Happily Ever After. Кира Касс
was silent for a moment.
“So … you do what exactly?”
I dropped the chocolate back onto my plate and put my hands in my lap. “I pick the berries, mostly. And I help shell.”
He was quiet.
“It used to be buried in the mountains—the plantation, I mean—but there are lots of roads through there now. Which makes it easier to transport things, but it adds to the smog. My family and I live in—”
“Stop.”
I looked at my lap. I couldn’t help what I did for a living.
“You’re a Four, but you do the work of a Seven?” he asked quietly.
I nodded.
“Have you mentioned this to anyone?”
I thought over my conversations with the other girls. I tended to let them talk about themselves. I’d told stories about my siblings and really enjoyed getting into some of the TV shows the others watched, but I didn’t think I’d ever spoken about my work.
“No, I don’t think so.”
He looked to the ceiling and back to me. “You are never to tell anyone what you do. If anyone asks, your family owns a coffee plantation, and you help run it. Be vague and never, ever let on that you do manual labor. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
He eyed me a moment longer, as if to reinforce the point. But his command was all I needed. I’d never not do anything he asked me to.
He went back to eating, stabbing his desserts a bit more aggressively than he had before. I was too nervous even to touch my food.
“Have I offended you, Your Highness?”
He sat up a little taller and tilted his head. “Why in the world would you think that?”
“You seem … upset.”
“Girls are so silly,” he muttered to himself. “No, you haven’t offended me. I like you. Why do you think we’re here?”
“So you can measure me against the Twos and Threes and validate your choice to send me home.” I didn’t mean to let that all come out. It was as if my biggest worries were battling for space in my head, and one finally escaped. I ducked my head again.
“Amberly,” he murmured. I looked up at him from under my lashes. There was a half smile on his face as he reached across the table. Cautiously, as if the bubble would burst the second he touched my coarse skin, I placed my hand in his. “I’m not sending you home. Not today.”
My eyes watered, but I blinked away the tears.
“I’m in a very unique position,” he explained. “I’m just trying to understand the pros and cons of each of my options.”
“Me doing the work of a Seven is a con, I suppose?”
“Absolutely,” he answered, but with no trace of malice in his tone. “So, for my sake, that stays between us.” I gave a tiny nod. “Any other secrets you want to share?”
He pulled back his hand slowly and started cutting into his food again. I tried to do the same.
“Well, you already know I get sick from time to time.”
He paused. “Yes. What’s that all about, exactly?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve always had a problem with headaches, and sometimes I get tired. The conditions in Honduragua aren’t the best.”
He nodded. “Tomorrow after breakfast, instead of going to the Women’s Room, go to the hospital wing. I want Dr. Mission to give you a physical. If you need anything at all, I’m sure he’ll be able to help.”
“Of course.” I finally managed to take a bite of the puffed pastry and wanted to sigh it tasted so good. Dessert was a rarity at home.
“And you have siblings?”
“Yes, one older brother and two older sisters.”
He made a face. “That sounds … crowded.”
I laughed. “Sometimes. I shared a bed with Adele at home. She’s two years older than me. It’s been so strange sleeping without her, I sometimes pile a bunch of pillows beside me to trick myself.”
He shook his head. “But you have all that space to yourself now.”
“Yes, but I’m not used to it. I’m not used to any of this. The food is strange. The clothes are strange. It even smells different here, but I can’t quite pinpoint what it is.”
He set down his utensils. “Are you saying my home stinks?”
For a second I worried I’d offended him, but there was a tiny, joking spark in his eyes.
“Not at all! But it’s still different. Sort of like the old books and the grass and whatever cleaner the maids use all mixes together. I wish I could bottle it somehow to keep the smell with me always.”
“Of all the souvenirs, that’s by far the most peculiar one I’ve heard,” he commented lightly.
“Would you like one from Honduragua? We have some excellent dirt.”
He tried to press away his smile again, still seeming afraid of letting himself laugh.
“Very generous,” he commented. “Am I being rude, asking all these questions? Is there anything you want to know about me?”
My eyes widened. “Everything! What do you like most about your job? Where have you been in the world? Have you actually helped make any laws? What’s your favorite color?”
He shook his head and gave me another one of those heart-crushing half smiles. “Blue, navy blue. And you can basically name any country on the planet, and I’ve seen it. My father wants me to have a very wide cultural education. Illéa is a great nation but a young one, all things considered. The next step in securing our position globally is making alliances with more-established countries.” He chuckled darkly to himself. “Sometimes I think my father wishes I’d been a girl so he could marry me off to secure those ties.”
“Too late for your parents to try again, I suppose?”
His grin faltered. “I think it’s been past that for a while.”
There was something more to that statement, but I didn’t want to pry.
“My favorite thing about my job is the structure. There is order to it. Someone places a problem in front of me, I find a way to solve it. I don’t like things left open or undone, though that’s not typically an issue for me. I’m the prince, and one day I will be king. My word is law.”
His eyes sparkled with delight at his speech. It was the first time I’d seen him impassioned like that. And I could understand it. Though I didn’t long for power myself, I was aware of the appeal.
He continued to stare at me, and I felt something warm trickle through my veins. Maybe it was because we were alone, or because he seemed so sure of himself, but I was suddenly very aware of him. It felt as if every nerve in my body was attached to every nerve in his, and as we sat there, a strange electricity began filling the room. Clarkson circled his finger on the table, refusing to look away. My breathing sped up, and when I let my eyes drop to his chest, it looked as if his had, too.
I watched his hands move. They looked determined, curious, sensual, nervous … a list went on in my head as I stared at the little paths he drew on the table.
I’d dreamed of him kissing me, of course, but a kiss was rarely only that. Certainly he’d hold my hands or my waist or my chin. I thought of my fingers, still rough from years of labor, and worried what he would think if I touched him again. At the moment, I desperately wanted to.
He cleared his throat and looked