Strike at Midnight(94)

Of course he did. I should have known.

“He was the one who told me to speak with the Royal Court before racing off to find you,” he continued. “And he was also the first to argue with the Royal Court when they tried to talk me out of potential scandal in dragging my betrothed out of the jailhouse. They thought it would be bad for our public image, but my father didn’t hesitate in calling on his own authority when they became very oppressive about it.”

That surprised me, and I had to wonder why the hell his father was fighting my corner and pushing his son into a commitment with someone like me.

“I can’t marry you, Andrew,” I said, and then I realized that I had sherry in my hands and it was time for me to use it. I knocked it back and then leaned down to put the glass on the floor. You can take the girl out of Lower City, but you can’t take Lower City out of the girl.

“Look,” he said, gently turning me to face him. “I know I have pressured you into something you’re not ready for,” he said before I could say anything further. “And I want you to know that I will wait for as long as you need to be comfortable with the idea of you being with me if that’s what you need…”

“It’s not that,” I said, biting down on my lip. “I can’t marry you, Andrew. Ever.”

“Why not?” he asked, and I tried to give him what he needed. I really did. But everything I thought of and played out in my head just sounded insulting.

“Because I’m not good enough for you,” I tried weakly, not knowing if I had the fight in me anymore to back away.

“That’s not true,” he said, leaning forward to push back a tendril of hair behind my ear. “Why do you put yourself down so much?”

“I don’t put myself down,” I said, snatching my hand out of his. “I am proud to be who I am. But it is not right for a prince to be looking in my direction. Surely you know this.”

“I know I want to be with you, Rella. Because of who you are.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough,” he said quietly. “And I know I’ve never had a reaction to anyone like this. Ever. In my life.”

“Neither have I,” I had to admit, and I really had to pat myself on the back for the shit job I was doing in telling him to get lost.

“Then why can’t that be enough?” he asked. “Why don’t you want to be with me?”

“I can’t be shackled, okay?” I snapped. “Not again. Never again.”

“How would you be shackled by being with me?” he asked with a confused look on his face. I stood up so I could pace against the anger and frustration that were welling up inside of me.

“The rules, the propriety, the manners,” I listed off to him. “The gowns, the balls, the bullshit hypocrisy? I refuse to be shackled by that and lose the person I have fought hard to become. I can’t lose that,” I said, and I wanted to give myself a good old slap when my voice broke on the last word.

He came to stand in front of me and he put two hands on my shoulders to stop me from wearing out the carpet.

“What do you mean?” he asked softly as if I was ready to bolt. “Talk to me.”

Honesty. He wanted honesty. Well, I supposed nothing else had bloody well worked. I might as well try the truth. Fingers crossed I wouldn’t get arrested again in the freaking process.

“I may have actually killed a man,” I said quickly, and the words felt clunky and awkward as they left my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes at the memory of my past, and I shrugged my shoulders out of his hold so I could sit back down. “A long time ago.”

“And that’s the reason you don’t want to marry me?” he asked, sitting back on his own chair to give me my space. “What happened?”

“His name was Kaleb,” I said, and my head was still resisting in trying to share something that had stayed closed off in my heart for a very long time. It didn’t want to open the gate, but I suppose I owed the prince that much. “He was the cook’s son, and he thought…” This wasn’t working. It didn’t make sense. I needed to start at the beginning.

“I am a baron’s daughter, and I come from the village of Deleya. My real name is Ariella Defonte,” I said, and I let the words of my real name float over me as the rest of the story tumbled out of my mouth. “My mother lovingly named me Cinderella because I would often fall asleep in front of the fire while reading. She would discover me covered with ashes from the fire and she thought the pet name suited me.” I laughed. “She was such a kind and loving woman. I adored both her and my father.”

“What happened to them?” the prince asked, and I answered automatically, refusing to look at him.

“My mother died from an illness when I was eleven, and not long after my father thought it wise to remarry. He felt I needed another mother.” I scoffed at my own words. “If only he knew.”

He was quiet and patient as he waited for me to continue with my story.

“He died only six months after his new marriage,” I said, “leaving me behind with my stepmother and her two daughters. They weren’t nice people.”

“Did they not treat you well?”

I laughed, but it was tinted with anger and bitterness. There was no mirth behind it whatsoever.