Page 63 of The Throne Seeker (Vallorian #1)

The priest came forward and placed the crowns upon their heads, proceeding to swear them into service for all citizens of Cathan and Vertmere. What other promises they made, she didn’t know—and more importantly, she didn’t give a damn.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the priest concluded with a deep bow, “may I present the future king and queen of Cathan!”

Rose glanced up just as Tristan raised Satin’s veil and leaned in to kiss her gently on the lips.

Roman didn’t even wince as her nails embedded themselves into his skin, nausea rolling back in full force. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on her breathing. The room suddenly felt as hot as a blazing fire.

When she reopened them, Tristan and Satin were already down the shallow steps, walking arm in arm down the aisle, on their way to the ballroom where the celebration would be held. Cheers and music filled her ears.

Her composure broke.

“Roman,” she whispered in warning.

He didn’t need another word. Without hesitation, he scooped her into his arms and exited out the adjacent left door. She clung to his neck, burying her face into his shoulder—hiding as she covered her mouth.

He’d barely made it to the bathroom before she violently emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl.

Her body shook with every convulsion, unable to control her shaky hands.

She expected Roman to step away and give her privacy, but instead, he knelt beside her, holding her hair back as she held onto the cold porcelain for dear life, throwing up again.

He softly placed a hand on her back, stroking it in soothing motions, comforting her as he waited for her to stop. A few heaves later, her body had nothing else to give, and she sat back up slowly.

Roman left her side only to fetch a towel, wetting it before he knelt back down, wiping off her face and chin with steady hands.

She couldn’t keep the tears in anymore. She buried her face in her hands and cried on the cold stone floor.

Roman reached for her, pulling her firmly into his chest. His large hands cradled her head as his face contorted—as if he was in pain, too. “I’m sorry,” he said, his broken voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Roe.”

Her heart warmed at the old nickname. Not once since she’d returned had he referred to her in such an intimate way. It was enough to make her fingers grip his tunic in fistfuls while he stroked her hair, letting the fabric absorb her tears.

After a good moment, her body dried out, and she extracted herself from Roman’s wet shoulder. She wiped her cheeks as she sniffed. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Roman’s jaw clenched. “Don’t ever thank me.”

She looked up in surprise, finally meeting his eyes. Tormented ones stared back at her like he was suffering from some invisible wound.

“Do you want me to take you back to your room?”

She loosed a shaky breath, peering down at the splotches staining her dress. She couldn’t go to the celebration looking like this.

She simply nodded.

Rose was about to stand, but he scooped her into his arms again.

Too easily. Too smoothly. And she was too weak to resist. She found herself needing his body—it was the only comfort she could get.

Like a snake coiling onto a heated rock, she wrapped her arms around his neck, burrowing her face into his shoulder so no one would see her tearstained cheeks.

Roman walked in large, brisk strides, taking the long way through the corridors to avoid the crowds.

She opened her eyes and she was in her room.

He set her gently onto the bed. “I’ll get you some new clothes.”

“What about the celebration?” she asked, masking her flinch.

“You don’t have to go. I don’t care what anyone says. I don’t know why you even agreed to be in the ceremony.”

She smoothed out her dress. “At least the hard part is over.”

He looked like he disagreed but didn’t say it aloud.

He went to her closet to pull out a new dress.

It was one her mother would’ve never chosen unless they were in mourning.

The black dress had long sleeves lined with swirls and gems, with a sweetheart neckline.

She hadn’t worn it since her father’s—since he’d died.

“Do you… do you want help?” Roman asked, his smooth voice washing over her from above.

She gazed up at him with vulnerable eyes. She should refuse his offer. She could do it, after all. It wasn’t as though anything was wrong with her arms or legs, but she still said, “Yes.”

Roman stepped behind her, his hands finding the laces of her dress. With deft fingers, he loosened it. The fabric slid off her shoulders and pooled at her ankles, exposing her dress slip. Averting his gaze, he picked up the soiled fabric.

Without warning, he took the green dress and tossed it into the fire.

She blinked in surprise.

“Don’t think anyone will miss that,” was all the explanation he offered.

When he looked back at her, he froze, his eyes latching on to the sight of her exposed skin.

His gaze engulfed her like a black hole swallowed a star, like quicksand swallowed unsuspecting prey. Like a storm swallowed a sinking ship.

Her cheeks burned hotter than the roaring fireplace.

She wrapped her arms around herself, vainly curious if he thought she was pretty. But then she reminded herself that the queen had asked him to look after her today. He was following orders—nothing more. Embarrassed for even thinking it, she brushed aside the ridiculous notion.

She stepped into the dress he held open, reaching for his shoulders to lean on. Once it was pulled up, she shifted her shoulders to him so he could tie the back.

He brushed her hair over her shoulder, his fingertips accidentally grazing her bare skin.

Her body shivered involuntarily at the touch.

His movements paused for a moment, but then he continued, tying the laces in smooth strokes.

Once he was finished, she faced the mirror.

Her makeup had taken permanent damage. She sat at the vanity to fix it, grabbing a cool rag off the desk to rectify her puffy eyes.

Next, she picked up a makeup brush, bringing it to her face.

But as soon as she did, she couldn’t do anything with it. Her shaky hands made it impossible.

She let out a frustrated sigh, tears pricking at her eyes again.

Without warning, Roman’s large hand snaked around her wrist, stopping her. Gently, he lowered her hand, forcing her to put down the brush. “You look beautiful,” he murmured, gazing at her reflection in the mirror.

She couldn’t get over how different his voice was. Though low and rough, it was also warm and comforting.

A voice meant to rip you to shreds or carry you to the top of a high mountain.

He let go of her hand. “Come on.” He gestured to the door. “I want to show you something.”

Thrown by the sudden change of plans, Rose asked, “Where are we going?”

“Not the celebration,” was all Roman would disclose.

She hesitated to follow, but she was eager for a distraction—any distraction.

So she left her pathetic reflection behind and followed him out.