65.1
Kev
“Won’t you please excuse us for a moment?” my father asks. He stands with his back turned toward me on the other side of the library, the first room far away enough from the ballroom to be assured of privacy. The royal physician hovers over me, pulling at my forehead as he does a cursory examination.
“I’m fine,” I say, an edge in my voice. “Is Isabel all right? She fainted.”
“She’ll be okay,” Doctor Evanston says. “You’re going to need a few stitches above your eyebrow. I can do it, but to minimize scarring, I think we should call in a plastic surgeon.”
“Plastic surgeon,” my father scoffs. “Is my son going to bleed to death in the next few minutes?”
“Of course not, Your Royal –“
“Then won’t you please give us a few minutes.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The door shuts, leaving my father and I alone in the room. I know what he’s going to say. I can already anticipate it.
I should be embarrassed, ashamed of myself for displaying utter and complete lack of royal bearing.
I should be worried about Isabel’s ex-fiancé’s accusation that Isabel and I are together.
I should be concerned about what my father will think. Or what Isabel’s mother will think. Or what the public will think.
But I don’t fucking care.
“What the hell were you thinking?” my father asks. He doesn’t look at me.
“I was thinking that Isabel’s ex is an asshole who deserved to be punched in the mouth for the shit he was saying about her.”
My father turns around slowly. “You are not eighteen,” he bellows. “You’re not a child. And you’re not a normal person. How long is it going to take you before you understand that? You’re a prince. Getting into a bar room brawl in the middle of a charity event is not something that a member of the royal family of Venici does. It’s not something the Crown Prince of Venici does!”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say sarcastically.
“What in the world would possess you to do such a thing?” he asks. “All of the things you’ve done, the tabloid headlines and filth they’ve printed in the papers – I thought you’d left that all behind when you joined the Army.”
“He called her a cunt,” I spit. My father flinches at the crudeness of the word. I wonder if anyone’s ever said the word cunt in front of the King of Venici before. I guess there’s a first time for everything in life, isn’t there?
Some part of me, a warped part, finds that amusing.
I think I might be a little delirious.
“I don’t care what he called her,” my father says. “Did you even stop to think for a moment before you hit him? Prince Kevin of Venici assaults a guest of the royal family – it’ll be all over the newspapers tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry it’ll distract from the PR pieces about the wedding,” I say.
“I thought the Army changed you,” he continues. “I thought it instilled some sense of responsibility in you. But I can see that nothing’s changed at all. You’re still the same immature, irresponsible boy who has no appreciation for consequences – no appreciation for tradition and family and –“
I stand up, the blood rushing to my head. “What the hell would you have done, if some guy were saying things about mom?” I yell. “I’m supposed to stand there, while some asshole talks about Isabel that way?”
“It’s not the same thing,” he roars. “You’re not married to Isabella. She’s barely family, not even your stepsist –“
“She’s my wife!” I yell, rising to my feet, my hands balled into fists at my side. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins, anger surging through me, and I don’t realize what I’ve said until I hear the words, practically echoing in the space between us.
She’s my wife.
Shit.
This is a bell that can’t be un-rung.
My father stands there unmoving, just looking at me. For a minute, I think he’s so angry, he’s going to hit me. I’ve rarely seen my father lose his temper, hardly ever deviating from the staid and steadfast King that he is.
But right now, he’s angry. Really angry.
“What exactly are you talking about?” he growls. His face is crimson. I’ve never seen him this upset.
Yet I can’t seem to stop the words that come out of my mouth. I could take them back. I could simply say that I misspoke. But I don’t want to. I want him to know.
“Isabel and I,” I say. “I married her. We are married.”
