A mistake now, he could see that.
Adonis leaned back in his chair and stared at him. His brother’s blue eyes were glacial, his expression rigid. Not that he ever had any other expression that Xerxes could remember. Adonis had taken their father’s lessons in detachment and elevated it into an art form.
‘Does it matter where she’s gone?’ he asked coldly.
Xerxes had never wanted to punch him so badly in his entire life. ‘Of course it matters, damn it! She’s my fiancée and the mother of my child!’
‘Language,’ Adonis said. ‘You’re not in the barracks now.’
Xerxes bit out an even fouler curse. ‘What have you done with her? Answer me!’
His brother was silent for a long moment, staring at him. He’d once been a playful boy and a caring older brother, but that had been before their mother had died and Xenophon had turned into a rigid, hard, emotionless father whose prime concern was turning both his sons into rigid, hard, emotionless versions of himself.
Xerxes had once wanted to be exactly like that. To be the kind of prince his father had wanted him to be. To be that kind of man.
But looking at Adonis now, at the ice in his eyes and the granite in his heart, Xerxes knew with a sudden burst of realisation that he didn’t want that for himself. That maybe he’d chased it for a while in Europe, had tried to turn himself into something similar after he’d returned to Axios. But the basic truth was that he’d never wanted it.
He wanted the passion he’d found in Calista’s arms. The heat in her eyes. The fiercely proud expression on her face as she’d looked at him, as if the way he’d broken under his father’s torture and his failure to end his own life weren’t flaws, but signs of strength. Of courage. Of endurance.
He wanted the fire that lit his heart whenever he thought of her. Whenever he looked at her. Whenever he held her.
He just wanted her.
‘I asked her whether she wanted to marry you,’ Adonis said after a moment. ‘And she said she didn’t. But that she didn’t have a choice. So I gave her one.’
Fury vibrated through every cell of Xerxes’ being. ‘What do you mean, you gave her one?’ he ground out.
‘I told her she could come to me after the party and I’d provide her with an escape, if that was what she wanted. And she did. And I provided her with one.’
Xerxes felt as if someone had punched him hard in the gut, winding him.
She’d walked out. She’d walked away. Without a single word.
Not without a word.
Ah, yes, out there on the terrace, that strange note in her voice as she’d told him not to care. The sweetness in her kiss. That had been a goodbye, hadn’t it?
Something opened up inside him, a deep, abiding pain. It felt worse than anything his father had ever done.
‘And my child?’ he demanded hoarsely. ‘What will happen to the baby?’
‘She said that if you wanted the baby with you, she would allow it. She was very concerned that the safety of the child was paramount, regardless of whatever...issues the pair of you might have.’
‘Issues?’ Xerxes said in disbelief. ‘Issues?’
‘Well?’ Adonis lifted an eyebrow. ‘Aren’t they issues?’
‘No.’ He leaned over Adonis’ desk, pinning his brother in place with a furious stare. ‘I care about her, you absolute fool!’
Finally, anger sparked in Adonis’ electric-blue gaze. ‘But she doesn’t love you,’ he snapped, pushing himself suddenly to his feet. ‘And so I was trying to protect you. You deserve better than that, Xerxes. You always have.’
Xerxes shoved himself away from his brother’s desk. ‘I don’t need your protection,’ he spat. ‘Or your opinion on what I do or don’t deserve. Tell me where she is.’
‘She told me so herself,’ Adonis went on implacably. ‘I asked her whether she loved you and she told me she didn’t.’
No, that was a lie. She felt something for him, he knew she did. It was in the way she’d touched the scar on his stomach, the way she’d told him that he was a hero, even when he didn’t feel it himself. The way she’d kissed him goodbye out there on the terrace. In the distress he’d seen in her eyes.
Why had she lied?
Why does that matter?
The thought sliced through him, sharp and deadly as a blade, pinning him to the spot.
Because it mattered. It mattered to him.
He hadn’t thought about love. He hadn’t thought about anything beyond fate and destiny and purpose. He hadn’t thought about anything beyond duty.
He hadn’t thought about what he wanted for himself except passion.
She was his goddess to worship, but worship was only one-way. A priest didn’t expect his god or goddess to answer. A priest didn’t require to be worshipped in return.
But you do.
Something burned in his heart, something he’d always hoped for but had never asked for. Something that, deep down, he’d never thought he was worthy of.
He wanted to be worshipped. He wanted to be loved.
By her.
Because he loved her.
Love for him had always been pain. Always been failure. But this didn’t feel like either of those things. It felt like power. It felt like strength. It felt like glory.
It felt like something he wanted and not for his king or for his country, but for himself.
And it mattered because he didn’t think he could survive without it.
‘Fine,’ he snapped, because he was certain now. He had to find her, talk to her, tell her what he felt. ‘I’ll find her myself.’
He turned on his heel, striding towards the doors.
‘I don’t want you to have what Sophia and I had,’ Adonis said roughly. ‘I didn’t love her, but she loved me and that killed her in the end.’
Sophia, his brother’s queen. Who’d died just before Xerxes had returned, leaving Adonis a widower and their young daughter motherless.
Adonis never spoke of her.
Xerxes stilled.
‘I don’t want that for you,’ Adonis went on, more quietly. ‘You deserve better than that, Xerxes.’
‘I have better than that,’ Xerxes said, staring at the doors ahead of him.
‘Are you so certain? And do you think confronting her will work? That telling her what to do will work?’ The breath went out of him. No, of course it wouldn’t, not with Calista. She was stubborn and strong, meeting his will with her own. Fighting because that was all she’d ever done. Fighting and pushing herself, denying herself. Trying to be something she wasn’t, not at heart. Because the heart of her wasn’t a soldier.
The heart of her was a lover.
Except she didn’t believe that, did she? No, she thought she had to stay strong and keep fighting. She didn’t understand that she didn’t need to do that with him. That he wanted her exactly as she was, the determined soldier and the passionate woman.
And what she needed was something he should have given her days ago: a demonstration of faith, of belief in her. A demonstration without a guarantee and without proof. Without a demand for something in return.
He wouldn’t give her a battle. He would give her love.
‘No,’ he said into the silence. ‘It won’t work. But I have a better idea.’ He swung round and met his brother’s gaze. ‘Will you help me?’
Adonis said nothing for a long moment. Then he nodded. ‘What do you need?’
Calista sat on the terrace of the little stone house in the mountains, looking out over the olive groves that stretched away beneath it. After Adonis had brought her here—one of a number of houses he had scattered around Axios, he’d said—she’d pretty much spent the first couple of days in bed. She’d slept mostly, curled around the ache in her chest and the constant feeling that she was missing something.
; After that, she’d forced herself to get up and do things, some gentle exercise, reading books on birth and parenting, watching movies, making herself food to eat. It was boring, but placid. Once, a doctor had visited and checked her out again, making sure she and the baby were healthy. Everything was on track, so she supposed that was something.
But as the days had gone by, the feeling of missing something hadn’t grown any less. If anything, it had only grown stronger and stronger, developing into a pain she couldn’t shake.
Her heart. She was missing her heart. And she suspected she knew where it was.
She’d left it in Xerxes’ strong, capable hands.
But that surely couldn’t be true. She’d been so determined not to care and she was sure she didn’t, so she tried to ignore the feeling, to lose herself in the small, everyday pleasures of existence.
Yet it didn’t work. There was a grief inside her, a loss that wasn’t getting any better.
She’d thought that once she left him, she’d forget him, but she couldn’t forget him. The baby inside her reminded her every day of what she’d given up, as did every time she woke in the middle of the night and reached for a warmth that wasn’t there.
It didn’t matter, though. She’d made her choice. She’d given him up to protect him, so he could have someone better, someone who could love him the way she couldn’t, and that was how it would have to stay.
So it shouldn’t have affected her when she spotted the helicopter flying overhead. It shouldn’t have made her whole body go tight, made tears start in her eyes when she saw the livery on the side of it.
And when it landed with a roar on the lawn beside the house, she shouldn’t have been torn by the simultaneous desires to leap to her feet and run away, and straight towards the figure ducking beneath the rotors and heading for her instead.
But it wasn’t Xerxes. It wasn’t even the king.
The man in royal livery came up to her, handed her an envelope and turned away, heading straight back to the helicopter and getting inside. Then it lifted off and flew away, leaving her sitting there in shock, holding an envelope with her name on it.
Calista’s hands were shaking. She didn’t want to open it, but even so, she did.
A heavy, creamy sheet of paper was inside, and when she unfolded it she saw it was an invitation to a wedding. A royal wedding. The wedding of Prince Xerxes Nikolaides, Defender of the Throne, to... Calista Kouros.
Tears filled her eyes, thick and hot, her own name wavering and swimming in her vision.
The king had told her he’d handle all the details of the wedding cancellation. Yet it was clear that Xerxes, stubborn to the last, was having none of it. Despite the fact that she’d walked out on him without even a goodbye, he still thought she’d marry him.
The arrogant bastard.
Fury rose in her then, white hot and unexpected, and she took the invitation and ripped it to pieces with trembling hands.
But after her anger had subsided and she was left standing in a pile of white confetti, she knew the truth: he was leaving the final choice up to her.
And she had no idea at all what to do with that.
Calista went into the house and tried to busy herself with doing other things, with books and exercise. With cooking and TV. Boring, mundane things that had provided her with distraction for the past week or two, because she didn’t want to have to think about him.
Didn’t want to think about the choice he’d apparently given her or what she would do about it.
But nothing helped.
In three days there would be a wedding and he would be there. He’d stand in front of his country, in front of his king, in front of his people. He’d stand there, waiting for her.
And if it was still going ahead, it was because he believed she’d be there. He believed she’d come.
She didn’t know whether to be offended at his presumption or comforted by his conviction.
Why was he going through with it? What did he think would happen? Did he really believe she’d turn up? She’d told him over and over again that she didn’t want to marry him, so why hadn’t he given up?
He never gives up.
Calista couldn’t get that out of her head.
The next day arrived and then the next. She wasn’t going to go, of course she wasn’t. She’d decided not to marry him and her decision was absolutely the right one.
It was up to him if he wanted to risk his dignity and reputation in front of the entire country. If he wanted to look like a fool when she didn’t arrive, then who was she to stop him? It would be a hard lesson for him to learn, but perhaps then he’d realise how ridiculous the whole idea was.
Except the more she thought about it, the more she ached. The more justifications she invented, the more hollow they sounded and the more empty she felt.
She woke on the morning of the wedding, more tired than she’d ever felt in her life, and when she got up she simply sat on the terrace of that little house again, watching the sun rise as the knowledge she’d been trying to escape for weeks now unfolded in her heart.
There was a reason those justifications had felt so hollow: they were excuses. Distractions from the real issue.
She was afraid. Not of the gap in social hierarchy between them or anything else, but of what lay in her own heart. Of the strength of what was in it. She’d always felt things so deeply and strongly, and after she’d ruined her mother’s life and with it her own relationship with Nerida, she’d locked all those feelings away, committed herself entirely to the armour she put on, poured all her desperate love into her country. Because a country could never betray her. Not the way her mother had done.
But a country couldn’t love her back and the armour she’d put on was constricting, and those feelings hadn’t gone away. They were still there and they were still powerful, and they frightened her.
You want to be loved back. You want it desperately.
Calista watched the sun come up, the realisation cold and sharp, because yes, she did want to be loved. And she’d had that back there at the palace, or at least the potential for it. But instead of taking it, instead of standing her ground and fighting for it, she’d retreated. No, worse than that. She’d broken and run away. And not even from an enemy bent on killing her.
She’d run away from herself and all those feelings in her heart.
She’d run away from the one man who could give her everything she’d ever wanted.
She’d told herself that she couldn’t love him to protect him, but it wasn’t him she was protecting. It was herself. Because she’d fallen in love with him. She’d been in love with him for weeks, possibly months. Maybe even since that night he’d cupped her cheek in his big, warm hand and smiled at her.
She loved him and she was afraid. Because it was so strong and so frightening.
It made her weak, made her vulnerable, caused her pain. That was why she wore armour. To protect her heart.
But you can’t wear armour and love him, too.
Calista wiped her eyes as tears streamed down her cheeks, feeling hollow and raw. Because that was true. And the choice had always been one or the other for her. There was no in between. She couldn’t do both.
But he did.
A shiver shook her then, right down to her core. And all she could think about was Xerxes. He’d been broken, but he’d got back up. He’d been tortured and afraid, but he hadn’t let it beat him. He’d been banished and he’d returned. Because he loved his country and he loved his brother.
It had been his love for Adonis that had kept him from taking that capsule, no matter what he thought. And it was that same love that had brought him home.
Love had never made him weak. Love had made him strong.
How can you repay that strength by walking away from him? When it’s what your mother did to you?
&
nbsp; Her heart froze in her chest, the pain shattering her. Yes, that was exactly what she was doing. She was leaving him as if he wasn’t important, as if he didn’t matter, but he did matter and he was important, and she couldn’t do that to him.
She couldn’t leave him the way her mother had left her. Somehow, she had to find the strength that would take her back to him.
But she knew where that strength would be found. It was in her love for him. And it would bring her home.
Calista stepped out of her armour, burned it to the ground, and set herself free. She let love surround her instead, making her whole, making her strong.
Then she pushed herself out of her chair, went into the bedroom, showered and washed her hair. She went to the wardrobe where the clothes she’d brought from the palace were and took out the uniform that was hanging there.
Her uniform. And she dressed slowly and carefully, brushing all the dust and lint from it, polishing the buttons to make them shine.
Yes, she was a soldier. She had a soldier’s courage and a soldier’s endurance. But she was also a woman, with a woman’s strong heart. A woman’s deep love.
It might not be what he wanted. It might mean she’d end up being hurt.
But he was worth the risk. He always had been.
She waited, and when the helicopter arrived to pick her up she got in without a word.
The trip to the palace didn’t take long and she was surrounded by guards when she got there, men she knew, who nodded to her, escorting her to a room where a wedding dress hung, along with a long white veil, a make-up artist, and a stylist ready to turn her into a vision.
But she shook her head as they approached. She didn’t need that. She would come to him as she was, offer him what she had. And hope that it would be enough.
She only paused for one thing—the veil. Taking her cap off, she put the veil on her head, along with the tiara that went with it, because after all, she wasn’t just a soldier, and, still dressed in her uniform, got back into the car that would take her to the cathedral in the middle of Itheus.
There were people everywhere when she arrived, and news media, crowds of people thronging the streets. And they all looked at her as the door was opened, and just for a second her heart quailed inside her chest.
Promoted To His Princess (Mills & Boon Modern) (The Royal House of Axios, Book 1) Page 16