Suddenly, he didn’t want her to fade into the background. He didn’t want her to clear his plates and glasses and act as though she wasn’t there.
‘What is your name?’ His voice was gruff from disuse. Even as the hospital director, an efficient, impressive woman named Lola Garcia, had gently explained the procedures from this point onwards, he’d barely spoken a word.
The woman’s shoulders squared as she turned back to face him, and there was a caution in her features that should have served as a warning. He wasn’t himself. He wasn’t remotely like himself. Famed for his control—a control that had been etched from the fires of his life—he was disciplined at all times.
Only, he didn’t feel disciplined right now.
His veins were coursing with emotions he couldn’t control, with a need for something he couldn’t explain.
And this woman was in the firing line.
‘I asked for your name.’
She blinked quickly, her lips, full and pink, quirking down a little in one corner. ‘Phoebe.’ Her voice was soft, like her hair.
‘Phoebe what?’
‘Phoebe, Your Majesty.’ She grimaced in apology.
The dark emotions in his gut twisted. He didn’t want to be ‘Your Majesty’ in that moment. How different might his life have been had he not been born royal? If his parents hadn’t been travelling on behalf of the kingdom, if his uncle Mauricio hadn’t desperately sought the power of the throne? How different might it all have been?
‘I meant to ask for your full name.’
‘Oh, right.’ Her tongue darted out, licking her lower lip. His veins pulsed with unexpected and not entirely unwelcome heat. ‘Phoebe James.’ Her words were lightly accented. Where was she from? What brought her to Castilona? In a fog of grief, he fixated on this woman, on the distraction she might provide.
‘Take a seat.’ He gestured to the chairs opposite, aware that he had no right to ask it of her, aware that she might feel pressured to agree because of who he was. He softened the request by muttering, ‘If you have time.’
She hesitated and he immediately regretted adding the second statement. However, a moment later, she glided towards the armchair, pressing her hand into the back of it. She didn’t sit, but she moved closer to him. He caught a hint of her fragrance, vanilla and strawberries, reminding him of summer fields.
‘Did you need something, sir?’
Did he?
Yes. But what?
He knew only that he didn’t want her to leave. Perhaps he was hiding from reality, avoiding his return to the palace as long as possible. Whatever the reason, it changed nothing. He was here and so was she.
‘My uncle just died.’
Her eyes widened and her skin paled. ‘I’m so sorry. I should leave. I didn’t know, or I would never have intruded on your privacy at this time. My condolences, Your Majesty.’
She spoke quickly, the words tripping over themselves, and her sympathy was so obviously genuine that it pulled at something deep in his chest. If he allowed it, her words could weaken him, could erode his outer shell to reveal the grief and desolation deep at his core. He straightened, infusing his spine with steel, showing strength even when he didn’t feel it, as was his way. As had been expected of him since his parents had died.
‘It was expected.’
She hesitated, not leaving, not moving, just standing there like a deer in headlights. Then she exhaled quickly, so he was conscious of the way her body moved with the action of breathing, her breasts shifting beneath the dark blue dress.
‘That doesn’t make it any easier, in my experience.’
‘Do you have experience with this?’ Or did she mean working at theclínica? She must see such loss all the time. Except that wasn’t what she’d meant, he was sure of it. Her teeth pressed into her lower lip, and her eyes turned a stormy green, like the ocean far, far out in its deepest parts.
‘Yes, sir. And I don’t think you can ever really prepare for the loss of someone you love. Nor do I think you ever fully recover.’
Fascinating. He knew her words were true—he lived them every day. There was an emptiness at his core that had been created on the day of his parents’ death, an emptiness he had no hope of filling. Then again, perhaps that had as much to do with what happened to him after his parents’ death as their actual loss itself. Whatever the reason, he’d spent his adult life avoiding anything like emotional dependency. Soon he would marry the Princess his parents had chosen for him, but that was an arranged marriage, without any kind of personal connection—it was a step he would take for the good of the country. He had no interest in exposing himself to any kind of loss ever again: he would be a far more effective ruler that way.
‘Anyway…’ Her voice trailed off a little. His eyes slammed back to her, a frown etched on his face. He reached for his tie and unfastened it, removing it completely before flicking open the button at his throat to reveal the column of his neck. Her eyes dropped betrayingly to the gesture; her cheeks flushed pink again. ‘I should leave.’
‘Stay.’ There was command in his tone now and he didn’t care. If she’d wanted to go, she would have done so by now. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have cared, because Octavio was not a man who needed anyone else in his life, even temporarily. But tonight, grief had weakened him, temporarily, and to himself he admitted that this woman choosing to remain with him carried more weight than he welcomed.
