Page 111 of A Game of Veils

I meet her eyes in the darkness, searching for the gleam of defiance and passion I know she still has in her. “It matters to me. I mean that. Not as any kind of ploy, just because it’s true. You deserve better than anything that prick can offer you. I’ll still believe that even if you never kiss me again.”

Her face tightens. “How can it matter when I can’t choose anything else in the end anyway?”

The faintest quaver runs through the words, a hint of sadness that wrenches at my heart.

Before I can come up with an answer, Aurelia brushes past me and strides off toward the palace.

All I can do is stare after her, feeling more beaten than any opponent in the arena has ever left me.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Aurelia

At the first glimpse of flame-red hair coming around the bend in the stairs below, I nearly halt in my tracks.

But why should I give ground to Fausta? As hazy as my memories of our drunken argument yesterday are, I know what I said was true.

She's harassed and attacked me because she recognizes that I'm a threat. She's afraid of me.

I'll be damned if I'm going to let her believe I'm at all scared of her.

I continue down toward the second floor, not planning on sparing her even a glance, though I'm monitoring her carefully at the edge of my vision. But Fausta stops, moving to the side as if she means to block my way.

I pause and peer down at her, unwilling to push for an altercation. "Excuse me."

Fausta meets my gaze unwaveringly, her bright green eyes as hard as the emeralds they resemble. "I don't think I will."

For the sake of all that's holy, will this woman never give up?

I hold in my exasperation. "I didn't set out to make you my enemy. I have nothing against you." Other than the injuries she's already dealt me. But it was Marclinus who put us at odds.

It doesn't appear my rival cares about that fact. She ascends another step. "You didn't need to come here at all. You have so much, Princess. This is my only chance to be something more than the wife of an ineffectual nobleman."

What does she think my other options would have been?

I swallow hard. "He asked for my hand. He invited me here."

Fausta scowls. "Do you even actually want him? I've known Marclinus since I was a toddler. I know exactly what he needs in a wife, and I'll enjoy offering it. All you see is his crown."

That isn't entirely accurate, but the kernel of truth in her words pricks at me.

She makes it sound so simple. She has no idea the responsibilities resting on my shoulders, the grief and suffering of an entire country I'm carrying with me.

Her comment about “ineffectual noblemen” proves that she wants to stand beside him for his power just as much as I do. How many people would that power benefit in her hands besides herself?

“There’s only one imperial heir,” I say, “and he’ll decide what he wants for himself. How many marchions and viceroys could you have chosen from and still stayed right here in the palace?”

Fausta takes one more step up so she’s just below me on the staircase. “Why should I have to settle for anything less than you would? What makes you more deserving than I am? Because you happened to be lucky enough to be born a princess?”

The thread of pain in her voice sends a pang through me. Our respective titles are a mere matter of chance.

Before the brief flicker of compassion can fully take hold, Fausta rams her knee into my shin, just inches from where she fractured the bone three days ago.

I gasp, my leg buckling, but through the blaze of agony I manage to shove out before Fausta can land another blow. My push sends her stumbling across the stairs.

We glare at each other for several thuds of my heart, my hand clutching the railing and my weight shifted onto my better leg. My other arm rises defensively in case she launches herself at me again.

Fausta must judge it too great a risk to attack me when I’m prepared. She offers a sharp little smile and minces on up the stairs past me without a backward glance. “May the best of us win.”

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