Page 47 of Reclaiming His Ruined Princess
It was his pride that wanted power.
His heart simply wanted her.
Whatever it took. Whatever she needed.
Joaquin hadn’t expected that he would argue his way into the palace. He hadn’t been sure if they’d even let him into the country. But when they did, he delivered himself to that famous square out front that he’d seen on television too many times to count. Most of those times in the past five years, when he’d pretended not to be watching news reports from Ile d’Montagne, and yet had somehow caught every one.
Just for a glimpse of her.
He’d walked to the gates, ignored the guards, and knelt.
And he had convinced himself on the flight down from England that the moment he took to his knees he would feel better. He would feel whole. He would feel...whatever it was those smug holy people felt when they were finally living out their purpose.
He felt none of those things.
He absolutely hated every second of what could only be seen as groveling.
And Joaquin Vargas did not grovel.
But when the guards told him to move on, he was obliged to tell them that he refused.
“I am here for Amalia Montaigne,” he told them, and let his voice ring out with authority and command. “I do not intend to move until I see her.”
And there’d been no small part of him that was looking forward to the guards’ reaction to that, hoping it would allow him to dust off some of his old street fighting skills. He could think of nothing he wanted more at that moment than to bash a few heads together.
But there were paparazzi around, which he’d anticipated. It was why he’d chosen this specific venue for his little display. It had taken them very little time to identify him, and the next thing he knew cameras were recording his every move—or lack of movement—and he was forced to stay right there, on his knees.
“Joaquin Vargas on his knees?” one of the paparazzi dared laugh at him.
“I take it you have not set eyes on Amalia,” Joaquin replied, and the crowd laughed louder, with a smattering of applause thrown in.
And even as he said that he knew it would end up on front pages. Everywhere.
Some part of him welcomed that. Still, he was considering his options. Kidnap was looking better and better by the moment, especially when a few tourists ignored his death glare and took selfies right in front of him.
But then, finally, the grand front gates to the palace opened, right there before him.
And at last Amalia appeared.
Joaquin was vaguely aware she had not come alone. There were people behind her, possibly royal people, but he didn’t care about them.
Because she was walking toward him, and suddenly, he knew that he could kneel forever. And would, if that was what it took.
“Joaquin,” Amalia said, in that way she always said his name. As if she was counting her blessings each time she found it on her tongue. “Since when do you kneel?”
“Is that what you want?” He was not surprised to find his voice rough. And so he opened up his arms, wide, hiding nothing from her or anyone. “Is that what it will take?”
He saw her look around, as if taking in the crowd. But when she returned her gaze to his, she wasn’t wearing that perfect princess smile any longer. He could see all the emotion in her blue eyes, stamped there for all to see.
It was all right there on her face.
And everything she was, everything inside her, everythingAmaliaburned so brightly there that he wanted to leap up and hide her from these jackals. From the world. From himself, certainly. He wanted to protect her if she wouldn’t protect herself—
And in case the fact he was on his knees hadn’t indicated to him what was happening here, that certainly did.
But he didn’t have time to reel at that because she moved closer to him anyway, and then he took her hands in his. And then, as if they were all alone on Cap Morat once more, she dropped down to her knees before him.
“Now everyone will do it,” Joaquin said, unable to be anything but sardonic when inside him, he could hardly keep track of that wildfire that surged through him. He wanted to call it lust. Need. Hunger.