Chapter Twenty-eight

Jorrin raced through the corridors, not contrite at the looks of surprise and disapproval he received from several courtiers as he ran by them.

Twenty minutes?

How could he convince Cera he wanted her to marry him in twenty minutes?

He’d never kept his distaste for the noble class a secret, but would she think a knighthood and a title had changed his mind?

Not to mention the wealth of Greenwald.

Slowing, Jorrin forced a breath; he didn’t want to burst into the great hall of the king’s palace. The giant double doors leading inside were open, a guard on either side.

They didn’t react to his hasty stop as Jorrin entered the hall.

His heart pounded, and it wasn’t from his run. He forced a few more breaths and surveyed the huge room.

The meal was not yet being served, as it was customary to wait for the king, but pleasant music drifted from the raised stage in the corner of the room. Four bards concentrated on their instruments while a fifth—the only woman of the group—added words to the melody with her sweet voice.

At the head table, on a dais higher than any Jorrin had ever seen, the queen was already seated. Against tradition, the king and queen’s two children were also at the table.

Prince Roblin was perhaps twelve or thirteen, and young Princess Mallyn was no older than nine or ten turns.

Another testament to the fact that King Nathal was a good man. He adored his family.

Jorrin swallowed a gasp.

Cera was seated at the table with the queen, as were Avery and his parents, Tristan and his father, Lucan, and an obviously very uncomfortable Hadrian. Jorrin didn’t see his own father, but didn’t expect Braedon to be very far behind. The empty seat next to the elf wizard was no doubt for him.

The queen herself caught his eye as he jogged up the several steps onto the dais.

Jorrin fell into a polite bow as she smiled and inclined her head.

She was a very beautiful woman, hair done in an elaborate fashion, woven in and out of the golden jewel-encrusted crown atop her head. It was about the whitest blond color he’d ever seen.

Her eyes were a very dark brown and rather stunning. He’d half expected them to be blue. She was definitely King Nathal’s lioness. And she knew who he was.

Nerves fluttered in Jorrin’s stomach.

“Good evening, Lord Aldern,” Queen Morghyn said with a wide smile.

Cera looked at him sharply, as did Avery.

Neither Lord and Lady Lenore, nor Tristan and his father, looked surprised.

As a matter of fact, the elder Lord Dagget looked rather pleased.

Avery’s parents smiled at Jorrin.

That should be flattering, shouldn’t it?

Cera’s family approved of him, at least.

Hadrian didn’t look up; he appeared to be brooding.

Lucan didn’t show a reaction, either. Eyes as wide as saucers, he looked stunned to be where he was, a sentiment Jorrin was quite familiar with.

“Good evening, your Highness.” Jorrin flashed a tight smile, wanting desperately to grab Cera’s hand and drag her from the dais.

He needed to speak to her now, especially since the queen had inadvertently spoiled a part of the king’s surprise announcement.

Cera would know the queen would never make the mistake of calling him by the wrong honorific.

“Lady Ryhan,” Jorrin said, begging her with his eyes. “Will you accompany me for a moment?”

“Of course, Lord Aldern,” Cera said through clenched teeth. She rose from her chair with grace, but clutched his outstretched arm with a bit too much force.

Jorrin winced as her nails bit his skin.

When they reached an empty sitting room in the nearest corridor, Cera whirled on him. “What did the king want to tell you, Jorrin?”

Neither of them sank into the lavish chairs. Or the couch. Or the padded seat up against the bay windows.

“Nothing bad, love.” Jorrin had to speak fast. “Why are you angry?”

“I think King Nathal is playing games.” Cera tapped her foot. “I don’t like to be the butt of his jests.”

“There are no jests.” Jorrin wanted to ask her to marry him before he told her about Greenwald . . . or should he do it the other way around? “I love you, Ceralda Ryhan,” he blurted.

Her face softened and she took a breath. “I love you, too, but . . .”

Jorrin stopped her from finishing her statement by tugging her into his arms and kissing her. It was probably the coward’s way out, but Cera would respond to his kiss and touch.

“Somehow, I don’t think this is what the king wanted to discuss with you,” Cera whispered against his lips, placing a hand on his chest and gently pushing him away just when he was getting lost in the movement of their lips.

Drat.

She wouldn’t be distracted so easily.

He quirked a half-smile. “Actually . . .”

Cera gave him a long look.

Sighing, Jorrin dragged a hand through his hair.

“What are you so nervous about?”

“Nervous?” He met her eyes. “I’m not nervous . . .”

Her expression shouted that she saw the lie for what it was. “Just tell me what’s going on. Why did the queen call you, Lord?”

“That’s the proper way to address a duke.” Jorrin cringed.

Dammit, he’d wanted to explain things to her.

Why had he blurted it out?

“Duke?” Cera asked, her eyes wide, but he took a deep breath when his magic sensed curiosity, not disgust or anger. “He made you a duke?”

Jorrin couldn’t find his voice, so he nodded.

“Of what lands?”

He looked down, forcing a breath and grasping for words. Jorrin had to say it the right way, but he’d taken too much time to compose himself.

Color drained from Cera’s face. “Greenwald . . .”

His stomach roiled, heart pounding so hard it threatened to exit his chest. “Cera . . .”

She couldn’t really be looking at him that way, could she?

As if he had betrayed her.

No.

“No.” Her denial was whispered.

Was it for him or what his silence had confirmed?

Probably both.

Jorrin stepped forward, intending to pull her into his arms, but she placed her palm up, glaring. He froze in place. “Will you listen to me?”

“I can’t believe he’s doing this to me,” she ranted, pacing. Cera ignored his urgent plea. “After everything . . . he’d give it away? My home . . . my Province . . .”

Jorrin winced.

Cera hadn’t even considered him, she just wanted Greenwald.

His heart sank.

Taking a step back, he could feel her rage. His limbs tingled and burned from it. “He’s going to announce our betrothal tonight.”

Great, blurting the wrong words seems to be your only talent this evening.

“Betrothal?”

“Yes, Cera. The king wants us to wed.” Jorrin cringed.

That had come out all wrong.

Her expression didn’t soften at all. She stared, wide-eyed.

“No, that’s not it. I want us to get married. I love you, will you marry me?”

Cera scowled.

Jorrin’s heart ripped in two.

He’d screwed everything up.

Nothing was going as planned.

The king’s plan.

This was all King Nathal’s fault.

Jorrin growled. The man had put him on the spot, but he wasn’t there to see it through. Jorrin was doing a horrible job of it.

“So, I’m supposed to get married to retain something that should have been mine in the first place?”

He blanched. “No . . .” Jorrin couldn’t tell her Greenwald was hers either way. If she knew, she’d never marry him. And that hurt.

“I thought you were different, Jorrin.” Cera’s voice was thick with hurt.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jorrin growled, suddenly angry. His magic throbbed, making his head spin.

They were both surrounded by angry red auras.

She gaped as the color drained from her face, her shoulders slumped. Horror flashed across her gorgeous steel eyes. “Is that why you made love to me? For Greenwald?”

Jorrin blinked and his stomach tightened. Bile rose in his throat.

“Did you tell him? So he would make us get married?” Recovering, she made tight fists and glared. Her chest heaved, as if she’d sucked in a great gulp of air. Cera broke their eye contact.

“Dammit, Cera. What do you think of me?” He clenched his fists at his sides, his blunt fingernails biting into his palms. He stared, but she wouldn’t look at him.

Jorrin wanted to grab her by the arms and shake her until she would listen to him.

Wanted to take it all back and tell her when he could get the words straight in his head. Hold her and wipe the hurt look off of her face.

Cera was wrong, all wrong, but he couldn’t find his voice to tell her so.

She’d accused him of using her in a way Jorrin couldn’t even fathom.

Cera ruined the memory of what had happened between them.

Their lovemaking had been pure and sweet and so right.

Now she’d tarnished it with her words.

Jorrin hurt more than he’d ever hurt before.

“I don’t know what to think of you,” she bit out.

Air rushing from his lungs, he spread his arms wide. “This came out all wrong. It isn’t at all what I wanted to say to you.” He met her eyes and his heart clenched when he saw the tears on her cheeks.

Stepping forward again, he tried to take her into his arms, but she put both hands on his chest and shoved him hard.

Jorrin blinked and looked away, barely warding off his own threatening tears.

“Don’t touch me,” Cera ordered. So severe, as if silently reminding him of her station. As if touching her was a crime because he was not nobility.

The blood drained from Jorrin’s face. Jaw clenched, he reached for anger to cover some hurt. “The king will announce his intentions, even if you refuse me. He won’t allow you to do so. He said it’s what he wants for Greenwald.” His tone was every bit as harsh as hers had been.

King Nathal had told him he wouldn’t force her, but Cera didn’t need to know that.

She stared, silent and wide-eyed.

 

****

 

“I hate you,” Cera said.

She didn’t even pause when his expression was more crestfallen than it had been when she’d told him not to touch her.

Her chest constricted so tightly every breath was a dagger cutting into her. Her heart had been torn out and stomped on.

How could Jorrin betray her?

I…need to…go.

Cera fled, running back into the great hall, wiping tears away.

He’d never liked the noble class, but now Jorrin was a duke?

And the Duke of Greenwald?

Her Greenwald.

The Province her parents died for.

Guilt and pain hit her in waves.

Crushing her eyes shut, Cera regretted the words she’d flung at him.

Cera didn’t hate Jorrin, she could never hate him.

She loved him so much it hurt. She’d shared more with him than anyone else, ever. Given herself to him.

She’d wanted to throw her arms around him and comfort him from the words she’d inflicted the moment they’d exited her mouth. Clenching her fists at her sides, Cera sucked in a breath. She was disgusted with her lack of control; he’d betrayed her, for Blessed Spirit’s sake.

Ordering her heart to stop pounding, she smoothed her hands down her gown. She’d had many compliments on it since Leargan had brought her into the great hall, including one from Queen Morghyn herself.

Leargan rose when she neared the table designated for the royal family’s personal guard just below the dais. The other knights at the table hastily did the same and Cera forced a smile and inclined her head. Her cheeks warmed.

“My lady.” Leargan bowed. His dark eyes locked onto her face, his expression worried.

She made her smile wider and suppressed the urge to wipe her cheeks again.

Dammit. He can tell I was crying.

Cera turned away with a slight bow and headed back to the dais. She took several deep breaths, mounting the stairs slowly.

What happened?

Jorrin asked me to marry him.

Her heart should be elated.

Why was she so hurt?

She wanted to marry him, didn’t she?

Having him made into the Duke of Greenwald made things easier for them, didn’t it? Cera wouldn’t have to worry about him being uncomfortable, out of place.

No.

Jorrin had betrayed her. He only wanted to marry her for the title. Didn’t even want to marry her; he’d only asked her while doing the king’s bidding.

King Nathal . . . he’d betrayed her as much as Jorrin had.

They’d teamed up to conspire against her.

He wanted her to marry—no, was ordering her to marry without even asking her if she wanted Jorrin?

That hurt.

It was his right, not even Uncle Everett could step in, but it wasn’t fair. Her father would never have made her choose a man she didn’t want.

Grief threatened to bowl her over when she thought about her father. He wouldn’t have forced her, but wait—didn’t she want Jorrin?

Cera cursed the voice that screamed she wanted him very much.

“Cera, are you all right?” Avery asked as she took the seat beside him.

The empty chair on her other side was meant for Jorrin, but Cera was in no hurry to have him join the table.

She squeezed her eyes shut, not realizing she’d done so until Avery’s expression was even more concerned than it had been.

He was staring expectantly when their gazes met.

No, I’m not all right.

Avery blinked.

Had she accidentally thought-sent?

“Yes, I’m fine,” Cera said finally.

Her cousin studied her for a moment, but said nothing.

Looking down the table, Cera noticed her uncle deep in discussion with Tristan’s father.

Seated next to him, Tristan caught her eye.

Cera trembled and fought tears.

He stared, his hazel eyes warm and concerned. Asking questions she wouldn’t answer. Tristan Dagget could see right through her.

She averted her gaze, biting her lip as the great hall wavered, suddenly blurry. Refused to look back at Tristan, but she could still feel his eyes on her. Cera didn’t bother trying to smile, he wouldn’t believe it anyway.

“Cera, something’s wrong. Tell me,” Avery urged.

She met his gray eyes and shook her head. “I’m fine, cousin.” She offered a wobbly smile.

He said nothing. Finally, Avery nodded.

Cera thanked him silently for not pushing anymore.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

She turned to Hadrian, seated on the other side of Jorrin’s empty chair, and struck up a conversation.

The elf wizard flashed a grateful smile.

It would have to be enough to distract her from Jorrin and her torrid emotions.