He gripped her arm, a cruel pinch, jerked her upright, and slapped her anyway.
Her head cracked to the side. Something wrenched in her neck, a hot spike of pain that shot down between her shoulder blades. The impact itself felt numb and cold, like she’d fallen face-first into a snow bank.
Her hair fell across her eyes, and she caught her breath a moment, frozen save her breathing, the taste of bile sharp on the back of her tongue.
Lia, you can’t talk your way out of this one, she imagined Malcolm saying.Don’t get yourself killed because of your pride.
He’d never spoken those exact words to her, but he’d cautioned her, gently, about her spitfire tendency to shoot back when offended. No one had ever slapped her before, but she’d watched men’s jaws clench with anger; had seen contempt flash through male gazes.
But she was far, far from the ballrooms of Drakewell. Contempt was the least of her worries.
Her anger swelled and swelled, so thick in her throat she thought she might choke. And she swallowed it, because she was far from home, and friends, and she had no other choice.
Behind the screen of her hair, she blinked until her eyes stopped stinging. The cold numbness in her cheek prickled, and stung, and turned hot, the pain bleeding in as the shock bled out.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She did.
He gripped her chin, his fingers long, and slim, and cool, their touch cruel and pinching. His head tipped back, so he looked down his nose at her, gaze low-lidded and dismissive.
“My father wants me to breed you,” he said, and sounded disgusted by the idea. “And I’ll do my duty as heir. But I won’t tolerate your vile disrespect.”
Had he not been squeezing her jaw, she thought her teeth would have chattered.
“Do you understand me?” he asked.
His thumb dug into her cheek, and her voice came out muffled when she said, “Yes, my lord.”
He held her a moment longer, staring, hating her, then nodded and withdrew. When his back was turned, as he paced toward the sideboard, Amelia tried to massage some of the feeling back into her face.
She shot a glance toward Cassius, who still stood with hands linked and head bowed. As if sensing her attention, he glanced up through his pale lashes, and his lips compressed in a grim, faint smile of encouragement.
She wanted to hit him.
Wine skirled loudly into a goblet, and a decanter thumped down onto the table. Amelia dropped her hands, straightened her spine, and schooled her features in time as the son turned around to face her from across the room.
He folded one arm across his chest, and sipped his wine with the other. Leaned back to perch on the table edge, which creaked a warning, and trembled on its dainty golden legs.
Cassius said, “My lord—”
“Be silent,” the heir said, and Cassius bowed his head once more. To Amelia, he said, “You’re the eldest Drake?”
She had to swallow, throat dry, before she could answer. “The eldest living, yes.”
He frowned, and swirled the contents of his cup.
She supposed that was insubordination of a passive sort. She laced her fingers together, inclined her head, and said, “My elder brother died. Now I’m the eldest, yes.”
He made a face. She thought he wanted to slap her again, but refrained.
“Do you have children?” he asked.
“No.”
That seemed to satisfy him, at least. He nodded, and the harsh crease between his furrowed brows smoothed.
Amelia didn’t want to think about what he would say, ordo, if she’d saidyes. A vision of a wild stallion taking over a defeated rival’s herd left her shuddering internally.
