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“I know it sounds ridiculous.”
It did. Particularly given that a moment ago she’d been extolling the Santoro family’s virtues, and he knew those virtues included loyalty. Yet the fact she felt it was a possibility sparked more questions inside of him, questions they’d agreed not to ask and answer because it was too heavy for what they were. But the limitations of that were starting to frustrate him.
Nonetheless, he had to respect the rules they’d drawn up—they served them both, not just Sofia. He put an arm around her shoulders, instead of asking the questions he had, and drew her to him, pressing a soft kiss against the top of her head.
Whether it wasa combination of the whisky, the walking, the number of orgasms she’d enjoyed (she suspected that was the reason), or the fresh air, Sofia had, indisputably, the best sleep of her life. Ever since the accident, she was plagued with that very specific memory. Usually, she woke at least once in the night and watched it all happening again, wondering if she could scream and stop it, wondering if she could run and slow things down. Wondering what she, at nine, might have been able to doto stop the car from hitting her father and sending his body flying through the air? It was an awful memory to have, awful for how vivid it remained, and how frequently it tormented her, but out here, in Ares’s arms, it finally seemed to have loosened its grip a little.
She remembered putting her head on the inflatable pillow, closing her eyes, and then waking, nine hours later, to find herself alone in the tent.
Disappointment snaked through her as she sat up and looked around. She stood, reaching for the lightweight blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders, clasping it in the middle as she stepped out of the tent and searched for him. Perhaps he was using the facilities?
She picked her way towards the fire, smiling as she remembered the way they’d sat up late, talking about nothing in particular, flames casting them both in shades of gold and orange, and she sighed because she was actually enjoying herself.
Far from hating hiking, this was turning out to be some of the best times Sofia could remember having.
But was it the hiking, or the man she was hiking with?
Something stammered in her chest at the thought of that, at the thought of letting anyone become important to her. Mean something to her. Have the power to hurt her.
But wasn’t that what was happening? Wasn’t that the risk here? More so than with anyone else she’d been with, because then, it had been easy to walk away. Because of geography? Or because she’d never been with anyone who interested her enough to make her want to stay?
A movement caught her attention, and she glanced across to see Ares, walking from the woods.
He glanced across at her, their eyes met, and the sinking feeling in her stomach got worse.
“You’re up,” his voice, deep and gruff, rumbled through her body, sinking into her bones.
“Yep.” Her voice sounded brittle. She forced a bright smile. “I slept like the dead.”
“I’m glad. You must have needed it.”
She nodded. He had no idea.
He came close, and her stomach twisted.
“Hungry?”
She nodded, but that wasn’t why her stomach was getting tangled in knots. Something had shifted inside Sofia, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. While she was enjoying herself here, she felt the pressing of danger, like a blade at her back, and she didn’t know how to evade it.
They talked about Moricosia some more, while they ate, and Sofia was glad to be able to mostly listen as Ares dipped into the fascinating history and cultural richness of the country. Before long, her tension was dissipating, because he spoke in such a way that turned the past into a vivid story, playing out before her eyes. He pointed to buildings in the city, far beneath them, describing battles that had been staged there, or sieges, and then, an assassination of a King in the seventeenth century.
“And that’s how my family came to the throne,” he wiggled his brows and she smiled.
“Seriously?”
He dragged a hand over his jaw. “It’s a long line.”
“Wow.” She blinked at him, trying to imagine what that must feel like, and then drawing a blank. “You’re saying someone from your family has been a King of Moricosia for that long?”
He nodded. Sofia leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “How old are you, Your Highness?”
One corner of his mouth tilted upwards. “Twenty-eight.”
She angled her head a little. “Do you feel pressure to get married and have little royal children of your own, to make sure the line isn’t broken?”
“I have younger siblings,” he pointed out, not answering the question.
Which was their deal, she reminded herself, trying to ignore the frustration curling inside her belly. And failing.
