“Is it?” Aldrik rested his elbow on the table, his cheek on his fist.
“You’re always in black,” she explained.
“Not true.” He shook his head.
“Yes, you are,” Vhalla insisted.
“I wear black in public.”
“Why?”
“I will tell you, perhaps, if you tell me what cloud situated itself over your head.” Clearly her day of sulking had not been lost on him.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” she mumbled.
“I would rather you did.” He leaned forward. “Was it the dream?”
“Why is everyone so obsessed with my dreams?” Vhalla shrunk away.
“Because we care about you,” Aldrik explained.
“We?” she repeated.
“Fritz, Larel, and I.”
“Why ...”Why did he insist on caring about her?“Well, you should stop.”
“That is not—”
“I thought I came here to work on something with you.” Vhalla was on her feet. “I’m not doing this again, Aldrik. I won’t be your project.”
“Yes, yes, of course, my lady.” He waved a hand.
“Don’t patronize me.” It struck a chord with her.
“Are you not a lady?” he asked.
“I am awoman,” Vhalla said with a roll of her eyes. “But I am not alady.”
“Fine then, my princess.” He smirked.
“Stop,” Vhalla cautioned.
“Why, my queen?”
She’d had enough and was halfway to the door when Aldrik snatched up her wrist. Vhalla didn’t even turn and look at him.
“They’re just words.” The timbre of his voice had gone low and deep.
“They’renot.” She thought of all the lords and ladies she’d seen in the palace, how different she felt on the night of the gala. Titles were more than just words. They were walls and barriers and parapets to lift up some and keep others out.
“Look at me.” He commanded and she obliged. “I could give you any of them.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“It does.” She made the mistake of giving him her focus, and Aldrik’s serious gaze consumed it whole. “One day, I will be Emperor. I could make you anything you pleased.”
“Why?” Vhalla whispered.
