TORRID THRONE
THE FORBIDDEN ROYALS TRILOGY, #2
JULIE JOHNSON
Copyright © 2019 Julie Johnson
All Rights Reserved.
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No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference, and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.
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Cover design by: ONE CLICK COVERS
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CONTENTS
The Forbidden Royals Trilogy
Foreword
Preface
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Afterword
Playlist
About the Author
Also by Julie Johnson
THE FORBIDDEN ROYALS TRILOGY
DIRTY HALO
Book One
TORRID THRONE
Book Two
SORDID EMPIRE
Book Three
For T.S.
“Baby, I could build a castle
out of all the bricks they threw at me.
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And every day is like a battle
but every night with us is like a dream.”
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NEW ROMANTICS, TAYLOR SWIFT
My dear reader,
* * *
Grab your passport, pack your bags… because you’re about to step back into Germania. Brace yourself for more royal schemes, forbidden trysts, and fatal attractions as Emilia attempts to navigate her new world as the Crown Princess.
Please be aware that TORRID THRONE is not a standalone — it is the second book in THE FORBIDDEN ROYALS TRILOGY. If you haven’t already read the first installment, DIRTY HALO, please close your book, turn your cute butt around, and go back to start at the beginning. (Trust me, you don’t want to miss a minute of quality time with the infuriating, irresistible Carter Thorne.)
Before you dive in, I leave you with a final warning: like its predecessor, this book is a dark fairy tale intended only for adults. If you prefer your fairy tales without abundant cursing, machiavellian plotting, and hotter-than-sin sex, this story may not be for you.
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Non sibi sed patriae,
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Julie
PROLOGUE
I stare at the woman on the pedestal.
Her face a mask of composure.
Her eyes full of secrets.
Buried in grief for all she has lost.
Hardened by responsibilities recently claimed.
She steers with reins she’s barely gripped.
She keeps her seat without skill or surety.
A tainted legacy.
A torrid throne.
HUMAN NATURE IS A FICKLE THING.
To be honest, I’ve never fully understood why we function the way we do. Maybe that’s the reason I spent so many years studying psychology; I was trying desperately to figure out the inexplicable motives that have always driven mankind to war and feud and battle — whether on muddy medieval fields or in modern corporate boardrooms.
Our power struggles are the stuff of legends, recorded in novels and textbooks alike since the first ink hit parchment at the dawn of mankind. Whether it’s Brutus and Caesar or Arron Burr and Alexander Hamilton, history seems to repeat time and time again with alarming inevitability.
But I can’t help wondering…
Why?
We are the undeniable apex predators on this inconsequential blue-green planet. No other creature that shares our atmosphere poses even the inkling of a threat to our domination. By all accounts, we should feel secure. At peace. Uncontested and unrivaled in our role, with no foes to thwart us.
And yet…
In absence of a natural adversary, we have become our own greatest enemy. Whether through sheer boredom or self-sabotage, humans have evolved to kill each other. To push aside all chances for accord and take what we want, regardless of consequence, regardless of who we must crush to accomplish our own ends.
In the choice between armistice and all out war… we choose the bloodier option every time.
Perhaps we are naturally selfish — programmed on a molecular level to disregard harmony in favor of strife. Perhaps our own self-destructive tendencies are simply unavoidable. For who would ever choose to be at odds when they could be at peace? Who would want a life spent chasing after better cards, if instead they could be satisfied with their own hand?
It must be ingrained in our DNA — this tendency to seek out things we do not possess, rather than enjoying the ones we do. To always want what we can’t have — the more untouchable, the more desirable.
I told you: human nature.
How predictably fickle.
We manipulate. We maneuver. We set aside our scruples, our sense of conscience, our ill-fitted morality. We chase down those alluringly elusive end-games, heedless of the chaos that will unfold when we finally catch up. We lie and cheat and steal, maim and break and deceive.
And for what?
Power.
The power to rule.
To steer the fate of a nation.
To wear a crown.
To sit on a throne.
No matter if it’s already occupied by an unprepared girl who never wanted it in the first place…
CHAPTER ONE
“LONG LIVE KING LINUS!”
A crystal flute is poised at my mouth; I can feel the kiss of glass against my bottom lip as my fingers clench tighter around the stem, already anticipating the bubbling crispness of champagne on my tongue.
“Long live the king!”
The jubilant chants fill the air from all directions, until every chandelier hanging in the Great Hall of Waterford Palace is rattling like hail against cobblestone. The strangled exhale that sounds from my left is so faint, I’m not sure how I hear it over the din.
Such a small sound; such enormous consequences.
My wide, wild eyes cut to my father — resplendent in his coronation finery, the ornate crown gleaming atop his salt-and-peppered hair. I watch in horror as his cheeks mottle into a deathly purple hue, as his foaming lips part like a fish out of water, gasping uselessly for breath.
His champagne flute hits the dais a second before he does, splintering into a thousand razor-sharp pieces all around my feet. The shards tear into my skin as I fall to the platform and scramble to his side. They score my hands, pierce the thick tulle skirts of my ballgown like shrapnel from an explosion.
I ignore the welling blood; that pain is of little consequence, compared to the pain in my heart as I watch the poison take its deadly effect on Linus’ nervous system.
All around me, the room is in an uproar. Sounds assault my senses, but they seem dull and distant. Far removed from my spot up here on the platform. Yells of horror pierce the air, high-heeled feet scramble across shining marble floors, courtiers duck for cover and call out for whatever gods they pretend to worship.
I do not run.
I do not pray.
I do not look away from my father’s face.
I hold his stare until his eyes go glassy, the scream building in my throat until I can no longer contain it.
“HELP! PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP US!”
But there’s no one to help.
Nothing to be done.
Because… he’s gone.
The king.
Dead.
Before he ever truly got the chance to rule.
My father.
Dead.
Before I ever truly got the chance to know him.
My eyes drift from the pink-tinged froth at the corners of his gaping mouth to linger on the deep slash wounds in my own palms. I stare at the blood on my hands until I can no longer stomach the sight. My head cranes back, my lips divide, and I unleash my anguish on the world.
I scream until my throat goes raw, scream until the sound runs out, scream until—
“EMILIA!”
Someone is shaking me.
“Emilia! Emilia, wake up. You’re dreaming.”
The scream catches in my throat and turns to a sob as my mind spins through image after image, still bubbling fresh on the surface of my subconscious.
Linus… the poison… all that blood…
“Hey. Breathe.” Two large hands flex against the bare, sweat-slicked skin of my biceps, hard enough to jolt me fully awake. “Just breathe, Emilia.”
My breaths are coming so fast, I feel dizzy. Even after I snap out of the dream, disorientation lingers like a haze over my brain. Thoughts spin sluggishly, thick as syrup.
“Th- th- the champagne,” I gasp out, still hyperventilating. “It was— it was—”
“Listen to me — you’re safe. You’re fine. You’re in your bed. No one can get to you, Emilia. Do you hear me? No one will hurt you again.”
The voice is gruff but oh so familiar. I focus on its deep timbre and it instantly calms me, offering safe refuge from the potent terror of my own mind. When his hands tighten once more, I manage to crack open my eyelids and focus on him. As soon as I do, I’m trapped in a tractor-beam blue gaze.
My stomach jolts.
“Another nightmare,” Carter murmurs lowly, staring at me in the darkness. He’s so close I can make out the tiny scar that bisects his eyebrow; the bands of deeper blue that ring each of his irises, the faint stubble shadowing his jawline at this late hour. His hair is sleep-tousled, his chest bare, as though he leapt from bed after an abrupt awakening.
He must’ve heard me screaming through the wall.
Again.
It’s been a month since the night of the coronation, when a poison-laced champagne flute nearly killed my father. So nearly, in fact, I was certain he was dead as the King’s Guard rushed him to the nearest hospital. Certain I’d be left to mourn the loss of yet another parent… only this time, I’d have a crown on my head and a country to rule.
Talk about multitasking.
Each day, I thank my lucky stars that the doctors were able to reverse the paralytic effects of the poison. Impossible as it seems, Linus is alive. Weaker and frailer than before, to be sure… but miraculously, unquestioningly alive.
I just wish my subconscious would remember that small fact. As soon as my eyes slip closed at night, I’m back on that coronation platform: blood welling in my palms, glass slicing my gorgeous ballgown, chaos erupting as the king falls to the ground.
“You’re okay,” Carter assures again. “It was just a dream.”
Just a dream.
Just a dream.
Just a dream.
Just… four long weeks of waking sweat-drenched and screaming. I thought things would get better after enough time had passed, after Linus was released from the hospital and things returned to normal at the castle, but they haven’t. If anything, they’re worse than ever.
Bad enough to bring a man who absolutely hates me running to help…
As my breathing slows and awareness returns, I’m all too conscious of Carter’s presence beside me on the bed. Of the large, callused hands curled around my biceps. Of the narrow space separating our faces in the darkness. Of the smell of his skin — soap and bourbon and spice — washing over me like a drug.
I suck in a sharp breath.
This is the closest we’ve been in weeks. Since that awful, wonderful night in the greenhouse, when we crossed an unspeakable line. Since we—
No.
I don’t allow myself to think about the things we did, the things we said. And I definitely don’t allow myself to think about the things we left unsaid. If I did, I’d go crazy. No good ever comes of craving things you can never have again.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He’s silent for a moment, just staring at me. I can feel each stroke of his gaze against my skin like a physical caress and, sweet christ, the need to lean into his chest, to absorb his warmth is so strong I nearly buckle under the pressure.
Take me in your arms and hold my tattered soul together, I want to beg. Even if it’s only for a moment.
As though he’s heard the plea aloud, Carter’s fingertips dig into my arms. There’s an edge of violence in his grip; I’m not sure whether he wants to shake me or crush me to his chest. Hell, I doubt even he knows for sure. He’s looking at me like I’m half-poison, half-cure. Equal parts salvation and devastation.
Back at you, stepbrother.
His jaw clenches tightly. I watch a muscle tick rhythmically in his cheek, and I know he feels it too; the undeniable attraction that’s always dragging us toward each other, even when we’re totally at odds. Even when we hate each other.
Magnets.
“Emilia—”
“I’m fine,” I cut him off before he says something that’ll make it harder to maintain the cool mask of composure I’ve been wearing around him for the past few weeks. “Really. You can let go of me, now.”
His hands fall away like I’ve scalded him.
With considerable effort, I drop my gaze and look down at the bedspread. My legs are still tangled in the sheets, evidence of the battle waged with my unconscious mind. I pull them free and curl my knees up to my chest, scooting back against the headboard to create some much-needed space between us.
I think he’s going to leave without another word but, to my great surprise, he stays. There’s a long silence. When he finally breaks it, his voice is carefully empty.
“You were screaming.”
I bite my lip.
“Not just a few small sounds of distress, like it used to be. This sounded like…” He blows out a breath. “Like someone was in here murdering you.”
“I…” Trailing off, I swallow hard. I can’t contradict him. He’s right. I can still feel the rawness at the back of my throat from the ragged wailing session.
My gaze darts up to his and for the first time, I notice how exhausted he looks. Not from a singular sleepless night, but many. The dark circles under his eyes are a perfect match for my own. Evidently, I’m not the only one my night terrors have been keeping awake, these past few weeks. Shame stirs inside me.
“Carter, I’m… I’m sorry…”
He clears his throat with a rough sound. “The nightmares. They’re getting worse.”
I nod.
“What was this one about?”
“The same thing they’re always about.”
His brows lift.
“The coronation. I was… reliving it. The champagne. The blood. Linus…”
He stares at me, not speaking, so I continue.
“In the dream, he dies in my arms. Every time. I don’t understand why I dream he’s dead. Th
e doctors revived him. He’s alive. I know he’s alive. But every time I close my damn eyes…” I shake my head, suddenly fighting tears. “I think there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m going crazy.”
“Hey. Look at me.”
I do.
“There’s nothing wrong with you.” His eyes are intent on mine. “It’s this fucking place — this whole fucking world — that’s crazy. Not you.”
Is Carter Thorne really being kind to me?
Kindness from him is such a rarity. It’s enough to make my heart skip a beat.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip to contain the words I’m afraid to speak. I want nothing more than to hurl my body forward, into his arms. To find solace against the smooth planes of his strong chest, soaking up his heat until the shadows of my mind are chased away.
But I can’t.
If he sees the sudden longing in my eyes, Carter doesn’t comment on it. But his jaw clenches tighter and his strong hands curl around the thick fabric of my bedspread, as though he’s fighting for control.
Torrid Throne: The Forbidden Royals Trilogy, #2 Page 1
