She wanted just that. She wanted to be this man's heroine. But once again, she was cast as the villain.
"I'll fix it," she conceded. "I'll take care of it: the liner, my brother, our marriage?—"
"No." He finally turned to face her. "I'll take care of it."
His expression was a tsunami roaring toward shore. A surge of emotion, too vast and fast for her to brace against. Hurt crested first, then pain, disappointment, weariness… all of it flashing too quickly across his face for her to parse fully, but each one slicing her open with brutal clarity.
"You can't fix this," she said. "You can't reach the sea pirates, and they are the priority."
"I'll take a cutter and intercept the liner."
"That's not fast enough. I'm faster."
"Don't you dare. Don't you dare go into that sea where your brother can snatch you away from?—"
Eric inhaled. Ursula held her breath. She did not fill the silence. She desperately wanted him to finish that sentence.
"You stay here. I'll go and fix the mess you made."
"Your way won't work. You're not listening to me."
"Because you've done enough."
A long silence stretched between them. His silence was the most painful thing she'd ever experienced. But she would not let him see that. She would not let him see the power he held over her.
They stared at one another, the air between them as brittle as dried coral. Her spine was straight, chin lifted with defiance, but her eyes betrayed her—wide and aching, pleading for something she would never ask for aloud.
Eric’s jaw tensed, his glare sharp enough to cleave through steel. She tried not to crack beneath it. She wouldn’t crack. But her fingers—traitorous, trembling things—quivered at her sides, aching to reach for him.
His eyes flicked down, lingering on the tremble of her hand. For a heartbeat, she thought he would take them. That he would cross the distance between them, thread their fingers together, and pull her close the way he had in the dark of the sea and the quiet of the bath, when words failed and touch was everything.
But he didn’t. He looked away. He turned, spine rigid with command and disappointment, and strode out the doors. And for the first time in her life, Ursula was afraid that she’d lost something she couldn’t steal back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ahurricane would have been calmer than what was stirring up in the throne room. The storm had no eye—only fury. Nobles rose from their seats like sea-swept trees, voices crashing into each other like thunder against stone. Their silken robes swirled with their gestures, colorful and violent as flapping storm flags. Accusations flew like hailstones, ricocheting off stone pillars and flaring tempers.
Some shouted for war. Others demanded arrest. One even dared to suggest abdication.
Grimsby stood near the foot of the dais. His face was drawn and pale as he clutched his papers like a lifeline, but even he was being pulled into the tide. His usual poise had frayed. Words tumbled out half-formed as he tried to restore order. Beside him, Sebastian’svoice rose in a shrill crescendo, his claws clicking in agitation as he decried betrayal and treason and demanded Ursula’s head.
The tempest roared, but none of it touched Eric directly. He sat in the eye of it all, focused on the sluggish beat of his heart. He was motionless on the throne, watching as his kingdom tore itself apart before him. Above the gale, he strained for something else—the faint scent of salt and silk, the ghost of a siren’s song, the one voice that could calm the storm.
"The sea witch has bewitched you!"
"Triton has played us for fools!"
"This is an act of war!"
Eric didn’t move. Didn’t react. As the nobles raged on, the weight he had shed just a day ago began to settle back onto him. It pressed against his shoulders. It coiled tightly at the base of his neck. The ache that had disappeared in her arms, beneath her hands, returned, creeping down his spine like fingers of cold iron. The headache he had forgotten now thrummed at his temples, a dull pounding in sync with the raised voices demanding war, annulment, blood. His back, once unburdened, felt rigid, as if the very throne beneath him was turning to stone.
"Now is the time to strike, Your Majesty!"
"You must annul this farce of a marriage!"
"I say we take her head!"
Eric had been resting his head on his knuckles, elbow braced on the carved lion's head of the throne arm. He hadn’t moved through the storm of voices, had barely blinked. But now—he straightened.
