The King's Cursed Bride

Doubtless

            

The Next Day

Carissa shuffled through her sheets of paper. Today was Lady Rita's birthday celebration, and the woman had made a point to invite the most influential nobles. And she'd invited Carissa to make the celebratory speech.

A black smear drew her gaze to the page. She'd been so intent on her speech she hadn't noticed it before; there were inky fingerprints dotting the paper. Carissa lifted a blackened hand and grimaced. Perhaps it'd happened when she'd been composing the speech. Or maybe her clammy palms had smeared the words.

There wasn't any time to clean them. She'd just have to avoid touching anything.

"Would you like me to clear the table, your highness?"

Carissa slowed and glanced around. A nearby door was cracked open.

"No, thank you. I'll wait a few more minutes." It sounded like Elon.

"Of course. If you need anything else, your highness, you only need summon me. You needn't clean up yourself; it's a servant's job."

"But isn't that what I am? A glorified, well-dressed servant?"

Both men laughed.

Carissa crept towards the door. It sounded like Elon was talking to someone.

The other man finally sighed. "Your attitude closely resembles that of your adoptive father, you know. And you're just as stubborn."

"Yes, Barry, I know." A smile lightened Elon's tone.

Carissa placed her hand on the doorknob just as someone began to open it. She stifled a gasp and plastered herself to the wall. The servant strode down the hallway without looking back; he hadn't seen her. She glanced to her right. And he'd left the door partially open.

She padded towards it and peered through the crack. Elon was seated at a table. It was of similar size to the great hall—where she'd eaten with the nobles her first morning in the palace. But it was smaller, with five seats at most. Only one seat was occupied—Elon's seat.

Elon had his cheek propped on his fist, staring out the window. The food spread before him looking delicious—with a rainbow of jams, lush loaves of bread, slices of meat—but it appeared untouched.

And then she realized who he was waiting for: her.

Her chest cramped, and she rubbed the heel of her palm over the ache. Elon had sent a written invitation to her that morning to break their fast together—even though she'd told him last night she'd be busy. And, of course, the invitation had been accompanied by a wild flower—as had the ones he'd sent earlier this week. Why he'd sent wildflowers when the garden was teeming with plump roses and colorful hibiscuses was beyond her.

She studied his profile: the curl of his caramel-colored hair around his ears, the shadow of stubble darkening the hard line of his jaw, the midnight blue fabric covering the expanse of his broad chest and shoulders. Why was he still bothering to wait for her to begin breakfast? Perhaps he knew she'd catch a glimpse of him, and it'd arouse her guilt, prompting her to spend more time with him.

Carissa peeled herself away from the scene and strode down the hallways—her strides lacking the efficiency and crispness she'd possessed earlier. Elon was a conundrum. Even when she wanted to understand, he denied her an explanation, saying trust should be enough.

Trust. It always came back to that.

But how was she supposed to trust him when he'd allowed so much to be taken from her: her purity, her sanity, and now Aleck?