Dirty Halo

by Evie East

  Owen has always been the person I turn to when I’m hurt; I’m not sure how to cope, now that he’s the one doing the hurting.

  Lady Morrell clears her throat, bringing my focus back to the present.

  “I think you have finally mastered the soup course,” she informs me, nodding her approval. “Perhaps you are ready to graduate to something more complex.”

  “Foreign affairs?” I ask hopefully.

  “Not quite.” Her lips twitch as she swaps out my bowl for a small plate. “Salads.”

  “Joy of joys,” I mutter, resisting the urge to bang my head against the tabletop until I knock myself unconscious.

  One more hour.

  One hundred thousand dollars.

  I pick up the damn salad fork.

  * * *

  Later that night, I’m lying in bed attempting to get through one of the dense books Linus sent up for me — a heavy, leather-bound tome called Germania: Honor Throughout History — when someone knocks on my door.

  “Come in,” I call lazily, expecting it’s one of the housekeepers, here to stoke the fire or fluff my pillows or deliver yet another plate of warm chocolate-chip cookies — as they have every night since my failed baking endeavor. At first, I thought it was a nice gesture, but now I’m pretty sure it’s just Patricia’s insurance policy, keeping me out of her kitchen by any means necessary.

  The door swings inward on soundless hinges. I glance up from the pages and nearly have a heart attack when I see the woman standing there, her perfectly coiffed auburn hair offset by teardrop earrings, an elegant gray dress, and sensible heels.

  “Octavia!” I sit up so abruptly, the book tumbles from my grasp. It hits the floor with a dull thud. “Wh— what are you doing here?”

  Her eyes narrow as they take me in. Lavender hair in a messy bun on top of my head, makeup smudged beneath my eyes, dressed in a loose t-shirt and a pair of buttery soft yoga pants. I scramble off the bed, nervously tucking a tendril of hair behind one ear. It takes all my resolve not to flinch as she sidles closer, heels clicking ominously against the hardwood floor.

  “I see you are…” She sniffs delicately. “Settling in.”

  “Yes, Octavia. I mean ma’am. Madame. Err… Highness?” I fumble horribly. Lady Morrell would be devastated to learn all her careful lessons have gone to utter waste.

  “I have not yet been given a royal title.” Octavia’s expression is totally devoid of warmth. “When I am officially named queen consort after Linus’ coronation next month, you can refer to me as Your Majesty. Until then…” Her eyes narrow to pinpricks. “Frankly, I’m not sure you’ll need to address me at all, but if you cannot avoid doing so during a social engagement, you may call me Lady Lancaster.”

  God, she’s so cold. I don’t know what I did to get on her bad side so quickly — besides, you know, exist — but I find myself shivering despite the warmth from the fire.

  She looks around at my belongings, scattered over every surface. The half-eaten plate of cookies, the shirt I wore earlier crumpled on the armchair, a hefty pile of Linus’ books on my side table. She traces her finger across the embossed cover of the volume at the top of the stack, a flicker of disgust moving across her face as she digests the title.

  Kings and Queens: The Lancaster Legacy

  “I assume there’s a reason for this unexpected visit,” I say, voice dripping with false sweetness.

  “Certainly.” She turns back toward me, folding her arms across her chest. “Linus has informed me that you’ll be attending the funeral alongside our family.”

  I think she’d sound more pleased by the prospect of an impending colonoscopy.

  “The seamstresses will be coming tomorrow at noon with a selection of dresses for Chloe and myself. I’ve been… advised… I must extend that invitation to you as well.” She scans me up and down. “Seeing as you cannot be trusted to dress yourself, we will have something proper selected for you.”

  I reel back, but manage to force a smile onto my face. “How very kind. I’ll be sure to pick something…” I pause meaningfully, just to annoy her. “Fit for a queen.”

  Her shoulders stiffen with barely-contained outrage. “Wonderful.”

  “Well, if that’s all…” I look pointedly toward the door. My message could not be more clear.

  Get the hell out of my room.

  “Not quite.” Her lips purse in a thin-lipped smile that scares me far more than any of her frowns. “There is one more matter I need to discuss with you.”

  My brows lift, waiting.

  “You had a friend visit the premises, several days ago. Owen Harding. Is that correct?”

  I go still. “Yes.”

  “Mr. Harding did pass the initial security clearance checks, which allowed him access to this estate. Thankfully, I personally insisted the King’s Guard dig a bit deeper into his past.” She takes a step closer, eyes never shifting from mine. “We can’t be too careful when it comes to your safety, now can we?”

  My heart is pounding double-speed inside my chest. “Your concern for me is truly heartwarming, Octavia. But I assure you — unnecessary.”

  Her smile widens. “Unfortunately, I must disagree. The secondary search uncovered some… shall we say… problematic connections in Mr. Harding’s past.” She shakes her head, feigning distress. “It seems he has ties to several anti-monarchist groups. Perhaps even a radical cell of anarchists, determined to overthrow the crown at any cost.”

  My mouth falls open. “What?!”

  “It’s certainly a relief we caught wind of it now, before things…” She pauses. “Escalated.”

  I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry at the utter absurdity of the words coming out of her mouth. “You must be joking.”

  “Safety is not a joking matter, or one we take lightly. Especially in the current climate.” She sighs, as though she’s terribly troubled. “Never fear — only a few more pieces of evidence, and we should have enough to take him off the streets. For good.”

  I freeze. “No.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s merely a matter of whether we choose to keep looking. Do you understand me, Emilia?”

  Oh, I understand you perfectly, you heartless hag.

  “Octavia, please…” My voice breaks. My heart slams against my ribs, a mad tattoo. “Owen isn’t a part of any terrorist cell! He’s not an anti-monarchist. Sure, he may’ve participated in a few nonviolent protests, a political march or two on the university campus… but he’s never done anything remotely illegal, let alone radical.”

  “Nevertheless,” she murmurs smugly, victorious. “You are not to contact him again, either in person or otherwise. I’ve ensured that he’s already been blacklisted from all royal properties and functions. And don’t worry, dear — if he attempts to trespass on any Lancaster land — Lockwood Estate included — I will personally see to it that he is jailed for conspiracy against the crown.” She leans forward, her voice intent. “You see… I will do whatever is necessary to protect the members of my family. I hope this proves that to you.”

  “You can’t do this,” I whisper, hate blazing from my eyes. “You can’t.”

  “It’s already done.”

  “I’ll talk to Linus!” I snap, stepping forward. “I’ll get him to reverse the order.”

  She laughs — actually throws her head back and laughs at me, like I’m a puppet and she’s the one holding all my strings, making me dance. “You foolish little girl. Did you honestly think, because you caught his ear for a single afternoon, that he cares about you? That, because he sent you a few books and needs a new heir, he’s going to suddenly step in and become a father figure? You’re wrong. The only person Linus Lancaster serves is Linus Lancaster. You will find out for yourself just how little you matter to him, as soon as your interests stop aligning with his own.”

  “You’re wrong,” I seethe quietly.

  “Am I?” She steps closer. “It may be called the King’s Guard, but everyone in this household answers to on
e person — me. Not Linus, locked away in his study with his manuscripts and his memos and his quaint meetings over tea. Certainly not you.” She makes a mocking tsk noise with her lips. “So go ahead and try to challenge me, girl. I will have Owen Harding locked up in a royal prison cell so fast, it will make your head spin. He’ll never see the light of day again, unless I see fit to allow it.”

  “You don’t have that kind of power.”

  “Try me,” she dares. “If you’re wrong, you’ll have only yourself to blame.” Her mouth twists. “Alternatively… you can make the smarter choice by yielding to my authority. You can set aside the ridiculous notion that, based on the blood running through your veins, you are somehow entitled to anything but the life you already know, in a very small house with a very small future.”

  Suddenly, I can see things so clearly. None of this is about Owen. Hell, it’s not even about me.

  It’s about the throne.

  It’s about power.

  It’s about this shrew of a woman, and the lengths she’ll go to take control of the crown.

  She wants Germania for herself, I realize, staring at her. It’s not enough to manipulate me, or her children, or her household staff, or her husband… this crazy bitch wants to commandeer the whole damn country.

  Steely resolve fills my bones, fortifying me with new purpose. I may not know precisely how yet, but I do know one thing: I am going to stop her before she hurts anyone else.

  No matter what it takes.

  “Octavia,” I say in a voice I barely recognize. “I suggest you leave. Now.”

  She doesn’t move. She’s enjoying this too much.

  “Get out of my room!” I shriek, feeling my control begin to unravel. “You sociopathic, narcissistic monster!”

  “Happily.” Smiling like we’ve just traded smalltalk, she turns and starts heading toward the door. “The dress fitting tomorrow. Noon, sharp, in the main parlor. Do not be late.” She pauses in the threshold to look back at me. “Or, do, if you’d like to see what happens when you disobey me. I’d be all too happy to give you a demonstration of my authority.” Her head tilts in contemplation. “Owen has two little sisters, doesn’t he? Adorable girls. I saw their picture just this afternoon…”

  I suck in a sharp breath.

  “It would be such a shame if anything were to happen to them.”

  “GET OUT!” I scream at top volume, advancing on her with tears in my eyes. A hate unlike anything I’ve ever known before boils through my veins. “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

  “Goodnight,” she calls serenely, her heels clicking down the hallway like gunshots. “Sweet dreams.”

  I wait until she’s out of sight. Then, with a bellow of rage, I turn and punch my door with every bit of force I possess, unleashing all my anger into the strike — and damn near breaking my hand in the process.

  “FUCK!” I wail, crumpling to the floor, clutching my bruised fingers to my chest. I lean against the doorway to my room, tears streaking down my face, breathless with pain and frustration. I’m still reeling from Octavia’s threats when I hear the door directly across the hall swing open.

  Carter is standing there, dark hair mussed from sleep, looking down at me with concern written all over his face. He must’ve heard me screaming and come out to investigate. I suck in a breath that has nothing to do with my aching knuckle bones when I see he’s barefoot and shirtless, a pair of gray sweatpants riding low on his defined hipbones. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his ab muscles — a perfectly chiseled eight-pack, with a trail of hair leading from his belly button down, down, down….

  Sweet Christ.

  He starts toward me, making it two steps into the hallway before he catches himself. His expression contorts, flickering through emotions so fast I can’t keep track — pity, concern, desire, anger, worry, disgust — before settling into an unreadable mask. Taking a step backward, his spine hits the arch of his doorway and, for a moment, I think he’s going to disappear back into his bedroom without a word. I’m stunned when, instead, he slides down to the floor so he’s sitting across from me, long legs sprawled out in front of him on the hard hallway floor.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  Neither do I.

  We just sit there — me, clutching my stupid, damaged hand; him, gazing at me like he can’t quite decide whether he wants to crush me to his chest or slam his door in my face. With my good hand, I wipe the tears from my cheeks. There’s little point: the instant I try to flex the damaged one, my eyes fill again.

  Damn, that hurts.

  Carter clears his throat. “You should really put some ice on that.”

  I glance up sharply and find him carefully studying the angles of my face in the dim hallway light. “I’m fine.”

  He shrugs indifferently.

  “It was stupid,” I mutter after a moment. “I know better than to take my anger out on inanimate objects.”

  “Yeah, well, Octavia has that effect on people.” Taking a deep breath that makes his chest muscles contract, he runs a hand through his hair. “As a teenager, I punched so many holes in the walls back in Hightower, they stated calling my chambers the Gypsum Suite.” He pauses. “Because the maintenance staff were—”

  “Always patching the plaster on your walls,” I murmur, a smile tugging up one corner of my mouth. “Clever.”

  His eyes narrow on my face. “What was the fight about?”

  I stare at his bare feet. For some reason, the sight of them is even more mesmerizing than his abs. The Adonis-like Lord Carter Thorne, stripped of his perfectly tailored dress pants and shiny Oxford shoes. A mere mortal, after all.

  “Emilia?”

  My eyes snap back to his face. I fight the blush staining my cheeks. “Oh, just a regular chat between a girl and her new stepmother, full of thinly-veiled threats, political maneuvering, and outright duplicity. You know, the usual.”

  He snorts lightly. “Sounds about right.”

  We fall silent again, just watching each other. It’s so quiet in the hallway, I can hear each rhythmic intake of his breath. I stretch my legs out, trying to find a more comfortable position.

  “Owen,” I say finally.

  He goes utterly still.

  “She threatened Owen.” I swallow hard. “I know you won’t be terribly upset to hear it, since you two didn’t exactly… get off on the right foot, the other day.”

  He grunts in agreement.

  “But he’s my best friend. And now…” I blink back tears. “She’s got some pictures of him from an anti-monarchy protest on campus, last fall. She basically implied that… well, that she can make it look a whole lot worse. Like he’s a member of a radical fringe group, targeting the crown.”

  “Can’t say I’d be all that surprised if he really was, given the way he talked about me and Chloe.”

  “It’s not true, though!” I cry, anger washing over me anew. “It’s just…”

  “Octavia attempting to control you.”

  “Yes. Which I don’t understand at all. Even if I ever accept my role — which still remains a big if — she’ll be the queen. She outranks me.”

  “For now.”

  I lift my brows.

  He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re royal by blood. She’s royal by marriage. When she becomes queen, it’ll be a symbolic title more than anything. A queen consort is not the same as a queen regnant.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Trust me, so is she. She knows the second Linus dies, she’ll be out on her ass, to put it bluntly.” His blue eyes are intent. “And Linus is not young. Which will just leave…”

  “Me,” I murmur softly.

  “You,” he echoes.

  As our eyes hold, the air between us starts to feel charged again, that inescapable electrical current running back and forth from him to me. He’s a dozen feet away, but I swear I can practically feel his warm touch on my skin.

  “We should probably get to bed,” I whisper.


  Maybe it’s my imagination, but I’d swear his eyes flare with heat as he watches my mouth form those words. He quickly smothers the look under a mask of icy indifference. Rising to his feet, he stands in the threshold with his back to me, pausing for the briefest of moments.

  “Put some ice on that damn hand.”

  He’s gone a second later, slamming his door with finality. I hear the lock turn over and let a long-held breath rattle from my lungs.

  “Goodnight,” I whisper to the empty hallway.

  The long walk downstairs to the kitchen does absolutely nothing to calm my thundering pulse. And later, when I climb into bed, swollen hand cradled against my chest… I dream of bright blue eyes that somehow always look straight through me, down to the dirty, shattered soul beneath.

  Chapter Eleven

  It’s 11:55 a.m. and I’m pacing outside the closed parlor doors. I refuse to step into that room until it’s absolutely unavoidable.

  “She bamboozled you into this too, huh?”

  I look up at the sound of Chloe’s voice and see her leaning against the wall, watching me ping-pong back and forth. Judging by the warm look on her face, she’s not holding a grudge about the Owen incident.

  I smile back at her. “Bamboozled is too nice a word for what she did.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better or worse?”

  She laughs, a light tinkling sound. “Neither. But it’s the truth. After a while, you’ll develop a sort of sixth sense for Octavia’s schemes. And once you can anticipate your opponent’s moves… it’s much easier to evade them.”

  I shake my head tiredly. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this life.”

  “No one’s ever ready for anything. You just suck it up and do it and hope that eventually the pieces fall into place. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying.”