The Duke's Sins | ongoing

The Art of Showbiz

17~the art of showbiz

The silence ringing in my ears was only splintered by the frantic clicking of the cameras.

A sudden grin curved through Jaxon's lips. "Yes. Yes, I am."

My heart careened against my ribcage.

Another hand shot up. "Your Grace. Do you have anything to say to those questioning the future Duchess's blood?"

Jaxon lay back in his seat with a warning smirk, his arm spread lazily over the back of his chair. He made the simple metal rods look like a throne of gold.

"I'm not sure I understand," he began slowly, "your question."

The Duke I knew was teasing, light-hearted. The one next to me was a stranger. This was the Duke.

Royal, powerful, domineering.

The journalist looked to the right and then to the left of himself, smiling nervously. "I just—"

"Never mind. I'm sure the future Duchess would prefer to answer that question herself."

"Yes," I found myself saying, "I'd love to answer your question. As far as the question about my blood goes, I bleed the same colour as you do. I'm from where we all come from and any other questions are also," I paused to smile, "absolutely welcome."

All at once, the cameras began to click rapidly—faster and faster until it sounded like a hoard of buzzing bees. The noise swarmed around my head—dizzyingly—echoed in my ears—ferociously—until I had to force my shoulders to move, my lungs to inhale.

As if spotting my panic, Jaxon held up a single hand.

The clicking stopped.

A man stood forward from the centre of the crowd, his mouth spread wide in a smile. "We'll take your leave, Your Grace."

They'd come here for a story. And now, a story was what they had.

"We've made a mistake, haven't we?" I whispered, unsure if the Duke would even be able to hear me.

The crowd filed out, guided by the royal guards. The guards were in a rich maroon velvet, symbolic weapons tucked into their belts. Their knives were wrapped in a handle of gold, their guns rimmed with the Dukedoms signature rubies.

"Yes. We have." He stood, holding his hand out to me. I took it without hesitating, welcoming the warmth of his skin. "Let's allow them a final picture, shall we?"

I stared into the camera poking through the bushes. A hiss sounded as the journalist fell out of the plants, a cut made by the ivy wringing his hand in red.

That colour—that crimson colour—was enough to set me on edge.

"Next time," I breathed, "we need to have security infiltrate these crowds." I glanced at the uniform of the royal guards. "And replace your guards' guns with real ones."

"What makes you think they aren't real?"

Maybe they were, maybe they weren't.

"We need to get you inside." I made a move to usher him inside, but he wrapped his hand around my wrist.

"Relax. The guns are real. But the threat right now is in your head."

And then I said something I hadn't meant to. "I can't put your life at risk just because you think it's in my head. It was my mistake. Let me fix it."

If the Duke was startled by my worry, he didn't show it. His face remained cool, amused. "Then fix it."

"Kindly, Your Grace, get your ass inside."