by Emma Chase
It's not true, but she seems to get a thrill over the agony that flashes across Sam's face.
"Get a big bucket of popping corn and watch it with your granny," Elizabeth hisses.
"Are you saying you don't like my granny?" Sam asks, brokenly.
"I'm saying I don't like you!" Elizabeth screeches, hair flying out like Medusa.
Then Sam turns my way. "I'm going to rip your balls off."
I hold up my hands. "It's not like that, Sam."
Then, with a roar, he tackles me.
HENRY LOOKS HAPPY. Well, he does now. After he and Sam Berkinshire rolled around on the floor for a bit, security broke them apart. Sam swore to Elizabeth that the things she'd found--the rubbers and receipts--were items he'd bought for her, to use with her. Then he confessed that the panties . . . he'd bought for himself.
I didn't see that one coming.
And it would seem, neither did Elizabeth--she didn't believe him and is still refusing to speak to him.
But Henry's laughing, teasing, and talking with everyone in the room. He's in the middle of a circle of people, both men and women, recounting stories of his and the lads' antics while they were at boarding school together. The chuckles are loud and plentiful and genuine. He's the center of attention and he basks in it, stretching and blossoming like a lush plant in the sun.
Then, instruments are brought in. Henry grabs his guitar and Sam slips a harmonica out of his pocket. And it seems Simon Barrister, the Earl of Ellington, plays the drums. His wife, Franny--a lovely, lively character--watches him intently, worshipfully, ready to yell and clap like a teen at a concert. I can see why.
Because when they start to play, when Henry begins to sing the Tom Petty song "You Don't Know How It Feels--wearing low-slung jeans and a plain white T-shirt, his hair devilishly mussed, his arms flexing as he strums the chords, his tattoo on display, his smile sinful--it is the damned sexiest thing I have ever seen.
I couldn't imagine anything hotter.
But then his eyes meet mine and he winks at me, and I'm proven so wrong.
I want to jump him. Literally--throw myself at him. My breasts ache for the touch of those strong hands and long fingers. My thighs clench with raw, randy desire. I want to do things to him--things I can't put into words--and my cheeks flame just thinking about them. I want him to do things to me--everything. Anything he wants.
As the song ends and they start another, I tear my eyes away. I feel light and drunk and just a little bit crazy. My hand fans my face and I pour myself a drink, gulping it down my parched throat. And it's all so overwhelming--wild, but wonderful.
With the sounds of the music following me, I step out of the great room into the cooler hallway, wanting to catch my breath just for a moment. And here I used to think all the swooning heroines in my novels were over the top.
But now I know their reactions were spot on. Now I understand.
And I hope before this night is over, I'll also understand all the sensations--the erotic tastes and touches--I've read about.
The music room is just a few steps from the great room, and the song and chatter from the party still comes through clearly. I run my finger over the shiny black lacquer of the piano, close my eyes and dream of what could happen tonight. I imagine Henry's satisfied groans, his panting breath in my ear, his glorious dirty mouth speaking in a rough voice laden with desire.
And then a voice comes from behind me--and it's not Henry's.
"At first glance, there's not much to you. But close up, you're actually sort of pretty. I like that."
It's one of Henry's friends--the rude one. He's standing between me and the door. And though I want to tell him to go away, or move past him, my feet are frozen. Because there's a look in his eyes that I know well--that I've seen more times than I ever want to remember.
Cruelty.
And it paralyzes me.
"Are you afraid?" he asks, moving closer.
And I can't move.
Then he smiles slowly.
"I like that too."
THIS IS WHAT I'M TALKING about. The music is loud, the drinks are flowing, the room is alive with smoke and chatter, and everyone is laughing. Everyone is having a good time. Christ, I've missed this. Hello. old life, long time no see.
I tighten the strings on my guitar, debating what we should play next. Black Crowes? Lumineers, maybe?
That's when one of the cameramen backs into a table. It tilts on two legs before going over, sending the clock, vase, and porcelain dish sliding to the floor with a sharp, loud crash.
Instinctively, I look around for Sarah.
I scan the room once, then again slower and more carefully. But I don't see her. And the unease starts as a whisper, a gentle caress. I lean my guitar against the chair and stand up, turning in a circle, surveying, searching for the dark head and pretty form I'd know anywhere.
But she's not here.
And the unease turns to concern. My palms start to sweat and my heart accelerates . . . because Hannibal Lancaster is nowhere in sight either.
Hannibal, whom my brother hates.
Hannibal, whom Nicholas won't tolerate even looking at his wife, let alone be near enough to speak to her.
Concern surges into panic--the kind that churns and pokes in my gut and makes the hairs on the back of my neck spike. And that's when I make the connection my idiot brain was too stupid and self-absorbed to figure before: My brother would never, ever hate someone . . . without a very good reason.
I walk over to Penelope, my hand on her upper arm. "Where's your sister?"
She blinks at me before glancing around the room. "I don't know."
Without needing to be told, Penny walks over to where Elizabeth and Sam are arguing in hushed, animated tones.
"Have you seen Sarah?" she asks. When both of them shake their heads, I have to grind my teeth to keep from shouting.
I approach Franny and Simon. "Did you see where Sarah went?"
Franny's sharp eyes dart around. "I just saw her a moment ago."
I tug at my hair, ready to start tearing the walls down, and Simon puts his hand on my shoulder. "She couldn't have gone far, Henry."
My throat tightens, making my voice hoarse.
"But . . . the crash. She's not good with loud noises."
Simon nods, even though he probably doesn't understand. "We'll find her."
"Prince Henry."
It's James. Watchful, eagle-eyed James.
"Lady Sarah went through there." He points to the far door that leads to a short hall and then the music room.
And I could fucking hug him right now. Instead I smack his arm. "Good man."
Then I rush past him.
When I get to the music room, my panic is burned up by rage at what I see.
Hot, blistering rage, the likes of which I have never known.
Because Sarah is on the sofa, her face pale as death and just as lifeless, her eyes blank, with that flat, fucking horrible dullness. And Hannibal Lancaster is beside her--with his hands on her, touching her breasts.
I heave him up and throw him across the room. "Get the fuck away from her!"
And then I'm kneeling, patting her cheek. She's so pale. I would give anything to see her blush right now.
I stand up when Hannibal moves nearer, facing him with Sarah behind me. And I feel the others rushing into the room, but I don't take my eyes off Lancaster.
"What did you do to her?'
He shrugs, tugging on the cuff of his shirt. "Not a thing. One minute she was fine and the next she was totally out of it. I think she's on something, maybe a bad trip."
The vein at my temple throbs.
"A girl goes catatonic and your first thought is to grab her tits?"
"Oh please, she loved it. Look at her, for fuck's sake--it's probably the most action she's ever gotten in her life."
I've heard stories of murderous fury. Crimes of passion. More often than not, the perpetrators can't remember their own actions. They'r
e confused, their mind and memory muddled and unclear.
That's not how it is with me.
I'm fully cognizant of what I'm about to do.
I'm going to kill this motherfucking bastard with my bare hands.
And the dumb shit never sees it coming.
I grab Lancaster by the front of his shirt and slam my fist into the center of his face, again and again.
And again.
And again.
There's a wet crunching beneath my knuckles that should be repulsive, yet only drives me on. I'd like to hear it over and over. But as I draw back for another hit, thick arms come from behind, threading beneath my shoulders and locking behind my head, restraining me.
And James's voice rasps in my ear, "That's enough. You can't kill him."
"Get your fucking hands off me!"
I struggle but he holds tight. And then another voice cuts through the rage--snapping and calculated.
"Henry," Franny says. "There is a time and place for retribution. Now is not that time."
Her dark eyes are velvet with sympathy. With understanding. But then she reminds me of something much more important.
"She needs you, now."
She needs me.
Sarah needs me.
And it's like a switch has been flipped and every cell in my body shifts and repurposes.
"All right," I tell James, pulling away. "All right!"
He releases me and I'm back on my knees at Sarah's feet. Penny is there beside her, holding her hand and whispering gently.
I cup her jaw, her skin cold. "Sarah, look at me."
But she doesn't move, doesn't blink. There's a streak of blood on her cheek--and it's a surprise when I realize it's from my knuckles. It's dark against the whiteness of her skin, like a black stain I've left behind. And I'm suddenly aware of everyone else in the room. The cameras are still filming and all eyes are focused on Sarah. Watching and gaping.
She wouldn't like that.
So I stand, sweeping her up into my arms. I cradle her against my shoulder and push through the sea of bodies to the door. Vanessa stands just inside it, arms crossed.
As I pass her, I growl, "Party's over."
I bring Sarah straight to our room.
Our room.
And I'm grateful it's on the third floor, tucked in the corner of the castle--far away from everything and everyone. Sarah's limp in my arms, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, my lips against her forehead. Her glasses are askew, so I take them off. Then I sit on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, rocking her in my arms. Her skin feels cold, so I hold her tighter.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
And I am. More sorry than I've ever been in my life. And that's really saying something.
This is my fault. I brought her here. If it weren't for me, Sarah never would have heard of Hannibal Lancaster. She'd be in her simple little apartment, in her tiny town, with her books and her friends, surrounded by people who love her, who would never, ever hurt her. She would be happy . . . she would be safe.
If it weren't for me.
"I'm so sorry."
With an awful, scraping gasp, she comes awake, arms thrashing--fighting.
"It's okay. You're okay." I keep hold of her, smoothing her hair. "You're all right, it's me. I'm right here, I've got you."
She stops fighting and hiccups. "H . . . Henry?"
I keep rocking her. "Yes, it's me. You're all right."
Then her arms are pulling me closer, hands grasping, holding on like something is trying to wrench her away. And she's crying.
No--not crying. Sobbing. Great, heaving, broken sobs that wreck me.
I gather her even closer, rocking and rocking, pressing my face into the crook of her neck, trying to weave myself around her.
"It's all right, Sarah."
"I . . . I was so . . . afraid."
"I know, but I'm here now. I've got you."
"I hate this," she chokes out, pressing into my neck. "I hate being afraid all the time. I hate it."
And I can't think of anything to say. I can't tell her it's okay, because it isn't. It's all fucked up and wrong. So I give her the only thing I can: me. I let her know she's not alone.
"I'm afraid too."
Her breath catches in her throat, and her lips press into my neck.
"What do you mean?"
She hugs me tighter, resting her cheek on my shoulder, and my hands grasp her closer, both of us shaking.
"I'm afraid of wanting to be king, of wanting to do it well," I rasp out. "Of thinking I might be capable and really trying . . . only to fail. To find out I just don't measure up. I'm terrified of letting everyone down, that they'll all get hurt because I'm such a fuck-up. So I don't bother . . . and it's all because I'm just too damn scared."
I run my hand over her hair, petting her, the way my mother used to when I was ill. Her shuddering slowly eases in the quiet that follows my confession. Her tears taper off to a sniffling trickle.
"I believe in you, Henry," she says so softly. "I believe you can do anything . . . everything you set your mind to, because you care so deeply for everyone you meet. You will be amazing. I know it in my heart and to the bottom of my soul. And I would tell you the truth, I promise--I wouldn't let you try and fail."
And it's miraculous what that does, how her words make me feel. Like I'm a hundred feet tall and a thousand times as strong. Like I'm a superhero or a god.
Like . . . I'm a king.
I run the back of my hand over her cheek. "I'm supposed to be comforting you."
She smiles gently. "You did."
I press a kiss to her forehead and don't even think about letting her go. I shift back against the headboard and hold Sarah in my arms, her head on my shoulder, her sweet breath against my neck . . . until she falls asleep.
"WHAT'S WRONG WITH HER?"
When Penelope's topaz eyes go hard and her chin lifts, I know I've chosen exactly the wrong words.
"Nothing. There's nothing wrong with her."
"That's not what I meant."
I walk past her through the doorway, into the sitting area of the bedroom. I don't think I've ever been in this particular bedroom. It's covered in shades of rose and fuchsia and pink--nauseatingly girly, as if a Barbie Dreamhouse puked all over it.
Penelope shuts the door and stands in front of me, securing the belt of her robe defensively.
"The fugues," I begin, "when she 'blinks out'--she called it a quirk. It's not a quirk, is it?"
The tightness in Penelope's face dissipates, softens, and something like sadness rises in her eyes. "No."
My heart jackhammers in my chest and my breath skips. Because I knew it before I walked in here--but to hear someone else say it, to hear her sister confirm that there's something wrong with Sarah--something I may not be able to fix, some broken part of her she won't even show me, let alone give me the chance to mend . . . it's horrendous.
"I've seen it happen to men--soldiers with PTSD. They slip away and get trapped in another place, another time . . . a bad time. Is that how it is with her?"
Penelope's lips fold together, her chin trembling. "Yes."
A hundred horrific headlines flash in my head at once. I squeeze my eyes closed but I still see them.
"What happened to her?" My voice sounds tortured even to my own ears. "Please, Penny, I have to know."
Her pale blond hair sways when she gives a little nod of her head, almost to herself, then motions for me to sit on the sofa. And I have to force my knee to stop bouncing with unspent energy, bracing for what's to come.
The fire pops and her voice is gentle when she speaks, like a nanny reading her charge a bedtime fairy tale. Did you ever notice how genuinely fucked up fairy tales actually are?
"Our mother was traditional when it came to marriage. Very old school--"till death do us part," a trousseau she stitched herself, a virgin on her wedding night--the whole damn thing. She was . . .
innocent . . . only just eighteen when she married our father. He was thirty-five. Her parents, our grandparents, were cold arseholes; I already told you that. They were pleased to be rid of her. After the wedding, he took her to his estate in Everly."
Everly is more moor than town. Jagged mountains on one side, cold ocean on the other--the weather as harsh and hard as a castle's stone.
"My very first memory is the sound of my mother screaming . . . begging him to stop. He would go into rages for no reason at all. And he was merciless. Sadistic. Things would be quiet for a few weeks after, sometimes a few months . . . but then it would happen all over again. Sarah and I didn't attend school; we had tutors. He said it was because it was the best education, but I think he just wanted control. The handful of servants we had were completely devoted to him--whether it was because they were loyal or terrified, I'll never know."
Penelope stares down at the gray and mauve rug, her eyes glossing over--seeing something I can't.
"We used to hide in the wardrobe. Sarah had read The Chronicles of Narnia and I think some part of her prayed it was real, that we could be transported somewhere--anywhere but where we were. We would cover our ears and hold Mother's dresses over our heads to try to muffle the sounds. You wouldn't think you could hear so clearly," she says and looks up at me with tears glinting like ice drops in her eyes. "I mean, it was a fucking castle. But the sounds carried and we heard every slap, every cry."
Her brows draw together and her forehead crinkles. "I was . . . five the first time Sarah did it, so she would've been about seven."
"Did what?" I rasp out.
"The first time she left the wardrobe."
The words drop like lead in my stomach. Like shrapnel.
"She couldn't stand it. I held onto her hand and I begged her to stay. She told me to stay put--no matter what happened, no matter what I heard." Tears fall silently, one after the other, down Penelope's smooth cheek. "And then she went out of the room and started breaking things."
"Breaking things?"
Penelope nods. "A vase in the hallway, china plates in the drawing room--once she pulled a gold-framed mirror right off the wall. Anything that would make a crash. That would take his attention away from Mother. She would go from room to room, until . . ."
It's only when Penelope stops speaking that I realize I've stopped breathing.
"Until?"
Her light brown eyes look directly into mine. "Until he caught her."
