it.

  And once again, she could see intense satisfaction all over him. It made him seem bigger. Harder. More dangerous than she thought a king ought to seem, especially when he wasn’t doing anything but sitting there on the other side of a few fresh flowers and a couple of dramatic candles.

  “Once your identity is verified it becomes a question of how and when to announce yourself to the world.”

  “You mean to Cairo Santa Domini.” She frowned at him when he didn’t respond, though he kept that hard, intent gaze of his trained on her. “Surely you would tell him first. If it turns out he’s actually...” She couldn’t say the word. But then she worried not saying it was more telling, so she forced it out, ignoring how it felt in her mouth. “If he’s family.”

  “Of course,” Reza said after a moment, but she wasn’t sure she believed him. “But there are one or two matters to attend to before placing you in the spotlight your brother seems to roll around with him wherever he goes. It is a very bright spotlight, I must tell you, the sort that brings all manner of things out from the shadows. It is a decidedly relentless glare.”

  Maggy couldn’t bring herself to worry about spotlights, of all things. She thought Reza meant that figuratively, but who knew? He was a real, live king. Cairo Santa Domini was also a real, live king. For all she knew, real, live kings traveled with actual physical spotlights wherever they went, as part of their entourages.

  She concentrated on the other part. “Matters? What matters?”

  Reza leaned back in his chair and studied her for a moment. She was caught by the forearm he’d left on the table, strong and hard, a hint of the excessively masculine watch he wore peeking out from his cuff. It was outfitted with enough inset gadgetry to man a space shuttle, she thought. Or, hell, operate a spotlight or two if he needed one.

  “I do not wish to insult you, Magdelena.”

  “Maggy,” she corrected him, but without the heat she should have summoned, mostly because she...liked that version of her name in his mouth. Any version of her name, for that matter.

  Idiot.

  He appeared not to hear her anyway. “But the fact remains that you have spent the past twenty years in a situation that can only be called somewhat suboptimal.”

  “I can think of a whole lot of other things to call my ‘situation.’” She let out a short laugh. “None of them polite.”

  He inclined his head in that way of his that made her want to scream. And also maybe reach her own hand out, across the table, and touch his.

  Obviously, she did nothing of the kind. Because that was insane.

  “You will be the subject of intense scrutiny.” He tapped one of his long, tapered fingers against the tabletop, as if to a beat in his head only he could hear. “It will make the coverage of your brother all these years seem mild in comparison. You cannot underestimate the draw such a story will have.”

  Maggy tried out one of those smiles again. “Everybody likes a princess.”

  “But that is the issue, of course.” His stern mouth curved slightly, and she had the strangest notion that he was trying to be kind. “Not everyone will, and not in the same way. Particularly not a long-lost princess who has suddenly emerged fully grown to claim her place in the world with all its attendant privileges. And those who do not care for a princess who rises from the dead will attack you however they can. They will dig into your life here. They will rip you to shreds in the papers. They will use any ammunition they can find to shame you.”

  “Why?”

  His gaze was matter-of-fact. “Because they can. Because they are paparazzi scum who love nothing more than tearing things down however possible. Because it sells.” He shrugged. “You can pick any reason you like, but the manipulation of public sentiment will be the same.”

  Maggy swallowed. “In case you’re wondering, you’re not really selling this.”

  She reached out for her water glass and was horrified to see her hand was shaking again. She dropped it back to her lap and only frowned when Reza poured her a glass of wine instead and set it before her. Wine, she thought, would not help this situation at all. It would blur everything and complicate it far too much.

  And God knew she’d never manage to keep her hands to herself with a glass or two of wine in her.

  The fact that notion made her feel something like seasick didn’t make it any less true.

  “Never fear,” Reza said as he sat back in his seat. “You have a secret weapon that will make all of this child’s play.”

  This time her smile came a little more easily. “Do you mean my biting wit? Or maybe you mean my famous charm. Both known as weapons in their way, you’re right.”

  His gray eyes gleamed silver in the candlelight. “I mean me.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “YOU,” MAGGY SAID, sounding as resoundingly unimpressed as ever, which might have dented Reza’s confidence somewhat had he not been, for all intents and purposes, bulletproof. He was the king of the Constantines. He’d learned from his father’s mistakes and the collapse and war Reza had narrowly avo
ided. His confidence was unassailable. “You are my secret weapon.”

  “No need to fall all over yourself to thank me,” Reza said drily. “It is but one of my many royal duties to aid a lost princess in her time of need.”

  Her captivating eyes narrowed. “Let me guess. You run a royal princess rescue and travel the world, collecting princesses wherever you roam and then holding adoption events on Saturdays.”

  Reza found himself paying far too much attention to her impertinent mouth, and not only because of the astonishing things that came out of it. He ordered himself to raise his gaze to hers again.

  “I have always been good with strays, Magdalena,” he told her, his voice low, and he was sure he could see goose bumps prickle over the exposed skin at her neckline. He liked that far more than he should when she was such an unrefined little thing, scrappy and sharp. “It is always about letting them know two things.”

  “Wait. I know this one.” Her gaze flashed with something too dark for simple temper. “Something about how you’re a mighty king. And then something else about how, in case anyone missed it, you’re a mighty, mighty king.”

  He had no idea why, instead of igniting his outrage the way it should have done and would have done with anyone else, her arch tone and the matching look on her face made him bite back a wholly unexpected surge of amusement instead. Reza didn’t know whether he was baffled by her behavior—or at himself. Both, perhaps.

  “One,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken, because that was clearly the safer course, “that they are safe at last. And two, that it is far better to have me as an ally than an enemy.”

  “I bet that goes over really well with the average puppy,” Maggy murmured, as disrespectfully as ever. “It must make potty training a breeze.”

  And it occurred to Reza then, as they sat there on opposite sides of the small table and Maggy’s guarded caramel gaze was fixed to his as if she was expecting an attack at any moment, that he was unused to participating in interactions with women when he didn’t already know the outcome.