by Evie East
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But it’s the truth.” I shake my head. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to spend your entire life wanting validation from someone, then finally get it… but for absolutely all the wrong reasons?”
His expression turns to granite. “No. I fucking don’t.”
Right. I suppose he wouldn’t — not with Octavia for a mother. She doesn’t exactly seem like the validating type.
My mouth opens, then promptly closes again. There’s little point even trying to make him see things from my perspective. Lord Carter Thorne was raised in this life of excessive riches and grand responsibilities. He couldn’t possibly understand how strange it is to someone like me — an ordinary girl, thrown gracelessly into a game with rules no one’s even bothered to explain.
I glance at the door to the room Simms had the house staff prepare for me. There’s a card-stock placard affixed inside the embedded nameplate, etched with my ridiculous new title in sloping calligraphy.
Her Royal Highness Emilia Victoria Lancaster
“Frankly, all of this is a moot point anyway,” I say after a long moment, looking sharply away from the door. “Because Prince Henry is going to recover. He’ll take back the crown, he’ll rule… and I’ll go back to my life.”
“Are you really so eager to return to it?” Carter asks, staring at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t figure out. “Most girls would be over the damn moon if someone told them they got to live in a castle and wear a crown. It’s the dream, isn’t it?”
“Not my dream.” I pull the towel off my shoulders fold it in my hands. “I have obligations back in Vasgaard. I can’t just abandon them because some outdated figurehead snaps his fingers and demands I give up my life, my internship, my spot at university. Not to mention, there are people I care about—” Owen’s face flashes in my mind and guilt floods me. I haven’t even called him yet; he must be out of his mind with worry. “I can’t just leave him.” I finish softly, shaking my head.
Carter’s eyes sharpen to blades, cutting into me with each pass they make over my face. “Poor little princess, can’t see her boyfriend because they’ve made her royal. Spare me. That’s not a real problem, and you know it. You’re just looking for reasons to walk away from something that terrifies you.”
I flinch at his callous words. “Back to being an asshole, I see.”
“Fitting, since you’re back to being delusional.”
I glare at him. “Why do you even give a shit about any of this?”
“I don’t.”
“Could’ve fooled me!”
“Then you’re more deluded than I thought.”
We glare at each other, both panting. I’m not exactly sure when this conversation escalated to an argument, but I’m suddenly flush with anger. From the looks of it, so is he. The foot of space between our faces practically shimmers with heat, the molecules bending like air around a boiling kettle.
“If you truly feel that way,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m shocked you didn’t leave me out in the rain to freeze to death!”
“Already have one funeral to attend this week,” he seethes, hands curling into fists at his sides. “Wasn’t in the mood to work another into my social calendar.”
“Wow.” I twist the towel in my hands, so I have something to do besides wring his neck. “You know, I thought maybe we could be friends. I see now that was a terrible mistake.”
“And I thought maybe you wouldn’t turn out to be an utter pain in the ass. Guess even my instincts are wrong, occasionally.”
“Ugh!” The towel falls to the floor, but I barely notice as I take a furious stride in his direction. “You know, of all the awful people I’ve encountered during this long, miserable day, I have to tell you — you are the worst.” My voice shakes with rage. “And, just to be clear, your competition includes a father who abandoned me at birth and the evil shrew he married afterward!”
Carter’s eyes burn bright with anger but his tone is tightly leashed when finally he speaks again. “I think we’re about done with this failed attempt at friendship. Don’t you, sis?”
“Oh, we’re more than done,” I snap. “We never even started!”
“Perfect.”
Whirling away from him, I stomp to my door and shove my way inside. I start to slam it shut, but make the mistake of glancing across the hall first. My hand stills when I catch sight of Carter standing in his own doorway, directly across from mine — white-knuckled grip on the knob, face dark with fury as he glares back at me.
I know I should shut the door on him, cut off this venom-laced eye contact before things escalate further, but there’s a cluster of words still stuck in my throat. I can’t draw a proper breath until they’re clear.
“You might not be capable of giving a shit about anyone except yourself, but I am. I care about people. It doesn’t make me weak for not wanting to leave them behind. ”
His tone is so cold, it’s barely recognizable. “Anything else?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Neither of us moves. For the life of me, I can’t explain why.
“And I never said I had a boyfriend!” I add angrily, for reasons I decide it’s best not to examine too closely.
“Never asked, princess,” he fires back, equally hostile.
“Fine!”
“Fine.”
My door slams shut a second before his, so hard it rattles in the frame.
* * *
Sopping wet and spitting mad, I pace around my prison cell.
Okay, so, it’s not a prison cell. It’s a bedroom. A beautiful bedroom, actually, done up in pale blue tones, with a massive four-poster bed, an antique armoire, and a merry fireplace. The wood has burned almost all the way down to embers, so I toss in another log and stoke the flames higher, holding my hands near the grate until I finally start to feel warm again.
I search the room for a telephone, but find nothing. For a minute, I contemplate extending my search downstairs but I’m so exhausted, I doubt I’d make it back up that massive staircase. Plus, there’s the small fact that I couldn’t call Owen even if I did locate a phone: his number is stored conveniently in my cellphone contact list, not my longterm memory.
Technology giveth, technology taketh away.
In the adjoining bathroom, I gasp when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror over the pedestal sink. I look downright frightening — my mascara streaked into raccoon-like circles, half my lipstick chewed off, my hair a wet tangle of lavender waves. Removing the chunky black heels I never want to look at again, let alone walk in, I peel off my outfit and drop it to the tile floor with a splat. Two minutes later, I sink into the soaking tub with a moan so loud, I worry Carter can hear it clear across the hall.
Not that I care what he thinks.
Asshole.
I close my eyes, slip beneath the water, and let out the scream that’s been pent up inside me for the past few hours, building like a tempest from the first moment a yellow-blazered news anchor spoke the words, “The king is dead.” A burst of bubbles shoots upward, tapering off when I run out of air. Gasping, I resurface, feeling only marginally better.
God, I wish Owen were here.
Not here as in sitting in this bathtub with me. Just… here. By my side.
He’d know exactly what to say, the precise way to put a smile on my face. He’d make me laugh, even when I felt like crying. He’d be supportive and funny and unafraid to throw his arms around me in a breath-stealing bear hug. He’d put me at ease in an impossible situation.
Unlike certain other individuals who seem a little too fond of antagonizing me whenever the opportunity presents itself.
I push aside images of dark hair and a smirking mouth in favor of blond waves and an easy grin.
Some of the girls in my clinical psychology program find it strange that my best friend is a straight, single guy — who, admittedly, is rather easy on the eyes. When they ask why we a
ren’t dating, I usually shrug and change the subject as quickly as possible.
He’s my best friend, I tell them, over and over. It’s just never been that way between the two of us.
They roll their eyes and sigh at me, like I’m crazy enough to be one of our patients.
Sure, Emilia. Whatever you say.
Over the years, I’ve had other fleeting friendships — my freshman year dorm mates, the girls in my upper-level classes, a few internship colleagues I’ll grab casual drinks with after a shift, every so often. But none of those bonds have ventured much deeper than the superficial smalltalk stage. Honestly, they’re more like acquaintances when I compare them to Owen, who’s been privy to my every private thought and embarrassing moment for almost as far back as I can remember.
He was there in fifth year when the school bully, Lillian Pillsner, smashed my diorama into pieces right before my big presentation. He was there our final year of high school when Markus Goldstein, my date to the prom, stood me up. He was there two years ago, when Mom went into the hospital with acute pneumonia… just as he was there when she didn’t come out again, seventeen days later.
Tears spring to my eyes when I think of Mom. She’d hate this — me, here in this house, here with these people. She disliked the monarchy almost as much as the patriarchy, and spent my formative years lecturing me on the many downfalls of absolute power, concentrated wealth, and a whole other bevy of social issues I could hardly wrap my still-developing brain around. I can still hear her melodic voice, crystal clear even after all this time.
‘Limitless power is far more likely to corrupt a pure heart than mend a dark one.’
I’m pretty sure she had me reciting that along with my nursery rhymes.
‘Excess breeds selfishness, Emilia. When one is born with nothing, there is nothing he will not give to help another succeed; when one is born with everything, he will do everything he can to keep it for himself.’
A tear rolls down my cheek, hitting the water’s surface with a tiny splash.
‘I love you, pure heart.’
‘Stay bold.’
As I float, I let her words lull me into a state of such calm, I nearly fall asleep. My eyelids are heavy as anvils, but I force them open long enough to scrub away the grime of the day with a small bar of rose soap. I’m not crazy about the heavy floral scent, but it’s better than nothing.
By the time I finish conditioning the worst of the snarls out of my hair, the water has grown cold and I’m so exhausted, I’m in danger of passing out right there in the bathtub. l flip a lever and watch the water start to swirl down the drain in a mesmerizing vortex, not moving until the last drops disappear with a low gurgle.
Maybe, in the harsh light of day, things won’t feel so dire, I lie to myself as I force myself to my feet. Grabbing a plush bath towel off the heated rack to my left, I wrap myself up in it like a butterfly’s cocoon. I’m sure there’s a hairdryer lurking in one of the many bathroom drawers, but I’m far too tired to bother — even knowing I’ll wake up in the morning looking like I’ve been electrocuted.
Dropping my towel by the edge of the bed, I collapse face first on the plush feather mattress and worm my way beneath the covers with still-damp limbs. I’m asleep as soon as my eyes close, blessedly too tired to replay all the awful events that have unfolded today. Too tired even to dream about the future and the vast uncertainty it holds.
Chapter Seven
“So, you’re the royal bastard, huh?”
The question jolts me out of a sound sleep. Approximately two seconds later, the weight of a body landing on my mattress bounces me several inches into the air. With a squawk of distress, my eyes spring open and I take in the sight of an unfamiliar auburn-haired girl around my age, sitting at the end of my bed. Her legs are folded up in front of her like a pretzel — knees to her chest, hands on her knees, chin on her hands…
Eyes on me.
“What…” I shake my head to clear it, hoping she might disappear. “Who…”
“I’m Chloe Thorne. Sister to Carter, spawn of Octavia, all around pain in the Lancaster family’s ass.” Her head tilts. “Nice boobs, by the way.”
Startled, I drop my gaze down to my chest and feel my cheeks flame. I completely forgot I fell asleep naked, after my bath. Yanking the sheet up to cover the goods with as much decorum as I can muster, I grit my teeth in the vague approximation of a smile.
“Care to tell me what you’re doing in my bedroom at the ass crack of dawn, Chloe Thorne?”
“I hate to break it to you, but it’s nearly one in the afternoon.”
“What?!”
She nods. “Yep. Had yourself a real nooner. Not that I blame you. Yesterday was a bit of a shock, I’d imagine — some recovery time is probably par for the course.”
I run a hand through my wild hair. As I predicted, it feels like I lost a bet involving an an electrical outlet and a fork. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I was curious about you. Secret love child, and all. Who would’ve thought old Linus had it in him?”
“News sure travels fast around here,” I mutter.
“Faster than gossip in a high school cafeteria. Plus, I had an inside scoop.” Her lips twitch. “My brother. I believe you’ve met.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
She snorts. “Yeah, he mentioned the two of you didn’t exactly hit it off.”
A bolt of annoyance shoots through my chest. “Mmm. You could say that.”
“He’s really not so bad,” Chloe assures me.
“Uh huh.”
“You’ve had about two hours with him as your so-called brother. I’ve had twenty-two years. Trust my judgment on this one, okay? His bark is worse than his bite.” Her expression falls a bit. “This wasn’t an easy family to grow up in.”
“So, you’re saying it’s actually lucky I was cast out on my ass like an unwanted piece of rubbish for two full decades…” I nod my head, lips twitching. “Good to know.”
Grinning, she reaches into the pocket of her fitted white blazer. I watch as she pulls out a silver lighter and a tightly-rolled blunt, clamps one end between her lips, and lights up.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, already blowing smoke out the corner of her mouth.
“Actually—”
“Great!” She winks. “There are enough prudes in this house already.”
I sigh deeply.
I need coffee. And clothing.
Not necessarily in that order.
“I mean it.” Chloe takes another deep hit, closing her eyes as the marijuana’s effects begin to roll through her system. “I’ve only been here three bloody hours. If I get one more lecture about leaving ashes on all this priceless furniture…”
“Maybe they’re a bit sensitive about you starting a fire,” I murmur, my tone sharper than intended. “You know, since a whole wing of the castle burned down yesterday, and all.”
She blinks at me, stunned, before barking out a surprised laugh. “Damn, girl. That was seriously dark. I think I like you already.”
“Great. Now, get out so I can put on some clothes.”
She laughs again, clearly not offended by my dismissal, and slides off the bed. I think she’s leaving, but she merely crosses to the armchair in the corner where a large white shopping bag rests.
“Here.” She tosses it onto the bed. I do my best to catch it one-handed without dropping my sheet. “That was sitting in front of your door when I got here. Compliments of the palace’s fleet of personal shoppers. I’m sure they’ve stocked you with an array of utterly boring outfits. Whatever you do, don’t let them select your dress for the funeral — unless you’re a fan of something black and boxy, likely with a modest boatneck. God forbid anyone in this family ever show a hint of cleavage!”
“When is the funeral?”
“Sunday.”
“Tomorrow?”
She snorts. “Of course not. A week from tomorrow. Royal functions take eons to
plan — especially funerals. And this won’t be just any funeral. We’re mourning the loss of our king and queen. Before the actual ceremony, the bodies will lie in state for a full week.”
My brows lift in confusion at the unfamiliar term.
“They’ll be displayed for public viewing at Windsor Abbey,” she explains slowly, as though she’s talking to a child.
“Sounds rather… morbid.”
She plunks herself down in the armchair with a sigh. “It’s done so the common people have a chance to pay their respects. Only the aristocracy is invited to the actual funeral.”
A frown pulls my lips down. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Fair?” She scoffs. “You really are new to this, aren’t you?”
I ignore her. “How many are expected to attend?”
“Half the kingdom, from the looks of it. I swear, there’s already a queue forming down the streets surrounding the cathedral, and the official vigil doesn’t even begin until tomorrow. I saw several groups pitching camping tents, so they wouldn’t lose their spots in line.”
“That’s madness.”
“That’s mourning. You should see it out there. It’s like the zombie apocalypse. The whole country’s at a standstill. Streets deserted, companies closed, people home from work… Every shop shuttered tight, every flag at half mast. Huge crowds camped out in front of the hospital, praying for Henry. We almost couldn’t get the SUV out the front gates this morning.”
“How—” I hardly dare ask. “How is he?”
“Alive. Barely.” Her face closes down. “I was out last night with his fiancé, Ava Sterling, when we saw the news trending on Twitter. Imagine that? Finding out the man you’re supposed to marry was nearly burned alive from strangers on the internet.” She barks out a bitter laugh. “Some fucking world we live in.”
“I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”
She nods. “We went straight to the hospital. Spent the night waiting for news, until the doctors ordered us to go home and get some sleep.”
