Sonya thought that she was getting closer to a decision. Each suitor had his admirable qualities, but she thought marrying the blue-eyed earl might be what was best. He was energetic and enthusiastic, and she didn’t need to try as hard with him. He made her smile, and she wanted to be happy. She was feeling better about the entire ordeal, more optimistic.
Until she had a fitting with Azam for her wedding dress.
He was waiting for her in her rooms, and when she saw him standing there with a sketchbook tucked into his side, her heart immediately began pounding.
‘Leave us,’ she told the maids, and they left. Taking a deep breath, Sonya entered the room, the two of them alone.
‘Hello,’ she said. Still she hoped that he might speak to her, reach for her. She knew it was foolish to hope, but she could not help it.
He nodded slightly, and her chest ached.
It was easy to convince herself she did not love him when he was far away, at the edge of a room, but here, standing right in front of her, she knew that her heart still beat only for him.
It made her miserable.
‘Why are you here again when you already know my size?’ sheasked, voice quiet. She couldn’t look at him without it hurting, and yet, she couldn’tnotlook at him, either.
‘A wedding dress needs precision,’ he replied. His voice held no warmth.
Irritation cut through her. He was acting as though he were a stranger—no, as though he was merely her servant.
Opening his sketchbook, he strode toward her, opening to neat sketches of different designs. It reminded her of when he was making Ximena’s dress, though that felt like a lifetime ago, now. He had let her see his process then, let her see his frustration and botched ideas. He had let her in, and now, the door had been slammed shut.
The room was quiet save for the sound of flipping pages as he showed her various options. She detested each of them. None of them were whatshewould want to wear on her wedding day, not Sonya. But they were perfect for Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Fairendelle.
The thought made her angry all of a sudden. But why was she angry? He didn’t know her, that much was clear.
Except that sheknewhe did. Every dress he had made her in the Outskirts had been precisely what she wanted. He had paid attention then, and he was refusing to now.
‘They’re perfect, for a princess,’ she said. ‘I hate them.’ She grabbed the sketchbook from his hand and slammed it shut.
He clenched his jaw, taking the sketchbook back from her. His knuckles were white as he clutched it.
‘Aren’t you a princess?’ he asked, finally looking at her. There was emotion in his voice—frustration and something else, something deeper.
‘Is that all I am?’ she asked, hurt. ‘You know me. Why do you pretend you don’t?’
It was his turn to look hurt. ‘You were angry I didn’t tell you the truth, but you never told me the full truth either,’ he said, the words coming out before he could stop them. ‘You never told me you were a princess.’
‘You already knew, so what does it matter now?’ she bit out.
They were both tense, but it felt good to argue with him, to finallytalkto him. He opened his mouth to respond, but then snapped his mouth shut. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
He said nothing.
Anger burst through her. She wanted him to argue with her, to let him know all her thoughts the way he used to. But he wouldn’t.
‘You’re right,’ she said, voice hard. ‘I am a princess and you are my tailor. Do what you have come to do.’
She stepped onto a footstool placed there for the purpose and angrily stripped off her clothes, throwing the articles to the floor. This time, he did not look away. His eyes were blazing as he watched, and heat spread through her. She felt as though she was walking across a dangerously thin tightrope and could fall at any moment.
When she was down to her chemise and drawers, he strode toward her. Her breathing hitched as he began taking her measurements, his fingers brushing against her skin as he did so.
He was not being careful like the other times; it was as if he wanted to touch her, to torment her. Every minuscule moment of contact sent her skin aflame, her pulse quickening.
He wrapped the measuring tape around her waist, tugging roughly, and she stumbled forward, toward him. His hands were on her waist then, her hands on his shoulders. Their eyes clashed, both burning.
His chest was heaving as he took in deep breaths, looking up at her from dark lashes. Her stomach burned, and she didn’t knowwho then bridged the gap between them, but their lips met, and he was kissing her, and she was kissing him back, both of them desperate for one another.
