“So you don’t want it? You’ve been pretty focused on it ever since your father told you that he was taking you out of the line of succession.”
“Of course I’m focused on it. My whole life has been about preparing to sit on that throne.”
“You say that like it’s fact, but not everything is about the throne.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“It is easy for me to say, because it’s the truth. I know it’s not easy for you to hear that there’s more to life than being king—”
“Not my life! My life has always been about being king!” I shove to my feet and start to pace. “It’s not about what I want.”
I spit out the words, sharp as glass. “It’s never been about something as simple as want. Being king is my duty. It’s my obligation. My whole education, my entire life, has been about being worthy enough to wear that crown.”
For long seconds, Michael doesn’t say anything. Instead, he pours a cup of coffee while he lets my words—and the emotions that generated them—hang in the air around us. And hang they do, until I can feel them crawling across my skin, hear them echoing deep inside of myself.
“You were abducted because of that crown.”
I roll the statement around in my head, looking for pitfalls. For land mines. “Yes.”
“You were tortured because of that crown.”
“I was tortured because my captors were sadistic fucks who wanted to see if they could break me.”
“But they didn’t.”
“No.” Even if most of the time it feels like they did.
“What they did to you was because of who they were, but the fact that it was you they did it to? That was because of who you are.” He leans forward and picks up his coffee cup. “That was because of the crown. Because of a seven-minute accident of birth.”
“Are you trying to make me hate myself? Or my brother?”
“I’m trying to figure out how you feel about yourself and how you feel about being king.”
“I already told you how I feel about it.”
“You told me why you think you should be king—”
“Why I know I should be king.”
He inclines his head. “Okay. Why you know you should be king. But how does that make you feel?”
Rage slams through me. “Are you fucking kidding me with this? How does it make me feel? Should we all hold hands now and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”
“Interesting that that’s the image that comes to you when I ask about your feelings.”
“Would you prefer I throw a temper tantrum like some bad-mannered child?”
“Hell, yeah.”
“What?” I shake my head, trying to figure out if I heard wrong. “You want me to throw a fit?”
“I’d say you’re about nine months overdue. Despite everything you’ve been through, despite all the pain you’ve suffered and everything you’ve lost, you’ve never thrown a temper tantrum. Never slammed your fist into a wall. You’ve barely even raised your voice.”
“What good would it do? Me being out of control isn’t going to help Wildemar and it sure as hell isn’t going to convince my father that I’m capable of ruling, so what’s the point?”
“The point is that walling up your anger isn’t healthy.”
“Who says I’m angry?”