Page 120 of Consort's Glory
It was that which made Marcus du Soleil, one of the most powerful men in the UTA, consider himself her father.
Considering Margot’s biological father had never been around — too flighty, too caught up in his research, not ready to be a parent until recently, when he married an arrant professor and welcomed a son with all the baffled joy of a man who acted as though he didn’t already have a child — it was… strange to be the focus of real paternal scrutiny.
Nearing the private, guarded entrance to the waiting area where the rest of the Solbournes, Petra, and Viktor mingled, Margot was unsurprised when Marcus pulled them to a gentle stop in a shadowed alcove.
Turning to face her, he said, “Before we go in, I wanted to speak with you privately.”
Margot raised her eyebrows, girding herself for some fresh revelation. Perhaps seeing the resigned dread on her face, the smallest, wryest smile twisted the corners of Marcus’s mouth. “Don’t worry. I don’t have any bad news for you. I just want to be sure this is what you really want to do.”
Her first response was annoyance. Margot had lost track of the number of people who asked her whether or not she really wanted to be with Theodore. Every single du Soleil had asked her that exact question. She might have begun to snap at them, except she understood where their concern came from.
For one thing, the power imbalance between herself and Theodore, at least from the outside, was tremendous. For another… they really didn’t like the Solbournes.
Margot gave Marcus’s arm a tentative pat. “I do,” she answered. “I’m the one who asked him to marry me, remember?”
“Yes.” His eyes, pure amber, flicked to the marriage sigil branded between her eyebrows. “But that doesn’t mean there can’t be second thoughts.”
“Do consorts normally have second thoughts?”
The smallest grimace creased his mouth. “No.”
“Then you have your answer.” She examined his face, taking in the severe lines and ageless, mature quality of it, and felt a pang of pity for him. Tatiana, her faceless mother, was not Marcus’s consort. Theirs was a union built of practicality, but the way Olivier told the story, it sounded as though Marcus cared deeply for his partner.
And, despite being a stranger, she couldn’t dismiss the evidence that he cared deeply for her, too.
Wanting to show how much she appreciated that, Margot grasped his gloved hand between both of hers and gave it a small squeeze. “Can I ask… why do you disapprove of Theodore so much? It would mean a lot to me to understand where you’re coming from.”
Lines fanned out around Marcus’s eyes when he answered, “I don’t dislike your consort. We voted against him taking Delilah’s seat because he’s too young. His determination to take sovereignty seemed… troubling, in light of his father’s crimes.” Marcus surprised her by bringing their joined hands up to his lips for a soft kiss to her knuckles. His voice gentled, losing some of the forbidding quality that made her want to show him her perfect GPA. “However, if we had known his motivation was your safety and happiness, perhaps we would not have fought so hard.”
Lowering their hands, he gave her an imperious look that exactly mirrored his son’s. “Still, that does not excuse him from the fact that he did not properly court you, nor the fact that any self-respecting elf would seek permission from a family before moving their child into his territory.”
Margot sputtered. “But he didn’t even know who I was related to! And it wasn’t like it was normal circumstances.”
Tucking her hand back into the crook of his arm, Marcus stared down his nose at her. “All the same, you are a du Soleil. He will treat you like it or face the consequences.”
Her feelings on having gained so many new family members were complicated and contradictory, but that…
That felt nice.
The scene in the waiting room was strange, to say the least. Not simply because the alpha of the Merced pack was currently all but plastered to one wall, his back ramrod straight and his eyes riveted to a small, black-haired elvish woman across the room. Nor was it strange because High Priestess Petra Zaskodna stood beside Kaz, who looked viscerally uncomfortable in traditional elvish finery.
Impossibly, not even the sight of Delilah Solbourne and her world famous consort made the list of weirdest happenings.
It was the fact that the tiny elvish woman — tiny for an elf, anyway — stood toe-to-toe with Theodore, her svelte body vibrating with rage, as a young man stood behind her, a restraining hand on her petite shoulder.
“…think you’re doing, trying to interrogate my mother?!” she snarled, stomping one stiletto-clad foot. She wore a sheath of pure, ice blue silk with a high, mother of pearl buttoned collar and translucent sleeves. Her hair was shorn close to her head in a cut that emphasized her striking cheekbones and full mouth. She was lovely, except she was baring her fangs at Margot’s husband, and that was unacceptable.
“My mother had nothing to do with—”
A crack of pure electricity cut through the air, silencing whatever it was the woman was about to say. Every eye turned toward Margot, except, she noticed, Viktor’s.
Keeping her eyes locked on the elvish woman, Margot asked in her chilliest voice, “What’s going on here?”
Theodore stepped around the pair of what had to be siblings to extract her from Marcus’s light hold. Placing a hand low on her back, he grimly introduced them. “Darling, this is my cousin Camille and her brother Cameron. Cousins, this is my consort, Margot Goode.”
“Margot du Soleil Goode,” Olivier interjected, only a shade away from openly gleeful.
Shooting the young man a dark look, Theodore corrected himself. “Margot du Soleil Goode. My wife.”
