Read Online A Throne for the Taking by Kate Walker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kate Walker
Ads: Link
you, and I never want to see you in my life again.’
Would she fight him on this? Would she try once more to persuade him? Dear God, was he almost tempted by the thought that she might? Fiercely he fixed his gaze on the darkness beyond the window. A darkness in which he could see the faint reflection of her shape, the pale gleam of her skin, the dark pools of her eyes. The silence that followed his words was total, and it dragged on and on, it seemed, stretching over the space of too many heartbeats.
But then at last he saw her head drop slightly, acknowledging defeat. She turned one last look on him, but clearly thought better of even trying to speak as she twisted on her heel and headed for the door, slender back straight, auburn head held high.
It was only as the door swung to behind her, the wood thudding into the frame, that he realised how unconsciously he had used exactly the words that she had thrown at him in their last meeting in Mecjoria ten years before. She had been the one to turn and walk away then too, marching away from him without a backward glance, taking with her the last hope he had had.
Recalling how it had felt then, it was impossible not to remember all he had ever wanted and now could never have—all over again. He had wanted to belong, damn it, he’d tried. He’d thought that when his parents had reconciled that at last he’d found the father, the family, he’d always wanted. But his father’s illness had meant that he had never had the time to make a reality out of that dream. It had all crumbled around him.
But this time it had been his own decision to throw it all away. He had had his revenge for the way she and her family had treated him, turning the tables on her completely and reversing the roles they had once had. It should have been what he wanted. It should have provided him with the sort of dark satisfaction that would have made these last ten years of exile and of struggle finally worthwhile. But the troubling thing was the uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach that told him that satisfaction was the furthest thing from what he was feeling. If anything, he felt emptier and hungrier than ever before.
The royal document still lay on his desk where he had dropped it, and for a moment he let himself touch it, resting his fingers on the ornate signature next to the dark-red seal. The signature of his grandfather. King of Mecjoria.
King.
Just four letters of a word but it seemed to explode inside his head. Ria had offered him the chance to return to Mecjoria, not just as himself—but as its king.
It was ironic that Ria claimed to have come here today to ask him to take the crown—to be King of Mecjoria when all that her appearance had done was to bring home to him how totally unsuited he was for any such role. He had failed as a prince, but that had been as nothing when compared to his failure as a father. But she thought that she could persuade him that he was needed in her homeland.
Her homeland. Not his.
But then she had said that the only alternative was for Ivan to be king. What a choice. Poor Mecjoria. To be torn between a bully boy and a man who knew nothing at all about being a royal—let alone running a country. His father’s country.
His father must be spinning in his grave at just the thought.
And yet his father had had Ivan sussed even all those years ago. From the corners of his memory came the recollection of a conversation—one of the very rare conversations—he had had with his dying father. Weak, barely able to open his eyes, let alone move, his father had known of the stand-up argument, almost a fight, Alexei had had with Ivan the previous day.
‘That boy is trouble,’ he had whispered. ‘He’s dangerous. Watch him—and watch your back when you’re with him. Never let him win.’
And this was the man who could take over the throne—unless he stopped him.
Moving to the window, he looked down into the street to see Ria’s tall, slim
Would she fight him on this? Would she try once more to persuade him? Dear God, was he almost tempted by the thought that she might? Fiercely he fixed his gaze on the darkness beyond the window. A darkness in which he could see the faint reflection of her shape, the pale gleam of her skin, the dark pools of her eyes. The silence that followed his words was total, and it dragged on and on, it seemed, stretching over the space of too many heartbeats.
But then at last he saw her head drop slightly, acknowledging defeat. She turned one last look on him, but clearly thought better of even trying to speak as she twisted on her heel and headed for the door, slender back straight, auburn head held high.
It was only as the door swung to behind her, the wood thudding into the frame, that he realised how unconsciously he had used exactly the words that she had thrown at him in their last meeting in Mecjoria ten years before. She had been the one to turn and walk away then too, marching away from him without a backward glance, taking with her the last hope he had had.
Recalling how it had felt then, it was impossible not to remember all he had ever wanted and now could never have—all over again. He had wanted to belong, damn it, he’d tried. He’d thought that when his parents had reconciled that at last he’d found the father, the family, he’d always wanted. But his father’s illness had meant that he had never had the time to make a reality out of that dream. It had all crumbled around him.
But this time it had been his own decision to throw it all away. He had had his revenge for the way she and her family had treated him, turning the tables on her completely and reversing the roles they had once had. It should have been what he wanted. It should have provided him with the sort of dark satisfaction that would have made these last ten years of exile and of struggle finally worthwhile. But the troubling thing was the uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach that told him that satisfaction was the furthest thing from what he was feeling. If anything, he felt emptier and hungrier than ever before.
The royal document still lay on his desk where he had dropped it, and for a moment he let himself touch it, resting his fingers on the ornate signature next to the dark-red seal. The signature of his grandfather. King of Mecjoria.
King.
Just four letters of a word but it seemed to explode inside his head. Ria had offered him the chance to return to Mecjoria, not just as himself—but as its king.
It was ironic that Ria claimed to have come here today to ask him to take the crown—to be King of Mecjoria when all that her appearance had done was to bring home to him how totally unsuited he was for any such role. He had failed as a prince, but that had been as nothing when compared to his failure as a father. But she thought that she could persuade him that he was needed in her homeland.
Her homeland. Not his.
But then she had said that the only alternative was for Ivan to be king. What a choice. Poor Mecjoria. To be torn between a bully boy and a man who knew nothing at all about being a royal—let alone running a country. His father’s country.
His father must be spinning in his grave at just the thought.
And yet his father had had Ivan sussed even all those years ago. From the corners of his memory came the recollection of a conversation—one of the very rare conversations—he had had with his dying father. Weak, barely able to open his eyes, let alone move, his father had known of the stand-up argument, almost a fight, Alexei had had with Ivan the previous day.
‘That boy is trouble,’ he had whispered. ‘He’s dangerous. Watch him—and watch your back when you’re with him. Never let him win.’
And this was the man who could take over the throne—unless he stopped him.
Moving to the window, he looked down into the street to see Ria’s tall, slim
Similar Books
