Page 131 of War Queen
“I’m sure she’s being polite,” Soren assured him.
“Oh, she’s quite enjoying herself. She says he’s a beautiful man.”
Soren chuckled. That he was. “You know she means nothing by it.”
“No, I know. And I don’t mind. Especially as she’s trying to convince me that he’s good enough for you.”
Soren’s heart stopped, and he struggled to force his breath calm and silent. He looked across the torchlit city. Had he heard him correctly?
“She says he’s beautiful and smart and makes people happy, and he’s good with a sword.” Mikael turned and looked at him. “But you don’t even like happy.”
Soren turned, and their eyes locked. He knew.Mikael knew.Soren searched his face for judgment, disapproval—disgust, even. He found none of those things. Emotion breached the walls he fought so desperately to hold in place, and he broke away to blink it back. He looked back out at the city, gripping the balcony railing. “Maybe I’m starting to,” he said hoarsely.
Mikael turned and leaned his back against the rail. Their eyes locked again. His gaze was penetrating, and Soren could barely hold it. Just as he was about to break, Mikael said, “He better make you pretty damned happy, then.” He cuffed the top of Soren’s shoulder and left to return inside.
Soren gripped the rail so tight his knuckles whitened. He couldn’t breathe. He reached up and ripped the wrap from his face and sucked in the icy air. Mikael knew. He knew about Phillip.
More—he knew about Soren; he knew who he was.
Soren cursed under panting breaths. He had to pull himself together. He wiped his face with his hands.
“Are you going to stand out here all night?” Salara said, coming up behind him.
He straightened and sucked in another breath of winter. Wiping his face again, he quickly composed himself and pulled up his wrap. “Aren’t you supposed to be dancing?” he asked as coolly as he could manage.
“Phillip’s free now if you’d like a twirl about.”
He snorted.
She clasped the railing beside him and rocked against it. “I saw Mikael out here.”
Of course she had. “You told him about me.”
She shook her head. “He’s always known.”
His pulse picked back up, and their stares locked. “How much?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
Soren grabbed her arm, pulling her still. “How much does he know?”
Her eyes darted back and forth between his, and ever so slightly, she winced. But he saw it. “Everything,” she whispered.
He could barely speak. “How I felt before?”
Silently, she nodded.
All this time?
He released her and leaned heavily against the rail, returning his gaze across the city. Mikael knew. He had known all along.
“But he loves you,” she said. “And he wants you to be happy. Like I do.”
He couldn’t reply. They only stood. Salara leaned against him—whether to steal some of his warmth or to comfort him, he didn’t care. He was glad she was there.
They stayed on the terrace awhile, until Salara squeezed his arm and then left him for the warmth inside. He stayed long after the activities died down inside, and after most had retired for the evening.
He only stood, breathing in the night. Mikael’s judgment, his disappointment, his rejection as his friend and now brother—these things had been Soren’s greatest fears—to lose Mikael’s love. But that hadn’t happened. And now something felt new. For the first time, he felt… free.
