Miya turned on her heel. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Slow down.” Hakym didn’t pick up the pace with her. “Deep breath.”
“Don’t tell me how to breathe, old man.”
He patted her hand again. “I’ll try to remember not to do that.”
“You aren’t going to start telling me everything I want to hear, are you?”
“I’m not sure I’m capable of that.”
“Good.” They made their way through her suite, out of the residential building, and met with advisers who led them to the courtyard.
When they walked up to the glass doors, Miya halted. People lined the courtyard, all adorned in beautiful dresses and suits. Mist sprayed from the stone fountain over the cottony white of the weeping cherry trees growing up along the center pathway.
“I would have liked it more private,” she said.
“I agree.” Hakym eyeballed an adviser.
“King Moress’s wishes, your highness. It’s a celebration.”
Miya noticed him then. He stood with his back to the door at the far end of the courtyard, watching the sun fall into a swirling pink sea. Her father.
Did he think this crowd would save him from everything that made Miya run in the first place?
Dropping Hakym’s arm, Miya opened the doors herself and walked past servants who rushed to offer their hand to her while she walked down the steps. They all watched her, quiet, like the people in Archai had been. Except these people were watching a woman rise from the dead rather than a powerful family being killed in the town square.
She was sure her brothers and sisters were there. That her nieces and nephews were seeing her for the first time. Miya wanted to care. She did care. But the enormity of a kingdom suffocated her as she flew down the cobbled courtyard path. She only slowed when she caught Lance’s eyes trained on her. Jaw slack like when he’d watched her play the violin. The heat from him looking at her warmed her stomach.
And then Miya focused solely on her mission again, blocking the rest out. When she’d stomped close enough for her father to hear the loud clicking of her heels on the stone, he turned toward her.
Soft eyes met hers. Tears spilled onto his cheeks. It defied every image she’d seen of him for the past twelve years. Miya had forgotten that he’d always looked at her with love, even though he used her for a deal, just like Bale did with her mother.
Her arms went limp at her side.
“My…” He stifled a sob. His hair was white now. “My god… It’s really you.” Her father’s shoulders shook as he cried. “My little girl.” He walked toward her, staring at her. “Oh, my sweet girl, you look exactly like your mother.” He clutched his chest. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”
Miya opened her mouth to speak when he stumbled close and fell onto his knees. The king grabbed her ankles, trembling at her feet, weeping.
“Forgive me.” He clutched her tight. “Please, forgive me. I never wanted to make you leave. I never wanted to hurt you.”
He sobbed against her.
“Forgive me, my sweet child.”
Miya wrenched herself from his hands. He had so much he needed to do before he should even think about forgiveness. The streets of his kingdom were filthy, just like the inside of his palace. Did he even know what he apologized for? Did he admit it to himself?
He looked up at her. The low sun cast a wilted shadow of him before her. “If I had any idea you were alive…”
Miya ripped her gloves off and threw them at the king’s face. Gasps filled the air. “What are you sorry for? Tell me.”
He looked as horrified as the captain had been with the blade sticking out of his gut. And he didn't speak.
He'd never say in front of all these people that the deal he once made marked her before anyone else tattooed her finger. He'd probably never say it to her, or to himself, because who did that to their daughter? It didn't matter if his kingdom was on the line. He could have found another way to appease and make deals.
She turned her back on him before seeing his reaction. Stares shifted as she strode down the path that she had just taken to her father.
She stood in the middle of the stone porch where she had an equal view of everyone gathered. Her father watched her from his hands and knees, his face a mask of torment. Perfect. He should suffer for the conditions he’d allowed his people to live in and for what he'd done to her.
