Page 33 of Christmas in the King's Bed

It took him long moments—small eternities, really—to realize first, that Calista wasn’t alone. She stood with her father, here in a far-off corner of the gardens. Though she was still dressed like a queen—hisqueen—she had her arms crossed and a faint frown marring her perfect brow.

Unless he was very much mistaken, her father was threatening her. He recognized that particular bulldog-like expression on Skyros’s face.

“Whatever it takes, girl,” Aristotle said to her, sounding angry. “You understand me?”

“Perfectly,” Calista replied, her voice cool and crisp.

Orion should have stayed there, half concealed in shadow, to see what would happen next. He knew he should. But Aristotle reached out, as if to grip Calista’s arm, and he couldn’t stand it.

He couldn’tallowit.

“Careful there, Skyros,” he found himself belting out into the dark. “I believe we already covered this.”

Father and daughter jerked, then turned to gape at him. And he couldn’t say he cared that Calista looked faintly guilty, because what really mattered to him was that Aristotle dropped his hand.

“You do have a habit of popping up in the strangest places, don’t you?” Aristotle growled.

Orion ignored him, inclining his head toward Calista. “The hour grows late, my lady. It’s time to head back to the palace.”

“Indeed,” she said, shooting a look at her father that Orion wasn’t sure he wanted to be able to read. “I wouldn’t want to turn into a pumpkin.”

Orion held out his hand. And he didn’t know if she was performing for her father. He didn’t know far too many things when it came to this woman he was meant to marry, it was true. But he couldn’t worry about any of that as he should, because she stepped toward him and took his hand then, and for a moment, he almost thought she meant it.

For a moment, he was tempted to forget that he hadn’t chosen her himself.

He nodded at her father, his tormentor, and then swept her away so that she could join him in the endless ordeal of extricating himself from the ball.

By the time they made it to the car, he’d grown so used to her hand in his that he felt a flash of something like grief, though far hotter, when she took it away.

And this time, though they both sat in the back of the car just as they had on the way to the ball, it was different. It was as if the same heartbeat pounded through both of them. Orion was aware of the blood rushing through him. He was aware of Calista, as if she was wrapped tight around him. As if she was goading him directly, when all she was doing was sitting there beside him, staring straight ahead.

He was aware of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest. And of the faint scent of the perfume she favored, light enough and seductive enough that he was never quite sure if he was imagining it.

Once in the palace they walked side by side, their footsteps echoing against the marble floors as they headed, together, for the family wing.

“I will escort you to your suite,” he informed her, aware that his voice was gravelly. Low. Unduly serious.

And not quite his own.

“What’s this?” Her voice was bright, if forced. Tense, the same as his. “Are we suddenly observing dating protocols? However will my tender heart cope?”

He walked next to her, that throbbing, pounding beat inside him still insistent. Dark and stirring. And it only got worse with every step.

“I will not ask you why you are forever hiding away in dark corners, whispering with your father, a man already known to the crown as a bad actor. A legitimate threat.”

“I’m glad you won’t ask. Because I wouldn’t answer you anyway. He’s my father.”

“Nor will I ask you what it is he wants you to do, as I think we both know you wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

“That would defeat the purpose, surely, having gone to all the trouble to slip a king into a pocket in the first place.”

Her voice was tart, but somehow, he thought that darkness in her gaze was the real truth. Or maybe it was only that he felt the same darkness in him.

“But it does beg the question, Calista,” he said, as they drew up outside the door to her suite. “Which one of us is the greater martyr?”

She flinched at that, as if the question was another slap. And he watched, amazed—and something far darker than merelyamazed—as her cheeks flushed red.

“I’m the very opposite of a martyr, thank you.”