Eleanor's POV
"Wear it?" I repeated, my voice a mixture of disbelief and horror. I took another step back. "Do you think I'm stupid enough to put that thing on my head?"
"It is your birthright," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You must wear it."
"And if I don't?" I challenged, my chin lifting. "You can't force me."
His face, or what little I could see of it, was stern, set in grim lines. But I felt it, a strange certainty in my gut—he wasn't going to try. I didn't know why, and I refused to dwell on the reason. Some instinct, some unwanted connection, told me he wouldn't cross that line.
"I will not force you," he conceded, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "I don't need to. You will wear it anyway, Eleanor. In time."
He turned then, cradling the stolen crown against him as if it were a holy relic. He took a few steps away, but paused at the edge of the shattered display. He looked back over his shoulder, his hidden gaze finding mine in the light.
