Jackline was frozen to the spot, a deer caught in the path of a storm. Christopher. In her chamber. He had never once crossed this threshold since their rushed, cold marriage. And the look on his face—it wasn't just anger; it was an inferno of barely contained rage. The way his icy blue eyes locked onto hers sent a primal shiver down her spine, a terror that made her feel, absurdly, guilty. Had she done something wrong? The thought was ridiculous, yet it persisted under his relentless gaze.
"Chris," Damaris finally broke the charged silence, annoyance evident in every syllable. "You don't just badge in like that. We are currently in the middle of a rather delicate selection process."
Finally, Christopher's gaze tore away from Jackline's pale, flushed face. He shifted his focus to Damaris, taking a slow, deliberate step into the room, his presence instantly shrinking the space. "Selection of what?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
Damaris frowned, a petulant twist of her lips. "The Queen was about to make her choice for a royal consort." She gestured lazily toward the assembled figures, who now had their eyes downcast, the earlier confidence replaced by palpable awkwardness. "But since you're here, perhaps you can assist her in making her decision."
Christopher's jaw tightened. He knew this was how Damaris was, but the audacious idea of her parading potential lovers before his wife, in his own palace, while he was king—it ignited something deep within him, a dark, possessive anger he had no wish to examine. The thought of Jackline choosing a man, any man, to warm her bed made his blood boil.
He stopped in the center of the room, turning his gaze on the naked men and women. He assessed them one by one, a cold, clinical look in his eyes," Neither is worthy." he said simply, dismissively.
Jackline remained a silent observer throughout this bizarre exchange, watching as the two people who ostensibly ruled her life debated the quality of potential 'consorts' for her. The absurdity of it all, of them choosing someone to pleasure her as if she were a piece of property, made her blood simmer beneath the surface.
"What do you mean?" Damaris huffed, pouting her lips like a spoiled child. "I picked only the finest. The most skilled in the realm."
"Both of you," Christopher's voice was sharper now, a command that brokered no argument, directed at the men and women who had spoken earlier. "Out."
They needed no further instruction. They scrambled, picking up their robes in a hurry, their earlier bravado shattered. They fled the room without a backward glance.
"Christopher, you can't dismiss them like that," Damaris argued, folding her arms across her chest. "It is the Queen's choice! Royal protocol dictates—"
"You too, Damaris. Out."
Jackline wasn't surprised. That's what Christopher was good at: dismissing people, asserting his authority with the cold finality of the King. Damaris glared at him, a storm in her brown eyes, but the force of his gaze was too much even for her. She swept out of the room, leaving the door ajar.
Silence descended, heavy and absolute, save for the frantic pounding of Jackline's own heart.
Then, Christopher turned his full attention back to her. His eyes were no longer cold; they were burning, intense blue fire. He began to walk towards her, slowly, deliberately. Jackline's breath hitched in her throat, and she couldn't help but flinch with every measured step he took. The air crackled with a tension she couldn't name. She knew she owed him no explanation for anything that happened in her own chambers, but a deep, confusing sense of guilt washed over her, making her feel as though she had committed the worst possible transgression.
"I didn't…" she started, backing away a single step as he advanced, her voice weak and strained.
Christopher interrupted her, closing the final distance between them, his towering presence overwhelming her senses. His voice was a low snarl, laced with an anger that felt profoundly personal.
"Why's your cheeks red, Princess? Did you enjoy the show?" The thought of her even glancing at the consorts made the rage within him surge, the instinct to claim what was his overriding all logical thought.