The Fallen King | ✓

Chapter 30

The place felt alive and it was almost as if I could feel the love of a whole family bundled together into one space, so different from the vacant coldness of my own family home. The brightest smile took over my face. "I think it's perfect," I said and meant it.

Axel looked at me then — really looked at me — and the happiness radiating from him as he gave me that signature Axel grin was enough to render me breathless.

I stared right back, refusing to break eye contact even if my words were caught in the back of my throat and I felt far too much like mush to articulate a proper sentence. Our eyes were locked in a silent battle, neither of us willing to yield as we both leaned in, our faces mere inches apart.

I could feel his warm breath on my face. It sent comforting tingles down my spine, all the way to my toes and I was sure he felt it too by the way his hand found mine — after I'd somehow, without realising, let it rest on his knee — and gripped it tightly.

However, before I could close the distance, I saw hesitancy momentarily flash through his eyes. The rejection burned through my heart like corrosive acid but I wasn't going to force something on him that he didn't want. Immediately, I pulled away, refusing to look at him as I moved my hair in front of my shoulders to try to mask my red cheeks.

I must've been reading the signs wrong. Idiot, Harper. Idiot. The kernel of hope in my chest diminished as the seconds ticked by and it took everything within me to not bolt for the door and run as far away as possible but I wasn't a coward and I wouldn't start now. Zack would never have let me hear the end of it.

Thankfully, I was spared any further embarrassment by the sound of footsteps, followed by the front door opening, the hinges squeaking in protest. "Alexander! Joseph! Je suis á la maison!"

A tall woman — maybe 5'11 — with slightly damp, pin-straight, inky black hair, chestnut brown eyes and light brown skin stood in the doorway, shrugging off a massive wool overcoat. Her features were sharp and eye-catching and the way she carried herself, it was as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. I would have guessed she was in her late twenties but the look in her eyes coupled with that weight told her real age. It was as if she had already experienced eight lifetimes and troubles I couldn't even begin to imagine; all that knowledge hidden within. She seemed exhausted as she hung up her beige coat on the coat rack yet somehow also focused as if each move was solely to complete the task at hand.

Axel was quick to get up from my side, striding over to her to grab the shopping bags she carried. "Bonjour maman," he greeted warmly, hugging her before he started speaking to her in rapid French and moving to put groceries away in the kitchen.

My French was good but even I was struggling to keep up with the pace at which they were conversing, especially when they threw in — what I thought were — colloquialisms that I was unfamiliar with. The gist of it was mainly about her day and what she'd been up to but I was more focused on the fact that this was Axel's mother rather than their conversation. The two looked so alike except for the fact that Axel's skin was a shade lighter and his eyes were much darker despite their partially golden hue. They had the same plump lips, the same straight nose, the same high cheekbones. The eye and brow shapes were slightly off and the jaws were different yet they were both still striking. It was obvious where Axel had gotten his good looks from. This woman was stunning.

As if she could feel me gawking at her, she turned and finally noticed where I was sitting, feeling so out of place in her home. She gave me a curious look, it wasn't rude or judgemental but it felt like she was staring into my soul as she quirked a thick, shaped brow at me. "And who might you be?" she asked, her French accent only mild when speaking English.