by Evie East
Dirty Halo
a forbidden royal romance
Evie East
Copyright © 2018 Evie East
All Rights Reserved.
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.
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.
* * *
Cover design by: ONE CLICK COVERS
www.oneclickcovers.com
Subscribe to Evie’s monthly BOOK BLAST:
http://eepurl.com/dyjGAr
* * *
For T.S.
* * *
“My castle crumbled overnight
I brought a knife to a gunfight
They took the crown, but it's alright…”
* * *
“Call It What You Want” by Taylor Swift
My dear reader,
DIRTY HALO is a dark fairy tale intended only for adults. If you prefer your fairy tales without prolific swearing, intense royal scheming, and scorching hot sex, I suggest you turn back now. Stick to the animated cartoon versions on your TV screen.
As for the rest of you depraved souls…
I hope you enjoy Emilia’s journey from ordinary girl to unwilling princess. Many aspects of this tale, from settings to character profiles, are based loosely on both historical account and folklore. However, I feel it is my duty to inform you that the kingdom of Germania — a small yet prosperous country wedged on the border between Germany, Austria, and Switzerland — is not, in fact, a real place. (You know, just so you don’t book a plane ticket there to track down a certain smirking, smoldering Lord.)
And now, without further ado…
WAIT!
I’m forgetting something.
How do these stories always start, again?
Oh! Right.
I remember now.
Once upon a time…
Prologue
I stare at the stranger in the mirror.
Her wild hair, uncharacteristically coiled.
Her lush mouth, unusually solemn.
Cloaked in sadness the royal jewels cannot disguise.
Wreathed in a destiny she is unequipped to embrace.
She holds a nation’s fate within her shaking hands.
She wears a crown that never should’ve been hers.
A golden lie.
A dirty halo.
* * *
You know the funny thing about fairy tales? You never see what happens to the pretty scullery maid after she rides off into the sunset with a dashing prince in a gold-plated carriage and shacks up in his castle.
Fade to black. Roll credits.
And they lived happily ever after.
Or… did they?
How are we so damn certain the minute that maid steps foot in that unfamiliar fortress, she doesn’t realize what a monumental mistake she’s made? Why are we so sure the prince doesn’t reveal himself to be a total prick once the haze of lust has cleared from her head? What if instead of a happy ending, the pretty maid spends the next thirty-odd years wishing she’d never met her goddamned fairy godmother in the first place?
I know what you’re going to say.
But the jewelry! The clothes! The handsome prince with his handsome steed!
Spare me.
I, for one, would rather spend the rest of my days scrubbing floors than find myself stuck in some stuffy castle surrounded by stodgy rich people, forcing a fake smile for six long, flavorless courses.
But nobody asked what I wanted.
Nobody gave me a choice in the matter when they pulled me from my life and dragged my size six, donut-loving ass through the castle gates, into a destiny I thought I’d successfully dodged.
That fairy tale ending?
I’m living it.
And I’m here to tell you…
It fucking sucks.
* * *
ONE MONTH EARLIER…
* * *
Chapter One
“The king is dead.”
The news breaks across the country like an unexpected summer storm — all at once, in a downpour that mutes the whole world with its sudden ferocity. It’s one of those moments people will recall with perfect clarity for the rest of their lives, even looking back a half-century later. The millennial generation’s very own Challenger explosion or JFK assassination, crystalized forever in a flashbulb memory.
Where were you when you found out about the Lancasters?
The details are so sharp, their edges cut me when I turn them over in my mind. The stale taste of beer on my tongue. The smell of cracked peanut shells, littered across the scratched bar in front of me. The screech of static from the overhead speakers as the recycled playlist of one-hit-wonders cuts off with a violent switch-flip.
Owen presses closer at my side, his broad shoulder warm even through the fabric of his fitted black T-shirt. Voices in the crowd around us grow from a dull murmur to a horrified roar as a sea of liquored eyes turned as one toward the wall-mounted televisions all around the pub. I crane my neck to see what the fuss is about and feel my whole future fragment into pieces.
DEADLY FIRE AT WATERFORD PALACE
Shouts of, “Turn up the volume!” are swiftly traded for gasps and sobs as the images play out onscreen.
Flames and death.
A fairy tale crumbling right before our eyes.
Owen swears under his breath, but I can barely make out the sound. My brainwaves have turned static. My fingers tremble as I set down my beer, feeling dizzy from more than just the alcohol in my veins as I watch the news anchor’s lips spout truths I’m unequipped to process.
“The fire caught sometime after ten o’clock this evening in the east wing of Waterford Palace. An inside source informed us that the blaze most likely originated in the crown prince’s private suite.” Her tone is suffused with shock and grief. “At this time, we can confirm that both His Majesty King Leopold and Queen Consort Abigail have perished in the flames. We do not currently know the status of Crown Prince Henry, but we will update you as soon as we hear whether he is among the dead.”
A collective cry splits the air — a lighting strike in this storm of disbelief. The bartender drops a glass with a clatter. Owen lets out another low expletive. The two girls to my left begin to weep. Their horror is so potent, I can taste it on my tongue with each breath.
Feeling strangely removed from my own body, I watch my hand like it belongs to someone else as it reaches out to pass the tearful girl a square bar napkin. She accepts it with a sniffle, her eyes never shifting from the television screens. Looking around, I see her horrified expression mirrored on every other face in the crowd.
It doesn’t matter that they’ve never shaken their king’s hand, that they’ve never seen their prince in person except perhaps from the safety of a sidewalk barricade as his carriage rolled past during a royal parade. This news is a blade plunged into the very fabric of our existence. Even the newscaster is wiping away tears as the grim tale unfolds.
“Whether this was an accident or something more sinister remains unclear,” she reads from her teleprompter, looking contradictorily grim in her cheerful yellow blazer. “Authorities are preliminarily treating it as a terror attack and emergency protocols are now in effect: all remaining members of the royal family — including the king’s younger brother Prince Linus, Duke of Hightower — have been placed under the protection of the King’s Guard an
d will remain so until the full threat has been assessed.”
At the mention of the duke, Owen’s eyes find mine in the dimness, an unfamiliar streak of worry in their depths. He’s one of the only people on the planet who knows about the paternal name on my birth certificate.
“Emilia…”
“Don’t.” I pick up my beer glass so I have something to do with my hands. I squeeze so tight, I’m half-surprised it doesn’t shatter to pieces as I watch the rest of the broadcast.
“In this darkest hour…” The anchorwoman’s voice cracks along with her composure. “I believe I speak for all of us here at GBTV — and every Germanian citizen listening out there — when I say our thoughts and prayers are with every member the Lancaster family as we attempt to navigate this tremendous loss… and what it will mean for the fate of our country…”
“Sweet fuck,” Owen murmurs as the screen cuts to more images of the burning inferno. His voice sounds a million miles away — along with the rest of the world. In this moment, surrounded on all sides, I feel even more alone than I did as a little girl, the day my mother finally told me the truth about my biological father. About the man who was almost hers. About the destiny that was almost mine.
He didn’t want us, Emilia.
He didn’t want you.
Dizzy, I sway into my best friend’s chest. He steadies me instantly, his broad hands locking around my bare biceps with reassuring weight. It’s warm within the crush of the crowd, but I’m suddenly freezing in my black crop top and fitted skirt. Goosebumps cover every inch of exposed skin.
“Ems?” His brow furrows with concern. A lock of wavy blond hair falls into his worried brown gaze. “You okay?”
I manage to nod. At least, I think I do.
Onscreen, the anchor’s hand flies to her ear. “We bring you now to Gerald Simms, the palace press secretary, for an official update.”
The broadcast turns to a split-screen. The man that appears on the right side of the television has the sourest expression I’ve ever seen, as though he’s just stuck his nose into a carton of curdled milk. His thinning hair and expanding waistline are not aided by the unflattering pinstripe suit he’s chosen to wear for this occasion.
“Mr. Simms, welcome,” the news anchor says. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with us tonight.”
“Yes, yes.” The man’s double chin wobbles like a turkey’s gobbler. “My pleasure.”
“Mr. Simms, can you weigh in on the implications for the crown in the face of this catastrophic loss? Was this a planned attack? Can you give us any insight at all?”
“I can reveal at this time that the King’s Guard is actively investigating all leads,” Simms says, chest puffing up like a helium balloon. He’s so full of self-importance, you could pop him with a pin. “I cannot comment officially on the status of Prince Henry. However, I have been briefed that the king’s younger brother Linus, Duke of Hightower, is safe and secure at an off-site location.”
“That’s excellent news.”
Simms nods. “If his nephew is unable to rule in the immediate future, I’m told he is prepared to take up his mantle as king regent in the interim. And if the prince is killed…” A bolt of unease shoots through the crowd around me at those words. “He will be crowned king as soon as possible.”
The newscaster nods sharply. “Please correct me if I am wrong, but while the Duke has two step-children from his marriage to Lady Octavia Thorne, he has no legitimate heirs of his own. Is that accurate?”
The word legitimate makes my blood run cold.
“Yes. Quite.” Gerald Simms blinks his beady eyes. “At times like this, we are unfortunately reminded why the royal family practiced that heir-and-a-spare policy for so many generations.” He shakes his head and the extra flesh beneath his chin wags. “If Linus cannot produce an heir, for the first time in history, Germania may find itself without any viable contenders to rule.”
“Unbelievable.” Owen’s handsome features twist into a scowl. “The crown’s not even fucking cold and they’re putting contingencies into place. Vultures.”
My brows lift so high, they nearly disappear into my hairline. “Says the boy who spent his spring semester marching in anti-monarchy protests. I wasn’t aware you gave a shit about King Linus or Prince Henry.”
His eyes flicker to mine and hold for a long moment. There’s something indecipherable in their depths. Something that makes my heart flutter uncomfortably inside my chest as he leans a fraction closer, his voice dropping to a harsh, angry whisper.
“I give a shit about what might happen if that crown changes hands to the king’s younger brother. For fuck’s sake, I give a shit about what that might—” His teeth sink into his bottom lip. He doesn’t say the rest, but it’s written all over his face.
Of what that might mean for you, Emilia.
I glance away sharply, wishing I could block out the sudden fear coursing through my veins. Wishing I could alter the strands of my DNA as easily as I do the strands of hair on my head. Wishing a lot of useless things.
“I’m sorry, Ems.” Owen swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing roughly. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
I bump my shoulder into his to let him know I’m not upset. It would take far more than a few terse words for me to actually be mad at Owen. We’ve been friends since our alphabetically assigned desks landed us beside one another back in kindergarten. It’s hard to imagine him doing anything that could ever jeopardize our bond. He’s the one constant in my life, no matter what else changes.
The talking heads on the television chat for another few moments, trading detestable words like lineage and line of succession, but I tune them out, trapped deep within my own thoughts. My eyes flit over the graphics that flash onscreen — a royal family tree, King Linus and Queen Abigail already crossed out with resolute black lines. Their small portraits seem to lock eyes with me from the screen, ghostly and grave.
In another life, they would’ve been my aunt and uncle.
Now, they’re a memory.
Feeling numb, I stare at the blank branch on the Lancaster family tree below Linus — the branch where my name should reside — and swallow down the bitterness that rises like bile in the back of my throat. The news anchor zooms in on his face, on the words DUKE OF HIGHTOWER scrawled beneath his visage. As my eyes move over his weathered features, I can’t help flinching at the striking similarity to my own.
Same dark, thick hair.
Same endless green stare.
Same stubborn set to his full-lipped mouth.
“Who is that?” One of the crying girls in the crowd whispers to her friend, peering at the television through glossy red eyes.
“Haven’t you been listening? It’s the king’s younger brother, Linus. The Duke of Hightower,” her friend whispers back. “If the prince dies… he’ll rule.”
“Isn’t he, like, seventy?” her friend asks.
“Seventy three, last month,” I murmur without thinking.
Both of them glance at me a bit strangely. I look away before they can question why I’d know such an obscure fact. The onscreen authority is still prattling on, saying things I don’t want to hear.
“We will have an update on Crown Prince Henry within the next few moments…”
I go totally still, hardly able to breathe, and send up a prayer to whoever might be listening for the cousin I’ve never met.
Please survive, Henry.
You have to survive.
You have to rule.
A solemn hush descends over Hennessy’s, the nondescript little dive around the corner from campus we frequent on nights when I don’t have class and Owen isn’t stuck at work. On a Friday night, it’s typically ground zero for debauchery. Now, it’s eerily silent, with even the drunkest patrons seeming to hold their breath.
Owen’s hand settles on my hipbone — heavy and warm, pulling me close. It’s an intimate touch; one that might make my brows lift, under normal circumstances. But these ci
rcumstances are anything but normal. I can’t spare more than a moment to wonder whether my best friend is crossing the unspoken boundary that’s been there for as long as I can remember, because the anchor is back, her voice piercing the airwaves with fresh horror.
“Though we still await official confirmation, we are now hearing reports that Crown Prince Henry is alive but unconscious. He has been admitted to the intensive care unit in critical condition, undergoing treatment for third degree burns, smoke inhalation, and severe head trauma. It is not known whether he will survive the night.”
The room is so silent, I can hear the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of a leaky sink behind the bar. Each droplet sounds like the report of a gun in the stagnant air. The newscaster takes a deep breath and steadies her yellow-blazered shoulders. She stares straight into the camera, her brown eyes unwavering, and delivers a broadcast that will be replayed on a loop for the next hundred years, archived in history museums and national annals until the world fades into dust.
“Several minutes ago, Linus, Duke of Hightower, was officially sworn in as king regent.” Her voice goes faint as she recites the official motto of Germania, so quietly it sounds like a prayer. “Non sibi sed patriae.”
Not for self, but country.
“God bless King Linus,” the anchor says solemnly, practically choking on the customary words. “Long may he reign.”
“Long may he reign,” the bar-goers around me echo back at the screen, their voices morose and fearful as they stare at the projected image of their new monarch.
King Linus.
My father.
