Ollie, whose face has paled, reaches for me but I step away. With a defeated sigh, he turns back toward his brothers. “It isn’t true, by the way. Yes, I slept with her,” Ollie says, nodding toward the television, “and she is pregnant, but it’s not with my child.”
I clear my throat. “How do you know?” It’s easier to dwell on this than any of the other topics discussed in the last half hour.
“I was safe. Very safe,” he assures me. “Besides, the timing doesn’t add up. Hell, she admitted I wasn’t the only one she was seeing. And I would never, ever bribe some—”
“I know you wouldn’t, Ollie,” I say. That’s about the only thing I can walk out of this room being sure of.
“Why would she make it up? What does she have to gain from it? It’s not like you couldn’t get a paternity test,” Aiden says.
Ollie shrugs, running a hand across his chin. “I don’t know, Aiden. She never seemed like the type. Someone must be putting her up to it.”
“And paying a pretty hefty price for it, no doubt,” Freddie chimes in.
“It’s still your fault, Ollie. Even if it is lies,” Aiden says. “The way you play around with the press was bound to get you into trouble. You use them just as much as they use you. You play their little games, so you can get into this party or that party. Meet this celebrity or that celebrity. It’s a constant ego boost. You love the attention. Admit it.”
Ollie leans back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s not as simple as all that. I’m third in line for the throne. It’s better for all of us if I put myself out there. The more Oliver Dudley becomes the headline, the more they’ll leave you two alone. So, yes, I use the whole thing to my advantage at times. The fame. The title. Because the Crown gets my whole life in the end.”
Ollie’s eyes meet mine, and all I want to do is erase the sadness I find in them.
“I distract the press. That’s my job in this family. Aiden, one day you will rule. God forbid something happens to you, Freddie is there to take your place. So, what’s my role? If I make a big enough show, my brothers get to live their lives, what very little of it they can claim for themselves, without the press sticking their noses in it. I’m the joke. The clown. Every king must have a jester.”
Digging our graves with every truth he reveals.
Between what Aiden admitted and this, we’re doomed.
“No one asked you to do that,” Aiden says quietly.
“No one asked you to give up your art, but you did so because you felt like you had to. We all have our parts to play,” he says. He slowly pulls himself up from the couch.
“We’ll fix this, Oliver,” Freddie promises.
“That’s the thing about being the country’s favorite punch line,” Ollie says. He picks up the bottle of whiskey from off the floor. “You become the joke no one gets tired of telling.”
“We’ll fix it,” Freddie repeats.
“There’s no fixing it,” he replies, glancing at me before he walks out of the room.
Chapter Twenty-Three
15 Years, 11 Months, and 20 Days
“Ugh, this book might as well be written in parseltongue. Not like I can understand a word of it,” I groan, throwing my copy of Le Morte D’Arthur across the room. Aiden chuckles quietly from his chair next to the window, bent over his sketchbook. “It’s not funny! Don’t laugh at me,” I whine.
“I would never laugh at you, Aly,” he replies, a small smile still hovering on his face.
“He’s lying,” Ollie sings as he plops down on the couch next to me. He lifts my legs up and lays them across his lap.
“Not everyone’s a scoundrel like you are,” I pout, scrunching up my forehead.
“I thought you loved that I was a scoundrel,” he replies, casually reaching up and running a hand down my hair.
“I like when you mess with other people,” I reply, smacking his hand away. “Not me.”
“Aww, don’t be cross with me, Ryans, just because you’re upset you have homework,” Ollie replies.
I pull my legs off his lap, standing up from the couch. I walk over to where Aiden sits, looking down at his drawing. “It’s wonderful, Aiden. You’ve captured the mist on the moors perfectly.” He looks up at me, the tiniest bit of pink dotting his cheeks. It does something funny to my stomach.
“This is so dull,” Ollie moans. “I wish it would stop raining already, so we could go out.”
“I have a wonderful biography on Henry VIII you could read, if you like,” Freddie offers, looking up from the letter he sits writing.
“I’d rather listen to Aly moon over Aiden’s drawings than read that,” Ollie groans. He throws himself back on the couch, covering his head with a pillow.
I run a hand down my hair, my cheeks heating up at Ollie’s words. I turn on my heels and go to retrieve my book from the corner of the room.
Aiden clears his throat. “You could always make yourself useful. Go sit with Father and help him through his correspondences. One day, you’ll have to give up this idleness, Oliver. Why not start today?” he chides. I brace myself for a row, but Ollie simply removes the pillow from his face and rolls his eyes. “And, Aly, you should really give it another go. You’ll never get any better at reading if you don’t practice.”
I know Aiden means well. He does. He only wants me to be my best self, but his words still cut. I nod numbly, taking a seat next to Ollie, who shifts so I have space. I blindly turn to a page in the book and stare down at the words, which go fuzzy and melt into each other.
From the corner of my eye, I see Ollie’s body go stiff. He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward. “Tell me, mate, should all our afternoons be devoid of fun, then?”
Aiden sighs as he sets his pencil down. “I think you’re coming to an age where it’s time to consider how your actions affect others. We have obligations to consider—”
“—and how do your little drawings fit in with these obligations?” Ollie counters.
Aiden swallows. He closes his sketchbook and looks out the window. I punch Ollie hard in the shoulder.
“What was that for?” he whines, rubbing his injury. I shoot a glance toward Aiden.
Ollie shakes his head. He looks from Aiden to me and back again. His hand juts out, and he snatches my book from my hand. “What are you doing?” I exclaim. Ollie scrambles off the couch, throws me a wink, and runs out of the room.
“Idiot,” I mutter before running after him.
Irritation quickly turns to exhilaration as I chase Ollie through the halls of the Craigowen Lodge. Occasionally, I hear Mrs. Wright yell out at us, but with the exception of a few servants who laugh good-naturedly, it’s like we have the whole place to ourselves.
Ollie’s the only one of the boys who could possible beat me in a foot race, so he’s about the best competition I can hope for. We laugh and curse at each other as we weave in and out of hallways, duck and hide in rooms.
“Truce,” he yells out, skidding to a stop.
“Getting tired, Ollie?” I challenge, raising an eyebrow.
“Tired? I’m about to bloody drop dead,” he laughs. He leans against the wall in the hallway leading to the guest rooms.
“So I win?” I ask with a grin.
“Well, you still have to read this, so I’m not sure you’re really winning,” he teases, throwing me the book. I catch it and frown. “To be fair, the story’s not that bad, really.”
“You’ve read it?” I ask, flipping through the pages.
“Yeah, I’ve read it. Several times, actually,” he admits.
I lean next to him against the wall. “Didn’t really think it would be your sort of thing.”
“You kidding me? It has knights and magic and sword fighting.”
“And the love triangle?”
“Not just any love triangle, Ryans. The love triangle. King Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot,” he replies. He snatches the book from my hands and taps me on the head with it.
&nb
sp; “Ugh. I hate love triangles,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I know I’m no expert, but how can you love two people?”
“You’d be surprised,” Ollie replies quietly.
“Of course you like it, Ollie. Daily you struggle choosing between brunettes and redheads,” I joke.
“I prefer blondes,” he replies, waggling his eyebrows.
“Ugh,” I say, sticking out my tongue. “Don’t be gross.”
He clears his throat, looking away from me. “I could help you read it.”
“I’m not stupid,” I insist. I yank the book back from him. “I can read.”
“Ryans,” he says softly, “you know I don’t think you’re stupid.” I bite down on my lip and look away. He reaches up and grabs onto my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You know that,” he affirms. I nod. “Here, let’s go in this room. No one will mess with us in there.”
“I’ve never been in here,” I remark as he opens the door.
“Not many have. It was my mother’s favorite room. She used to let us come in here and jump up and down on the bed when I was little. One of the only memories I have of her,” he says, shutting the door behind us.
The pale-green walls, accented by the delicate floral prints of the furniture and bedspread, give the room a homey, lived-in feel. It’s so different from the overtly oak and tartan decor of the rest of the estate.
“I can still see her when I’m in here,” he continues. “That’s getting harder and harder.”
“I know,” I say quietly.
“I know you do, Ryans.” He offers me a small, pained smile. “It’s one of my happiest memories. All of us jumping up and down on this bed, laughing. I remember feeling so free. I haven’t…I don’t know that I’ve felt…” His voice trails off as he clenches his jaw. I drop the book on the ground and grab onto his hand to pull him toward the bed. “What are you doing?” he asks, puzzled.
“We’re going to jump,” I say, climbing up onto the bed, pulling him after me.
“Are you serious? What would Aiden say?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t know, Ollie. Good thing he’s not here.” I grin.
“Don’t I know it.” He smiles back.
There’s something about jumping on this bed with Ollie that feels a bit like defying gravity. He’s right. It transports us to another world where he’s just a boy, and I’m just a girl. I feel weightless as I hold on to his hands and we bounce up and down, giggling like children.
Finally, when we’re spent, lying down next to each other on the bed, I look over at him, unable to keep the smile from my face. He stares back at me, his cheeks ruddy. “What?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.
“What?” he repeats.
“You’re the one staring at me,” I laugh.
He cheeks burn even brighter. “I am not.”
“Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes. “We better get back before Mrs. Wright sends a search party.”
“Your birthday’s soon,” he notes abruptly.
“I am aware of this,” I reply.
“I don’t think Mrs. Wright is going to let us go to the World Cup.”
I sigh. “No. Probably not.”
“Which means a party,” he continues. I groan. “And I have it on good authority dweeby Brian Belton’s going to try and kiss you.”
I shoot up to a sitting position. “Ugh! You’re taking the piss out of me.”
Ollie chuckles as he sits up. “I’m not, and you know it. Come on, let’s just get it done with. I’ll kiss you. I can promise I’m really good at it. A real veteran.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop. You sound like a pervey old man when you talk like that. You’re two months older than me.”
“Someone is stalling. Afraid you might like it, Ryans?”
I absentmindedly run my fingers across my lips. Why is Ollie so insistent that he be my first kiss? “What kind of knight in shining armor would I be if I didn’t?” he adds.
“Fine. Whatever,” I mumble, too horrified by the prospect of Ben’s crusty lips touching mine to overthink it. “What do I do?”
“Just close your eyes,” he says, gently.
“I swear, if this is some sort of a prank…” I warn, poking him in the chest.
“Close your eyes,” he demands.
I take a deep breath and do as I’m told. I jump as Ollie’s fingers graze my cheek. “Easy there, lass,” he whispers. I sit, my eyes closed, waiting, but the kiss doesn’t come. I’m about to open my eyes and cuss him out when I feel his lips press gently against mine.
They’re soft and strong at the same time. Gentle and commanding. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I feel myself start to lean into it. My eyes flutter open and Ollie pulls away. A small smile graces my lips, and then Ollie moves in for another one.
“What are you doing?” I ask, placing a hand on his chest to stop him.
“Sorry. Habit,” he tries to joke, but falls flat.
The door to the room opens. I look over my shoulder to find Aiden staring at us. “What are you two doing?” he asks, frowning.
Ollie hops up from the bed. “Nothing, brother. Just a bit of fooling around. You know, fun,” he says with a shrug.
Right. Just a bit of fun.
Chapter Twenty-Four
22 Years, 10 Months, and 8 Days (Barely)
When I don’t find Ollie in his usual room, I know there’s only one other place he can be. I knock gently on the door, praying he will answer. After Ollie stormed out of the common room, Freddie and Aiden talked in hushed tones about next steps—how to direct the media’s attention back to the wedding, and who in the media they could trust to help turn the story.
I wasn’t worried about the damn story; I was worried about Ollie.
There’s no fixing it.
His words. And he’s probably right. Ollie’s relationship with the press is complicated, and a relationship with me would be made all the more difficult because of it. He danced with the Devil, and the Devil always got his. It’s in Ollie’s nature to crave attention. Whether that’s because he’s a born performer or because it takes the heat off the family is less easy to define. Hell, it’s probably a bit of both, but it comes with a price.
And it isn’t a life I want. I’ll never be comfortable in the limelight. It chipped away at Ollie’s identity, his soul, and maybe he can survive it, but I can’t.
So, we’re screwed.
Yet, here I am standing outside begging for him to let me in.
I knock again. “Ollie, please.”
The door opens at the sound of my voice. Ollie stares down at me, his face etched with weariness and worry. I don’t know how to make any of that go away, but I’m still here.
I’m here, Ollie.
I follow him into the room where we shared my first kiss all those years ago. How different it all was back then. How young and happy we were. Would we ever feel that way again? With a heavy sigh, Ollie sits on the bed, staring up at me wordlessly. He wears happiness on his face so often that it’s unsettling to see it gone. It breaks me.
We don’t speak. We simply stare at each other. All the revelations of earlier, the uncomfortable truths thrusts amongst us, like a wall between what we want and what we can have, and the more I stand here staring at him, the angrier I become at it all. Why does it have to be like this? What else will we have to sacrifice in the name of the Crown? How would our lives be different if we were just a man and a woman?
As I look around the room where he had just been a boy and I had just been a girl, I’m desperate to pretend again that we could be those people. Even though I’m sure it’s madness that drives me, I turn and walk back to the door. I close it.
And then I lock it.
I let free a shaky breath as I turn around and lean against the door. I bite down on my bottom lip as my eyes rake across Ollie’s face. Want. It stretches between us like lightning crashing from the sky to the ground. Like a tether that will always connect us to each other no ma
tter how hard we pull against it.
Ollie bolts up from the bed, pressing me against the door. His mouth crashes into mine, and I moan. I clutch onto the fabric of his shirt, pulling him close to me, needing, wanting to feel every inch of him against my body. He braces his hands on both sides of my face. His lips burn through my skin—my lips, my neck, my chest.
It’s still not enough.
I shove him away from me, yanking my shirt over my head. He stalks back to me, pushing me against the door once again. I reach my hands up and rip off his shirt, the buttons clinking against the wood floor. My hands reach for his belt, and Ollie growls as his hands tear at my bra. It’s a race to see who can get the other undressed first, and I always win.
We clutch and grope at each other, gasping and moaning and begging.
Want. Want. Want. This is what it means to be human. When you strip away the responsibilities and who the world needs us to be, we’re just a man and a woman who crave this feeling. This sense of completion.
Ollie and I don’t make it to the bed. We stumble to the floor, frantic to be with each other. I push down on his chest and climb on top. He grips onto my hips, clutching me to him. He reaches up, his hands in my hair, yanking my head back so his lips can find my neck. It’s rough and possessive, and I want more of it. He is mine and I am his, and we belong to no one else outside of this moment. As we move together, each one daring the other to push harder, go deeper, I’m left breathless. I gasp as if I’m near death, because in a way I am.
“Stay,” Ollie whispers to me in the middle of the night, his hand running up and down my bare back.
I snuggle closer to him, nestling myself against his chest. The words I can’t say sit rotting in my throat. I can’t.
“Stay,” he whispers again, moving his fingers across the length of my back until he reaches my head. He runs a hand down my hair, and I sigh.
It won’t work.
I press my lips gently against his.
He rolls me over until I’m lying on my back. Even through the darkness, I can read the urgency in his eyes. He shifts until he’s leaning over me. “Stay,” he repeats. I reach up and run my thumb against his lips. The first lips I ever kissed.
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