It had gone so well.
A shared dinner, during which she’d asked questions about Castilona and its history, the palace and its importance, his goals for the country’s future. Her eyes had zipped with excitement, so he’d felt her shared love for this place, despite the fact she’d only been here a matter of months.
What did that matter?
Castilonian blood ran through her veins and that side of her was just waking up, stirring to life. She was Queen of a country to which she belonged but had never known—Octavio could certainly help fix the latter. They agreed that dinner would be a time to strengthen her understanding of Castilona. Though she had tutors, their lessons covered the basics in an academic sense, whereas Octavio spoke with passion and duty, with the loyalty and love of a man raised to rule.
Phoebe had seemed completely swept up in his stories, and he’d enjoyed that feeling, too.
Afterwards, she’d stood and held her hand out to him, inviting him with that simple gesture, but also with her eyes, which seemed almost to plead with him…and he’d pleaded right back, until they were riding a wave of ecstatic contentment together,bodies entwined, pleasure wrapping around them, through them, in a way they both needed.
‘Octavio.’ She tilted her face, so he felt her eyes on his features. His breathing was still rough, his chest moving with each inhalation. ‘May I ask you something personal?’
He continued to stroke her back, ignoring the flicker of wariness in the pit of his gut. Why shouldn’t she ask him whatever she wanted? They were married, he’d already shared things with Phoebe that he hadn’t intended to and the world hadn’t stopped spinning.
‘Of course,’ he said, his voice easy, hiding his initial reaction to her entreaty.
‘After your uncle sent Rodrigo away, where did you live?’
It was the last thing he’d been expecting, and yet it shouldn’t have surprised him. He’d glossed over his childhood, and yet someone as astute as Phoebe must have wondered.
Nonetheless, he tried to keep emotion out of his voice. ‘I was moved to a smaller palace, in the south.’
‘Why?’
His smile was a ghost of that expression, laced with the kind of bitterness even time couldn’t dull. ‘He said it was to shield me from the press, from my grief. But in removing me from this palace, he removed me from everything that was familiar, everything that reminded me of my parents. And he surrounded me with new people. New staff, new tutors. A nanny he’d hired.’ The final sentence he spoke with undisguised resentment.
‘You didn’t like her?’
He tried to quell his feelings. To push them deep, deep down, just as he always did. He tried to contain the anger he felt when he reflected on that time in his life, remembered how vulnerable he’d been, how much he’d needed the adults responsible for him to do better. But it was there, whipping through him, like the building of a storm. ‘No,querida.I didn’t like her. I hated her.’
She stroked his chest, her fingers drawing invisible figures of eight. ‘Because she wasn’t your mother?’
‘Because she was awful,’ he corrected.
Her fingers stalled a little. ‘Actually awful, or awful in a way that you would have felt about anyone who was charged with your care at that time.’
‘Her name was Benita,’ he said, slowly, and even now, so many years later, a shudder ran through him. ‘And when I misbehaved, which according to her was very often, she would lock me in a room no bigger than a wardrobe, with no light except for the tiny sliver that came under the door.’
Phoebe gasped. Her fingers pressed flat, so her palm was against his chest, as if she could reach through time and draw him out of that dark space.
‘She said young princes needed to learn to be tough. That she was hard on me for my own good. When I cried—and remember, I was nine, and my parents had just died—she smacked me until I stopped.’
Another gasp, this time more of a half-sob. ‘How dare she?’ Phoebe pushed up onto her elbow so she could see him better, keeping her body pressed to his side, and he was glad for the physical comfort of her nearness.
‘One day, a servant saw her smack me and reported it to palace security. Enough people had been made aware that she was removed. Someone else was sent.’
‘Someone better?’ she asked hopefully, but with a frown around her eyes that showed she was beginning to understand.
‘Someone who didn’t use physical violence to punish me,’ he said, holding her gaze for a moment and then looking away. ‘Marta was the second nanny—’
‘The second of how many?’ she asked indignantly.
‘There were many. I stopped learning their names as I grew older.’
She closed her eyes, her delicate features showing pain and outrage. ‘What was Marta like?’
‘She also believed I had to be tough. I suppose Mauricio explained this to each of them, because no matter which nanny I mention, they all shared a common trait of cruelty, which was supposed to be for my ultimate benefit.’
