He starts toward me, making it two steps into the hallway before he catches himself. His expression contorts, flickering through emotions so fast I can’t keep track —pity, concern, desire, anger, worry, disgust— before settling into an unreadable mask. Taking a step backward, his spine hits the arch of his doorway and, for a moment, I think he’s going to disappear back into his bedroom without a word. I’m stunned when, instead, he slides down to the floor so he’s sitting across from me, long legs sprawled out in front of him on the hard hallway floor.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do I.
We just sit there — me, clutching my stupid, damaged hand; him, gazing at me like he can’t quite decide whether he wants to crush me to his chest or slam his door in my face. With my good hand, I wipe the tears from my cheeks. There’s little point: the instant I try to flex the damaged one, my eyes spill over again.
Damn, that hurts.
Carter clears his throat. “You should really put some ice on that.”
I glance up and find him carefully studying the angles of my face in the dim hallway light. “I’m fine.”
He shrugs indifferently.
“It was stupid,” I mutter after a moment. “I know better than to take my anger out on inanimate objects.”
“Yeah, well, Octavia has that effect on people.” Taking a deep breath that makes his chest muscles contract, he runs a hand through his hair. “As a teenager, I punched so many holes in the walls back in Hightower, they stated calling my chambers the Gypsum Suite.” He pauses. “Because the maintenance staff were—”
“Always patching the plaster on your walls,” I murmur, a smile tugging up one corner of my mouth. “Clever.”
His eyes narrow on my face. “What was the fight about?”
I stare at his bare feet. For some reason, the sight of them is even more mesmerizing than his abs. The Adonis-like Lord Carter Thorne, stripped of his perfectly tailored dress pants and shiny Oxford shoes. A mere mortal, after all.
“Emilia?”
My eyes snap back to his face. I fight the blush staining my cheeks. “Oh, just a regular chat between a girl and her new stepmother, full of thinly-veiled threats, political maneuvering, and outright duplicity. You know, the usual.”
He snorts lightly. “Sounds about right.”
We fall silent again, just watching each other. It’s so quiet in the hallway, I can hear each rhythmic intake of his breath. I stretch my legs out, trying to find a more comfortable position.
“Owen,” I say finally.
He goes utterly still.
“She threatened Owen.” I swallow hard. “I know you won’t be terribly upset to hear it, since you two didn’t exactly… get off on the right foot, the other day.”
He grunts in agreement.
“But he’s my best friend. And now…” I blink back tears. “She’s got some pictures of him from an anti-monarchy protest on campus last fall. She basically implied that… well, that she can make it look a whole lot worse. Like he’s a member of a radical fringe group, targeting the crown.”
“Can’t say I’d be all that surprised if he really was, given the way he talked about me and Chloe.”
“It’s not true, though!” I cry, anger washing over me anew. “It’s just…”
“Octavia attempting to control you.”
“Yes. Which I don’t understand at all. Even if I ever accept my role — which still remains a bigif— she’ll be the queen. She outranks me.”
“For now.”
I lift my brows.
He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re royal by blood. She’s royal by marriage. When she becomes queen, it’ll be a symbolic title more than anything. A Queen Consort is not the same as a Queen Regnant.”
“I’m aware of that.”