UNWANTED

CHAPTER 9 - SOS4.7 - LIZAVETA

My heart was pounding inside my chest, and the vein on my temple was throbbing. I didn't know what to think. Traitor. Onus. Those were the two things that rang inside my head like the church bells that echoed again and again from dawn to dusk on my birth.

The pounding inside my brain felt like an automatic rifle against bullet-proof glass- not enough to break me, but enough to leave damage, enough to break me soon.

Onus.

The curly haired boy was-

Traitor.

The killer of my grandfather was-

Ilyaas whispered to me. "Are you okay?"

I swallowed. "My mouth is dry." Breaths were hard to come by, but I kept my mouth shut to preserve some moisture at least. Why was I nervous? Before the deaths of all the heirs to the damn crown, I was ready for this destiny.

"Hey..." Ly turned me to face him. "Breath."

I did. "Do you think they'll like me?" I tried distracting him.

"Is that really why you're scared?" He was skeptical, but he gave in. "I don't know. I don't know them."

I just nodded, my hands tracing the tight bodice of the dress, willing myself to breath in a little deeper. The square neckline gave me room to breathe, but the sleeves made me sweat, and the skirt was too voluminous, and a bit too short for my liking.

"But it doesn't matter if they like you or not. Doesn't matter if they call you Onus because of your hair. You're the empress." Ly took my hands from my waist and held them in his own. "All of them will want you... and you only have to pick who you want."

"Why can't I just marry you?" I said with a sigh. This conversation was already old. I always asked. It would be so easy to love him.

"Because goddesses don't marry mortals."

I slapped his arm. He actually got a smile out of me.

"Are you ready? The runner will take you to the National Gallery." Uncle Hassan asked. "You're nervous?"

I nodded. "How many will there be? Two today..."

"Five types." He showed me his outstretched fingers as he counted them off one by one. "Second sons of existing monarchies, first sons of non-problematic extinguished monarchies, sons of world leaders, sons of billionaires, and then people who have excelled in politics, sports, the sciences or art in the age range of eighteen to twenty-three. We narrowed it down to thirty."

Thirty. My husband was there.

I eventually decided to sit down. We were at the second-floor balcony at the southern gates of the house, with the runner underneath us, it's engine silent if not only for a small thrum. "I don't want to go yet." I stared at the runner, looking like a white pill - the carriage to take me to one of my possible future husbands.

"It's not that bad. When I had mine, the girls were lovely." Uncle Hassan remarked.

"How did it go?" I had to keep the conversation going, or else I'd have to go.

"Well for your father and I, we had our coming-of-age at twenty-one. I had I think fifty girls, and your father about the same. Mine was only cut short because on the third day I came out as gay and renounced my claim to the throne."

"You said it wasn't bad." I had my hand to my temple by this time. "And father's?"

"He was a military man, much like you actually, so the girls were quite excited." He came over and started playing with my hair. "It only lasted five days since he admitted he was already dating your mom in college. It was horrendous, the women were angry... your grandfather bought them all the best runners each to keep them from saying anything bad about your Abbu."