Page 41 of The Call of Crimson (The Crimson & Shadows #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY

brEYLA

“ Y ou look morose,” Aurelius comments, taking a sip of tea.

The one small mercy I received this morning was that Queen Josephina didn’t insist on a large family breakfast. It was just Ayden, Aurelius, and me gathered around the large oak table right now.

I pick at the tepid potatoes on my plate, wishing they were one of Esme’s cinnamon rolls. “How observant of you,” I mumble.

Ayden smirks behind his stack of missives, pretending to read while very clearly enjoying my misery.

The breakfast on his own plate had gone cold a while ago; the herbal tea in his cup was the only thing still warm. He’s been done eating for half an hour but lingers at the table, no doubt savoring my impending doom.

“Feeling excited for your teatime with my mother and Charlotte?” Ayden asks, far too gleefully.

I shoot him a withering look, fighting the urge to flip him off. “I’m thrilled. Can’t you tell?”

“You’re having tea with the queen and Charlotte?” Aurelius asks, clear disbelief in his tone.

“And she’s doing needlepoint,” Ayden adds helpfully, like twisting the knife.

Aurelius’ lips twitch, eyes wide. “Are you ill?”

“It wasn’t my idea.” I groan, my head thrown back. “I tried to decline… I just couldn’t somehow.”

Aurelius cocks his head, studying Ayden. “You didn’t–?”

“Didn’t what?” I ask sharply.

“Not another word,” Ayden says, cutting him off. “If she didn’t bother to ask, I’m not volunteering the information.”

“What didn’t I ask?” A knot of dread forms in my stomach.

Aurelius looks like he desperately wants to say more, but ultimately presses his lips together.

“Besides,” Ayden drawls, “watching her pout is far too entertaining.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Quit stalling and go meet them for tea.”

Pushing my chair back with a loud scrape, I rise stiffly. “I hate you both,” I announce pointedly.

“Liar,” Aurelius says, smirking into his tea.

“Run along, love,” Ayden teases.

For good measure, I flip them both off as I storm out of the room.

“Breyla, dear, your stitches aren’t even,” Queen Josephina says brightly, the cheeriness in her voice barely masking her disappointment.

I stare at the pathetic excuse for needlework in my lap. Three pricked fingers and not a damn thing to show for it.

Setting the embroidery aside, I reach for my tea, mercifully brewed from the spicy blend I favor. Whether it was coincidence or insider knowledge, I don't know. And I don't care. It's the only bright spot in this whole miserable affair.

“I’m afraid I’m quite dismal at needlepoint, Your Majesty,” I say lightly.

“It’s okay, I’m not that skilled with it either,” Rowina offers kindly.

Her presence, at least, is a small mercy. I don’t know her well or fully trust her, but compared to Charlotte’s empty simpering, Rowina is a blessing.

“Nonsense, darling,” the queen says, cutting her daughter off. “You are adequate, I made sure of that. Breyla, however, needs considerable improvement if she hopes to be a suitable bride for Ayden.”

Perhaps I’ll stab my finger again and bleed all over this damn thing. Let her see just how unsuitable I really am.

My grip tightens on the teacup until it nearly cracks.

“I believe there are more important qualities for a queen and wife than decorative stitching,” I say smoothly. “Qualities Ayden and I agree are far more valuable.”

The queen scoffs. “Such as?”

“The kingdom does not need a pretty face who excels in flattery and needlepoint. Prudia needs a queen who thinks. Someone who challenges Ayden, who makes him stronger.”

“I highly doubt Ayden desires such a thing,” she says dismissively.

I bite back a laugh. “Actually, Your Majesty, that is exactly what Ayden told me he wants in a queen. Don’t you think he deserves what he wants?”

The queen’s slowly slipping cheery disposition finally falters, the familiar disapproval visible in the thin line of her lips.

I sip my tea, victorious.

Finishing my cup, I pick up the needlepoint again, deciding it’ll simply be initials on a handkerchief now.

Carefully, I thread the needle through the fabric in slow, even stitches.

“Perhaps we could discuss what you’d like for your wedding ceremony?” Rowina suggests, trying to steer the conversation away from open warfare.

“That sounds lovely,” Charlotte adds. “What flowers are your favorite?”

“I rather like Oleander,” I say nonchalantly.

The queen sputters. “Are you being serious?”

Laughing, I say, “Relax, Your Majesty. I was being facetious.”

She visibly relaxes, and I lean in with a grin. “I actually prefer foxglove. The shape is just so unique.”

The queen eyes me suspiciously, trying to determine if I’m joking again.

While oleander was well known for its ability to be fatal, not as many were aware that foxglove was also toxic if consumed. Neither was my favorite; truthfully, I wasn’t sure I had a favorite, but I was quite enjoying watching the queen’s reactions.

“So perhaps pink for your accent color?” Charlie suggests brightly.

“Absolutely not,” I say firmly.

Her brows narrow in confusion. “But both flowers you mentioned are pink.”

“I detest pink,” I say. “While we’re on the topic, I also hate yellow, and orange isn’t my favorite.”

“What colors do you like?” Rowina asks.

“Purple, red, dark green, any shade of blue, and black.”

There’s a beat of silence as they absorb that.

Then the queen, as if she’s been waiting to pounce, asks casually, “Do you have any requests for who you would like present for the consummation?”

Surely I misheard her.

But then the needle bites deep into my finger, blood welling up and staining the handkerchief.

“Shit,” I hiss, sucking the wounded finger into my mouth.

“Mother!” Rowina scolds, aghast. “That tradition hasn’t been observed for hundreds of years.”

“This is different,” the queen argues. “For the sake of both kingdoms, we must have confirmation that the union is true.”

Bile rises in my throat.

I drop the bloodied needlepoint entirely, my hands trembling slightly. “There will be no one—” I start to say, my voice shaking with fury.

“Perhaps Aurelius?” the queen suggests, cutting me off. “He is your family, after all. Some familiarity might be comforting,”

With a wicked grin, Charlie heartily agrees, “Yes, I think Aurelius would be a perfect choice.”

For a breathless moment, I wonder if the queen somehow knows, if she suspects the true nature of my history with Aurelius.

Surely, if she did, she wouldn't be so casual. Would she?

“I have already been sold off like chattel, forced into a marriage I do not want,” I bite out.

“So help me, if you put anyone in that room, you will be hearing reports of how your son fucked his hand on his wedding night. I will not consent to bedding him under those circumstances, and he doesn’t strike me as the type to violate a female. ”

By the end of my declaration, my voice is nearly shaking with fury, but the point is made.

At least, I hope it is.

“We’ll see about that,” the queen says dismissively, returning to her needlepoint.

I stare at her, speechless with rage.

“I’m quite tired,” I say stiffly, dropping the blood-stained handkerchief onto the table without a second glance. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to retire.”

I don’t wait for their farewells. I storm down the hall, my breathing choppy, thoughts fogging into a maelstrom of panic and rage.

Halfway down the corridor, I’m accosted by the scent of bergamot and spices. A smell that, despite my current animosity towards its source, still feels like home.

Without thinking, I throw myself into Aurelius’ chest, burying my face against the solid warmth of him.

“Princess?” he asks, startled.

“I just need a moment,” I mumble into his chest, fighting back tears.

His arms wrap around me without hesitation, holding me tightly, tenderly. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he murmurs against my hair.

“The queen…” I choke on the words. “She’s insisting there be a witness for the consummation with Ayden,” I explain, refusing to move from where I’m buried against his chest.

His whole body stiffens, his hold tightening almost painfully around me.

“That’s an outdated tradition,” he says flatly, though fury vibrates under every word.

“It gets worse,” I whisper.

He pulls back just enough to tip my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “How so?”

“She suggested you,” I say softly. “She wants you to be the witness.”

For a heartbeat, there’s only silence. Then a low, lethal growl rips from his throat.

“Like hell,” he snarls. “I would sooner kill the male that tries to fuck you in front of me.”

“You can’t say that, Aurelius,” I whisper urgently. “That’s treason.”

He grips my chin between his thumb and forefinger, the crimson in his irises flaring brightly.

“I don’t give a fuck, Princess,” he says lowly. “I will gladly spill blood for you.”

I try to pull away, desperate for space, but he doesn't let me go. His hands tighten around me like a cage.

“Aurelius,” I say, pleading, “no one can take me from you. I’m not yours anymore.”

I was growing tired of having this conversation with him.

He stares at me, reading the truth I can’t bear to voice. He sees it, feels it, and the smug grin that curves his lips tells me he’s won something, even if he’s lost everything else.

“Then why,” he breathes, low and dangerous, “is it still my arms you run to, hm?”

Because you’re the only piece of home I have left.

But I don’t dare voice that.

I don’t need to, though. He reads it all over my face, a smug grin curling his lips.

“Oh, there you are, Aurelius,” Charlie’s saccharine voice cuts through the charged silence.

We both jump apart, springing to opposite sides of the hall.

Aurelius recovers first. “Were you looking for me?” he asks coolly.

Charlie steps closer, placing a hand on his chest. “I was, actually.”

He calmly lifts her hand from his body and lets it fall. “What can I do for you?”

“I assume Breyla told you about the consummation?”

I look away, refusing to meet either of their eyes as I bite back my emotions.

“She did,” Aurelius replies dryly.

“Well, the queen would like for you to be comfortable,” Charlie says, grinning wickedly. “She’s arranged for a special chair to be delivered. You’ll have a perfect view, of course.”

She laughs, as if this entire nightmare is some grand joke.

My face burns with the fury and horror I’m feeling, but Aurelius’ expression doesn’t flicker.

It remains neutral, no emotion giving away his inner turmoil. Until he speaks.

“Fuck off, Charlie,” Aurelius says, shoving her aside.

He reaches for my hand, but it’s too late.

I’m already running, the tears I swore I wouldn’t shed, burning my vision as I flee down the hall.