Modern Romance November 2015 Books 1-4. Trish MoreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
from the room, and her, presumably, from Andres. This was her last moment to take a breath of air before he was standing in front of her, tightening her lungs.
She breathed in deeply, then took a step forward, grabbing hold of the handle and pulling, the heavy door giving slowly. She slipped through the open space and stopped, taking in the grand sight before her. The ceiling was high, domed, with beautiful, detailed paintings stretching over the width of the room. The walls were papered a pale blue with crushed velvet flowers, each segment of wall divided by golden molding.
She would blend in with these surroundings. A strange thought. But it was true. Now she looked as though she belonged here. Felt as though she might. She was born to this. Would have lived in it if not for the men who’d overthrown her father.
This would have been her birthright. And in reality, she would very likely have been sent to marry a prince. A prince like Andres.
This could have been her fate no matter what. To be here. To be with him. Set to be his wife. Such a strange thought. But comforting in some ways. Was this what her parents would have planned for her? They certainly wouldn’t have wanted her to stay in the woods for the rest of her life.
She had been... She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. It smelled familiar here. Of ancient stone and wood. A palace. It reminded her of her home. Her first home. Of her parents and how they had cared for her.
They had loved her. So very much. This was the sort of life they had wanted for her. The woman she was now, in the dress she currently wore, was what they would have wanted her to be.
Had she been brought up in the palace, she would be tamed already rather than being something he saw as a feral animal.
Zara swallowed. She should not care about that. What he thought of her. She wasn’t actually going to marry him. She would find a way out of this. Find a way to make it work for everyone.
She was not ready to be married. Least of all to a man who had as little choice in the matter as she did.
She had been forced into too many things. Had been forced on too many people. Was it such a bad thing to wish she could be chosen?
She shook off the thought, walking deeper into the room. It was silly to worry about things like that. Being chosen, and wanted. Those were luxuries for people who didn’t have to worry about survival, or about duty.
It would not have fit into either versions of her life.
Andres chose that moment to walk in the doors opposite her. She would have expected to be used to him by now. Would have thought that every time she saw him the impact of his appearance would lessen. If anything, she felt it harder, deeper, every time she saw him. He was dressed in a tuxedo, and she could have almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Her in a ball gown, him in a suit, so early in the day, in an empty ballroom. Two strangers who were being ordered to marry each other, neither of whom wanted to.
She would have laughed, but she couldn’t possibly. Not when she could scarcely even take a breath. If she had felt tense at the mere thought of seeing Andres, then actually seeing him ratcheted her tension up to impossible degrees. She couldn’t figure out why. Yes, he was handsome, but she had no interest in being touched by him. Being kissed by him. Or any of those other things.
She had never much minded being innocent for her age. A side effect of being kept separate from everyone else was most certainly innocence. There had been no boys to hold her hand, kiss her, during her teenage years. There had been no one to talk to her about relationships. Everything she knew she had gathered by listening and observing. And that—up until now—had been enough. Now she felt out of her depth. Confused and, worst of all, curious. Curious about what it would be like if he made good on any of his threats. Curious about what he looked like beneath those suits. Beneath that facade he wore so casually and easily she doubted most people recognized it as such. But she did. She knew what it was like to put a veneer over everything you were. To keep your manner calm, unshakable, while underneath a storm raged.
They were so very different, and yet she could see reflections of herself in his dark eyes. It made no sense. It made even less sense than her fascination with him. It should be fear. She could not deny that her feelings were certainly tinged with it, but that wasn’t all of it.
Yes, it was the curiosity that disturbed her the most. If she had even a few more answers to her questions, perhaps it would not be. If she had been with a man before, or at least been kissed by one, then perhaps she wouldn’t be so fascinated by the shape of his mouth. Perhaps she wouldn’t have so many questions about whether or not it would be as hot, firm, certain, as it looked.
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. And he stopped. Froze, right there in the middle of the room, staring at her as though she were a foreign entity.
“You’ve cut your hair,” he said.
She reached up, touching the silken length. “Well, I didn’t.”
“The stylist did.”
“Yes.” She flicked the dark curl over her shoulder. “Am I not tame?”
He tilted his head to the side. “I’m not sure. Why don’t you come closer and I’ll try to assess for myself?”
She found herself obeying, moving toward him warily, not quite sure why.
Perhaps it was all to do with lulling him into a false sense of security. Getting him to trust her. Yes, that was likely the reason. It had nothing to do with the tightness in her stomach, the pressure on her lungs, the dry feeling in her throat. Had nothing to do with the deadly beauty he possessed. Like a rugged landscape that beckoned you to explore, while waiting to swallow you whole.
None of that mattered. It meant nothing. It was only that fighting the entire way wouldn’t help her cause, so there was no purpose in it. She had to wait and strike when it counted. So she would obey. But only for now.
It was his turn to touch her hair. He reached out slowly, and she could do nothing more than watch as he reached for her as he rubbed his thumb over the dark, silken locks. He said nothing; he only stared.
She wanted to ask if he liked it, but she realized that she shouldn’t care whether he liked it or not. She didn’t need him to find her beautiful; she needed him to find her sympathetic. It would probably work to her advantage if he didn’t find her beautiful.
No matter how compelling he was, no matter how handsome, it didn’t change what he was. He had told her in no uncertain terms. He had betrayed his brother. Not out of any real need, or great affection and love for the woman in question. Just because he could. Just because he lived to please himself. That, more than anything, should repel her. Should make his opinion on her appearance moot.
When she thought of her mother and father, of what they’d done with their positions, the changes they had died for...it should make him repellent. That he had such power and did nothing with it.
It didn’t.
How disappointing to discover that she was as vulnerable to this kind of thing as any other woman.
Suddenly, he changed their positions, wrapping his arm around her waist and taking hold of her hand with his. “We’re here to dance,” he said. “Do you know how?”
She knew that he had asked a question, and that the question required a response, but she couldn’t seem to cobble one together. He was strong. She had known that. He had plucked her out of the bathtub and carried her across the room as though she weighed nothing. Still, she had forgotten somehow. Or she hadn’t fully realized. Or perhaps the memory simply couldn’t do it justice.
He was strong, yes, but the true test of that was the way he held her without crushing her. Firm, but gentle. She could feel the heat of his skin radiating through the fabric of his suit, had a sense for the hard muscle beneath. So much only hinted at. Another piece of evidence to support her theory that he was hiding his real self beneath a mask.
“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he said.
She