"Yeah. I'm sorry. But you don't get to act like you're the only one with something to lose. Everything in my life has been ripped apart since I got pulled into this little secret society circus."
"Shh," I warn.
He moves closer so his mouth's an inch from mine. He adds, "I'm still here, doing what I'm told, keeping my mouth shut. So don't stand in front of me and tell me I'm not taking it seriously because I let the king throw a few punches to clear his head."
My heart races faster. His breath hits mine, taunting me to break the vow I made not to touch him again.
He lifts my mask, letting it rest on my head, then drags his finger over my jaw.
I don't breathe.
He continues in a firm tone, "All you think about is your seat at the table. Maybe you should try remembering I had to give up my life to be ruled by it."
"Lower your voice," I whisper.
His gaze flickers down to my mouth, then back up, challenging just as loudly, "Make me."
My pulse slams against my neck.
He slides his hand down and grips my neck, lifting my chin. He studies me closer, the gold flecks in his irises flickering from the wall torches.
I manage to get out, "I am not losing my seat because you aren't making smart decisions. You want to be angry about your life? Fine. Join the club. But you don't get to turn that rage into stupid decisions that put the king at risk. Next time he says he wants to box before a ceremony, either redirect him or find me, and I'll do it. Understand?"
Brax murmurs, "That's the thing about kings. They don't care about anyone's seat but their own."
My temper spikes so high it makes me dizzy. "For someone who walked in here from the outside, you certainly have a lot of opinions about how this world works."
"For someone who was born in it, you're shockingly blind to how much it costs the rest of us," he states.
"It's a privilege to be here," I remind him.
"It is? From where I stand—" His gaze cuts toward the door.
Sharp, muffled voices get louder.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. My fingers curl around Brax's wrist, and I drag him across the chamber. I dive into the cedar wardrobe and pull him next to me. I shut the door so there's only a crack.
Silk gowns and ceremonial cloaks swing gently on brass hangers.
Brax's hand automatically finds my waist in the tight space, steadying me.
I slap my palm over his mouth before he can speak. His body goes rigid from the surprise, muscles tensing against mine, but he doesn't push me away.
The door creaks open. Two men stride into Fiona's chamber wearing the same masks Brax did.
Why are they here?
We shouldn't be here either.
It's Brax's fault. He makes me lose my mind.
The queen's quarters are sacred. Unless you're invited, you shouldn't be here.
I know damn well these men weren't.
My breath tightens, and I lean toward the crack in the wardrobe doors, careful not to shift too much of my weight against Brax's body.
His chest rises and falls behind me, tense and controlled.
