He stiffens. “She is my daughter, Octavia.”
“Perhaps we should discuss this matter inprivate,” she says pointedly. “Before any hasty decisions are made—”
“Hasty?” His brows lift skyward. “This is not an act of haste. If anything, it is twenty years overdue.”
“But—”
“My decision is final. I will not hear another word on the subject.”
Octavia’s lips press into a thin line. Her eyes slide to me and I’m grateful that looks cannot, in fact, kill people because otherwise my blood would be spattered all over their immaculate white oriental rug.
“Your Majesty,” Simms interjects in a placating tone, breaking the stilted silence. He bows slightly at the waist, formally greeting his king. “If I can be of assistance in any way at all, please let me know. Whether drafting a statement for the press or helping with smaller matters. I am at your full disposal.”
“Thank you, Gerald. If you would please ensure that there are suitable rooms ready for Emilia’s use upstairs. And perhaps send for appropriate ensembles. We won’t be briefing the press quite yet — not until Emilia is…” His eyes flash back to me. “Settled in.”
Read: made to look like a properly-groomed princess.
It takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes.
“Of course, Your Majesty. I will contact the palace personal shoppers immediately and have them send a selection of clothing first thing in the morning.” Simms glances at me. “Your size, miss?”
I cross my arms over my chest instead of answering. I refuse to be party to my own reinvention. Especially if said reinvention requires me to announce the exact proportions of my ass tothesepeople, who all look like they’ve just stepped off a runway at Paris Fashion Week.
“Very well.” He bows shallowly to Linus again before he turns and walks out of the room, muttering to himself. “Trial and error it shall be…”
Silence descends again. Octavia uses the opportunity for one final plea.
“Linus…” Her eyes dart quickly to me. “Are you certain she is…yours? Have you had the necessary testing done to prove—”
“Octavia.” The steel in his tone is sharper than a broadsword. “This is not up for discussion. ”
“So, you expect me to… to… to simply take her into ourhome?” Her perfectly waxed brows furrow. “To allow her to live alongside us, as though she is a part of this family?”
“I would expect you to take in my child, as I once took in both of yours.” Linus glances at Carter, who’s hovering a few feet to my left, then back to me. “I apologize, Emilia, you must be terribly confused. Allow me to formally introduce my family. This is my wife, Octavia Thorne.”
“A pleasure,” the redhead lies thinly. Her smile involves neither teeth nor joy.
I go still.
His wife.
Thorne.
But that means…
When I don’t say a word, Linus hurries on. “And I believe you have already met my stepson, Carter.” He gestures to my left. “He’s your stepbrother, now, I suppose.”
My stepbrother.
I try to nod, but I can’t. I’m paralyzed. Carter seems equally so, though I don’t dare look his direction for confirmation.
“The guards informed me you were both in Vasgaard when the extraction protocols went into effect.” Linus clears his throat lightly. “I hope you had the chance to bond a bit, during your trip here.”
Oh, we bonded all right.
My head turns slowly to the left, dread saturating every blood vessel in my body. My eyes tangle with Carter’s as soon as I glance up. He’s guarded as ever — a locked box of emotion. The only clue he’s feeling anything at all is the rhythmic ticking of tension in his locked jaw, the tight clench of his hands into fists at his sides.
Horror washes through me in a potent wave as I remember the feeling of those hands on my skin not so very long ago, in a dark back seat. The silent sparks of desire in the air. That ache between my thighs. That unspooling sensation inside me, like I might come completely undone at the command of a total stranger. At the hands of…