Ruined (Ruined, #1)(22)

Cas stiffened as his mother gave her husband a poke in the ribs. The king just chuckled and slapped Cas on the shoulder. He wanted to strangle his father.

Cas glanced at Mary, but her gaze was downcast, her cheeks pink. He had no idea what to say that would make the moment any less awkward, so he said nothing at all as he turned and walked in the direction of her rooms. She followed him silently.

They reached her door and he pushed it open and stepped back, letting her enter first. The skirt of her dress brushed across his legs as she walked past him.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. It was deathly quiet, and the wooden floor creaked as Mary walked across it. She smoothed a hand over the skirt of her dress. Her hands shook, and her chest moved up and down too quickly, like she was on the verge of panicking.

“Would you rather not do this?” he asked softly.

Her eyes met his briefly, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of red. “I . . .”

He waited, but she didn’t finish the sentence. Her calm composure was crumbling right in front of him. Her hands shook harder, and she swallowed as if she was about to be ill.

“I would never make you do anything you don’t want to,” he finally said. “We’ve only just met each other. I understand if you want to wait.”

A sigh rolled through her body, and she nodded so enthusiastically he almost laughed. He’d never had sex with anyone, and doing it for the first time with a girl who looked as if she might vomit sounded miserable.

“May I ask a favor, though?” he asked. “Do you mind if I stay in here for a little while? I’d like my parents to think we consummated the marriage. We’ll never hear the end of it otherwise.” He could only imagine the comments from his father. He’d never live it down.

“Of course,” she said. “That’s a good idea, actually.” She gestured to the chair in the corner of the room, and he shrugged out of his coat as he walked over. He draped it on the back of the chair and sat down. She perched on the edge of the bed, rubbing her thumb over the necklace she always wore.

“You seemed to get along very well with that warrior. Iria,” he said, and she nodded. “What did you talk about?”

“Vallos. Her journey here. She’s nervous about how negotiations will go.”

“I don’t think Olso warriors get nervous,” he said with a laugh.

“Anxious, then. Not everyone is as tough as they appear, you know.”

“And not everyone is as weak as they pretend.” He sat back and cracked a knuckle.

“Are you referring to me?” she asked quickly.

“No, actually. It’s something my mother always says.”

“Oh.”

“Were you pretending to be weak?” he asked. “Because I’d hate to see you at full strength.”

Mary laughed loudly, without a hint of self-consciousness. She let go of something deep inside of her when she laughed.

“No,” she said. “I certainly have never had to pretend to be weak. But your mother is right. There’s a benefit to being underestimated.”

“I suppose there is. My father underestimated you at the Union Battle, that’s for sure. He didn’t even hide his surprise well.”

“Your father thinks there is no one greater than himself,” she muttered, then seemed to immediately realize what she had just said. She took in a sharp breath, her gaze snapping to his. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t—”

He burst out laughing. “Do you not like my father? Everyone loves my father.”

“Um . . .” She seemed to be searching for the right lie.

“You can tell me the truth,” he said, resting his elbows on his thighs and leaning forward. “We can have some secrets just between us.”

She hesitated, then finally said, “No,” barely above a whisper. “I’m not fond of him.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“It’s like he’s always putting on a show.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s always smiling. And being friendly.” She wrinkled her nose, her lips turning downward in the most hilarious expression he’d ever seen. It was like she was both disgusted and annoyed.

Cas rested his chin in his hand, thoroughly amused. “I hate it when people are friendly. It’s terrible.”

“No, I mean . . .” She laughed. “It doesn’t feel genuine. It feels like an act. Like it’s hard to tell who he really is?”

“Ah.”

“Does that make sense?”

“Perfect sense.” He held her gaze, a warm feeling invading his chest. Perhaps it was wrong to be delighted that she didn’t worship his father like the rest of the world. But he couldn’t help it.

“And your parents?” he asked softly.

Something in her expression shifted. “What about them?”

“What were they like?”

She grasped her necklace, thinking for a moment before answering. “My father was quiet. Everyone listened when he talked, because he didn’t do it very often.” She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “My mother was the exact opposite. My father used to say that she needed an audience, which was why she married him. He was always her audience.”