She stared at him, a mud-caked, shivering mess of defiance, a stark contrast to his pristine white shirt and impassive, perfect face. The rain plastered her dress to her body like a second skin, her hair a wild, dark red halo around her flushed face.
"Then why don't you do it yourself?" she spat, the words a challenge laced with venom. "You are enjoying this, aren't you?"
His expression didn't change, the mask of indifference firmly in place. "You made a challenge in my court, Princess. You offered yourself for punishment. I merely accepted your terms." His voice was flat, the logic of it a cold, hard weapon.
"This is absurd! You can't humiliate me like this, I am the queen!"
"And I the King," he countered, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You put on a show in the throne room, a stupid little display of defiance and wit. Now you face the consequences of challenging my authority in front of my court and my guard. Bravery can be a curse when reckless, and you, Princess..." He squatted with an easy grace that made a mockery of her struggle, bringing his cold blue eyes level with hers. "You are reckless."
The cruelty of his words, delivered with such a calm, beautiful indifference, cut deeper than any physical whip.
"I hate you, Christopher," she whispered, the hatred in her eyes a burning fire that the rain couldn't extinguish.
"And do you think I care?" he said, leaning closer, the proximity a physical force. His scent—cold night air, rain, and something ancient and dark—was a dizzying assault on her senses. "Now..." he stood up, his voice dropping to a low, rough growl, "the lesson for today is over. Go inside; we continue tomorrow." The implication of tomorrow hung in the air like a looming storm.
"Tomorrow?" She couldn't believe this man. "There is no tomorrow," she stood up, meeting his gaze. "I am not a dog to be ordered around!" she shouted, unable to hide the annoyance in her voice, the rain pouring down on them both, soaking them both to the bone.
He stared at her, the message in his icy blue eyes a clear and final command. He didn't need to shout, didn't need to physically move her. His sheer presence was enough, an overwhelming force of nature. The wind howled around them, the world a blur of rain and shadow.
"You know what, I think I'll stay here a little longer. I'm kind of enjoying it," she lied, a desperate, final attempt at an act of will.
"Suit yourself." He said, a dismissive shrug of his broad shoulders as he turned to walk away.
Jackline held her ground for another moment, a silent battle of wills in the driving rain. But she was freezing, exhausted, and knew she was outmatched.
As she tried to move, she slid and almost fell when Christopher suddenly caught her by the arm. "Don't touch me," she spat, pulling away with a jerk, only to slip again, the mud an unyielding enemy.
"You can't even stand straight," he said, a note of something almost like exasperation in his voice as he firmly held her waist to steady her.
Her hands instinctively went to his shoulders for balance, leaving a dark, muddy handprint on his pristine white shirt.
She cursed under her breath, a low, frustrated sound. "So now you care if I fall or not." She rolled her eyes, the sheer absurdity of the situation almost making her laugh.
She would rather drag herself on the mud than ask for his help, but even the dragging would be impossible because of the slipperiness of the earth. She wondered how he was able to stand straight with minimal effort, defying the very physics that defeated her.
Just then, she was picked up like a feather, as if she weighed nothing. Strong, cold hands beneath her knees and back. "Let me go!" she shouted, beating her fists against his solid chest, but the man kept on walking, ignoring her entirely until they were somewhere on the non-slippery, gravel path under the palace's eave.
He set her down none too gently. With a final, scathing glare, she turned and stumbled away, her white dress a sodden, muddy mess, a symbol of her current station. She left him standing there, a silent sentinel in the rain, watching her retreat.
"She's one feisty one," Alex chuckled, stepping into view as Jackline disappeared into the palace entrance.
Christopher didn't respond, his perfect face a mask again, but the words that kept ringing in his mind was the 'I hate you' from her. He didn't know why it bothered him. He watched her go, a small, red-haired spark in the darkness, a spark that was threatening to become a flame.
Jackline stumbled through the grand halls, leaving a trail of muddy footprints on the polished stone floors, a messy map of her defiance. She was soaked to the bone, shivering violently, but the rage in her heart was a furnace. She got in her chamber and looked at herself in the mirror, the mud all over her face and dress, a grotesque caricature of a queen. She couldn't help but laugh over and over again, a wild, hysterical sound like a crazy woman. She couldn't bring herself to accept what just happened, the total and utter humiliation she had endured at the hands of her husband.