The Snow Prince - Raleigh Ruebins Page 0,36

through a snow bank four stories below us.

“Emma is great,” I said.

“Speak up, Sebastian, I never can hear when you mumble.”

“Everything is going perfectly,” I said louder, enunciating every word.

“Well, you don’t have to take a tone with me,” she complained, but I could tell she was satisfied that I’d given her the answer she’d been fishing for. “Emma is a lovely girl. You’re doing well.”

“Thanks for your approval,” I said. “Your next project should involve starting a matchmaker TV show.”

She raised an eyebrow at me, looking up to meet my eyes for the first time. “You’re sour this evening.”

I just sighed.

She looked back down at her stack of papers, signing and rapidly moving forward. “You’re comparing yourself to other people, aren’t you?”

“Me? Never,” I said, unable to keep the dripping sarcasm from my voice.

“We’ve talked about this—”

“Yes, mother, and my opinion hasn’t changed,” I said. “Of course I compare myself to other people. A lot of other people don’t have essentially arranged marriages. They can choose who they’d like to marry. They can date without their mother hovering over every move they make, especially if they’re well into adulthood as I am.”

She was tight-lipped. “You have never respected your legacy, and I’m not surprised to see it unchanged now.”

“I’ve respected my legacy for my entire life,” I said, more tired than anything. Tired of having this conversation in a million different ways, all the time, with my mother.

“During the meeting you did not attend last week, we were informed that the townspeople will no longer support Frostmonte with tax money within the next five years,” she said, her voice cold and clinical.

I furrowed my brow. “What? But they always have.”

“Indeed,” she said. “And that is coming to an end. Did you not read your briefing two mornings ago? I had James summarize the meeting for you.”

“Must have missed that one,” I said. I never read any of the internal royal briefings that my mother sent to my chambers.

“They’re voting on it next year.” She said the word voting as if it were a filthy slug. “And the vote does not look like it will fail.”

I sighed. “Frostmonte has enough inherited wealth already,” I said. “Too much. We don’t need the taxpayer money anyway.”

Her eyes locked onto mine. “We won’t need the taxpayer money if you marry the right wife.”

“So I’m supposed to marry Princess Emma just because she’s rich.”

“Because Beloria is one of the wealthiest kingdoms in history, yes,” my mother said. “And Frostmonte isn’t, anymore. We have plenty of money for the next five years. Ten, even. But think about your children, Sebastian.”

I shivered. It felt like she’d just shot a spike into my heart.

I really did want children. Badly. I wanted a family—a real one, with children who would be loved, and not treated as royal objects.

But I had no conception of how I would ever get there. For a long time, I’d only been able to picture raising kids alongside Henry. Nothing else felt right. I knew Henry would be an amazing father.

It was all pipe dreams, of course. There was no way I could ever be with him. Not only was he a man—the Frostmonte royal decrees all stated that I must marry a woman—but Henry was poor. A nobody.

He also hated my guts now. And he was right to.

So the idea of having children always stung. There was no chance I’d ever get to do it how I’d dreamed of.

“Sir?” I heard Genoveve’s voice float in from the entryway.

“Yes, Gen?”

“There is something waiting for you, when you have a moment.”

My mother waved a hand absentmindedly, her way of telling me I was released from this little meeting in her rooms.

“Go, spend time with her,” my mother said.

She thought I was being whisked away to go spend time with Princess Emma. But I could tell from the slight hesitancy in Genoveve’s voice that whatever was ‘waiting for me,’ it wasn’t the princess.

I walked out alongside Gen, feeling myself relax with every step we took further away from my mother’s room. She whisked me off in an unexpected direction, toward the kitchens.

“Here he is,” Genoveve said, gesturing as we turned and walked into one of the service loading dock entryways downstairs.

My heart skipped a beat. I saw Henry, his hands behind his back in handcuffs, leaning back against a wall flanked by three of the castle guards. Henry was scowling but not struggling, and he gave me a bitter glare as I saw him.

“We picked him