by Evie East
I’m quiet as we ascend the grand staircase up to the second floor, at a loss for what to say. Whenever he speaks of Henry, I feel like a total imposter — an unwanted changeling, swapped out for the rightful heir.
Alden seems to realize we’ve waded into uncomfortable waters, because he suddenly squeezes my hand and brightens his tone. “See those suits of armor?”
I glance at the row of medieval-looking hollow knights, lining the hallway.
“Funny story…” He chuckles. “Once, maybe five years back, after a few too many rounds of Germanian ginger mules, we were all stumbling around the castle…”
By the time we round the corner toward my suite, he’s got me laughing uproariously as he tells me about the time he, Chloe, Carter, and Henry got drunk, put on antique suits of armor, and ran through the halls at midnight, their battle cries waking up everyone in the entire castle.
“Then, Chloe fell over and couldn’t get back up. The armor was so heavy, it took all three of us to stand her upright again.”
I throw back my head and laugh. “Oh my god, please tell me there is photographic evidence.”
Alden shakes his head, grinning. “Afraid not. Can you imagine if that ever leaked to the press? We would’ve been lambasted.”
“I’d imagine Simms did some lambasting of his own, when he found out.”
He laughs. “How right you are.”
We’ve reached my door, but I hesitate in the hallway. “Alden… thank you.”
“For what?” he asks, squeezing my hand.
“Taking my mind off things for a while.” I shrug. “I haven’t laughed this much in a long time.”
“That’s a crime.” He steps closer, perfect teeth flashing. There’s not a single hair out of place on his perfectly parted platinum head. “You have a wonderful laugh, Emilia.”
He’s not quite six feet tall, so when he leans his face down toward mine, the distance isn’t all that far. I feel my mouth go dry, watching him come closer.
Is he going to kiss me?
Am I going to let him?
My questions never get answers — there’s a bang from our left, loud enough to make me jump out of my skin. Alden and I both spin our heads to look and find the source of the sound standing in the doorway of his suite, hand still on the knob, glaring darkly in our direction.
Carter.
Just the sight of him is enough to make my heart pound a mad tattoo — even with him glaring at me like he wants to ring my neck. I’m not sure what expression is on my face, but whatever he sees when he takes in the sight of me and Alden makes his lip curl with disdain.
“Carter,” Alden says in a light tone, but I notice how tense his shoulders are. “Good to see you, mate.”
Carter’s eyes cut to Alden, then drop down to where our hands are still interlaced. A muscle jumps in his cheek.
“Alden. What are you doing here… mate?”
The words are friendly — the voice he says them in are considerably less so. I pull my hand out of Alden’s grip with a tug that makes his brows lift.
“Just getting to know our princess a bit better.” Alden crosses his arms over his chest. “Seems she’s been sorely neglected, these past few weeks.”
I think Carter’s head might actually explode, when he hears that. His eyes narrow to cerulean pinpricks. He’s careful not to look at me.
“Is that so?”
I swallow nervously as Alden shifts his body weight forward. “She’s your new sister — you should really take better care of her.”
“Looks like you’re handling things just fine, from where I’m standing.”
I wish the floor would swallow me up.
I wish a meteor would strike the castle.
I wish Chloe would come around the corner.
Literally anything to get me out of this conversation.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” Alden says conversationally.
Carter doesn’t respond except to shrug.
Alden’s brows quirk. “What have you been up to?”
“Oh, just busy making up for lost time.” His tone is lethally soft — thunder rumbling, the first hint of an impending storm. “After a week of isolation at the Lockwood Estate, where the hottest prospect was Patricia the fifty-year-old cook, I had a lot of…” He pauses. “…pent up energy…” A smirk. “I needed to blow off. Thankfully, the three Swedish models I met last night were more than happy to oblige.”
I flinch.
Alden laughs, as if he understands only too well. “Ah. I’m sure the women of Vasgaard are relieved to have you fully operational again.”
“Mmm.” Carter’s eyes flicker to mine and hold. “Maybe I’ll bring the models to the coronation. See if I can make Octavia’s head explode.”
“You have a death wish, mate.”
“Maybe I do.” He’s still looking at me, that intense gaze holding me captive more effectively than chains. I’m locked onto him in turn — pulse pounding, barely breathing. Wishing like mad that the feeling spreading through my veins resembled anything close to the indifference projected on my face.
Would it bother you, little sister? his eyes seem to ask. Seeing me with someone else?
Before I can do something stupid, like break down in tears, I rip my gaze away and turn to face Alden. My voice is so falsely bright, I barely recognize it as my own.
“This was so much fun, but I really should be getting back to work — that essay on social cognition isn’t going to write itself. Thanks again for the distraction, Alden. I’ll see you in a few days, at the coronation.”
“Oh—” His brows lift, startled by my brusque departure. “Save me a dance, princess?”
“Of course. Though I can’t promise I won’t step on your toes.”
Before he can say more, I pop up onto my tiptoes, deposit a quick kiss on his cheek, and turn to slip inside my room without once looking back at the man standing down the hall, watching me with laser-like focus. It’s probably rude to close my door in Alden’s face after he’s been so kind to me, but I don’t really have a choice — not unless I want a witness to the emotional breakdown I’m about to have.
Shaking with rage and humiliation and, yes, a heady dose of unquenched yearning, I sink down to the floor, hands pressed over my face to contain my tears. They leak out through my fingers anyway, hot and furious as they streak down my cheeks.
This is insane, I scold myself, even as a sob rattles my chest. You just had a perfect first date with a perfect man… and here you are, emotionally crippled by a two second interaction with your asshole stepbrother?
Forget about Carter Thorne.
You only want him because you know you can’t have him.
But even my lies aren’t enough to comfort me. Because, deep down, I know I wanted him long before I became aware we’d be sharing a household and a father figure and a bedroom wall. Just as I know I’ll keep wanting him, despite all the very valid reasons I shouldn’t, until time eventually steals away my memories.
* * *
It’s late.
Beneath the covers in my darkened bedroom, I do my best to drift off to sleep but my mind refuses to power down, no matter how long I press my cry-swollen eyes closed. It doesn’t help that I can hear Carter moving on the other side of the wall: the low refrains of his music, his footsteps on the hardwood, the rush of water as he takes a shower. I try not to picture him under the torrent, his chiseled body glistening, steam fogging up the glass…
I fail.
Miserably.
Rolling over for the twentieth time, I punch my pillow into a more comfortable shape. Its ironic — I hated it when he was gone, but I think I like it even less now that he’s back, one inconsequential wall dividing my bed from his.
I wonder if he can hear me, too.
If he heard my tears.
If he felt my grief.
If I’m driving him as crazy as he is me.
The wall goes silent, and I know he’s finally
turned in for the night. It’s impossible not to think of him lying there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, mere feet from me.
Is he thinking of me lying here, my legs tangled in the sheets, my thoughts tangled up in him? Or does he fantasize instead about his exploits with the three Swedish models he was so quick to throw in my face?
The low chime of my overhead speakers connecting to a new bluetooth device makes me sit straight up in bed, eyebrows arched to my hairline. A second later, my confusion compounds when music starts to drift into the dark room — a haunting, melancholic melody.
What the hell?
The song itself isn’t strange; I instantly recognize its familiar strains from an old playlist. What’s odd is the fact that I’m not the one playing it.
Utterly perplexed, I grab my tablet off the nightstand. The screen is dark, no songs queued. Same with my cellphone. It’s not until the lyrics start and my mind registers the song title — Don’t You Cry For Me by Cobi — that the pieces finally click into place. I know exactly what’s happening.
It’s Carter.
He’s doing this.
He’s playing me a song.
Somehow, he’s synced his phone to my speakers. I’m not entirely sure how, but as the words wash over me — oh, don’t you cry for me — I’m far more concerned with another question.
Why?
Why would he do this?
To comfort me? To torture me?
To let me know he heard my tears through the wall and felt…
Shame? Pity? Fear? Hope? Need? Sorrow?
I sit there in the pitch black, my body paralyzed as my mind tumbles in circles, and allow every lyric to embed itself in my heart like a piece of shrapnel.
I’m torn from the truth that holds my soul…
Vaguely, I realize there are tears tracking down my cheeks. I can’t summon the will to even wipe them away. Every ounce of my attention is fixed firmly on the music… and the man playing it for me.
For four full minutes, I listen.
I weep.
I wait.
Searching for answers; coming up empty.
The song fades out.
The bluetooth chimes again as he disconnects.
And then there is only silence in the room. But my mind — oh, my mind is roaring so loud with questions, I know there’s not a chance in hell I’ll be sleeping tonight.
What game are you playing, Carter?
Chapter Seventeen
I’m going to throw up.
Coronation day has officially arrived and, with it, nausea like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I stand in my bedroom, strapped into a corset. It’s cinched so tight I can hardly breathe, let alone eat.
Probably for the best. I’d hate to vomit in front of dignitaries from twelve neighboring countries, plus everyone with a title in all of Germanian society.
The buzzing of my phone is a welcome distraction. I walk over to the nightstand and feel my face go pale when the screen flashes the word HOME. Someone is calling from my landline, at the house in Hawthorne. The house no one except me has a key for.
My fingers shake as I press a button to accept the call.
“Hello?”
“Ems — please don’t hang up.”
I sigh. “Owen, I asked for space…”
“Please!” He sounds desperate. “If you never speak to me again after this, that’s fine. But I need you to hear me out right now. Can you do that?”
“Did you break into my house to call me?”
There’s a pause.
“Oh my god, you did! What the fuck, Owen?”
“You wouldn’t take my calls,” he snaps. “I had no choice.”
“The choice was to give me space, like I asked for. You know, after you told the entire world about my identity and ruined my life. Remember that?”
“Ems…” The sadness in his voice claws at the steel wall I erected around my heart, the day he betrayed me. “I know it’s not an excuse, but that day… Look, I’m not proud of it. I’d been drinking. I was upset. God, you’re the most important person in my life and I could feel you slipping away, and… it fucking terrified me. I lost it.”
“That doesn’t justify what you did.” My voice gets small. “You say I’m the most important person in your life, that I’m your best friend… but those are just words. If you don’t have the actions to back them up…”
“I’m sorry, Emilia. I’m so fucking sorry. You don’t understand—”
“I do understand! I do.” My throat feels clogged. “But you’re supposed to be the one who protects me. Instead, you hurt me worse than anyone.”
“If you’ll just hear me out, I swear I’ll make it right—”
“I’m hanging up, now, Owen.”
“NO!” His roar is so loud, I flinch back from the phone. “I need you to listen. I don’t have a lot of time. Look, things may already be in motion and I’m not sure if I can stop them.”
“What are you talking about?”
He curses lowly. “After you left, these past few weeks… I’ve started taking a more active role in the anti-monarchy groups on campus.”
My heart pangs painfully. “Why are you telling me this? To hurt me even more? To dig the knife in deeper? It wasn’t enough to tell the world who I am — now you’re going to tell them how much you hate me?”
“No! You’ve got it all wrong, Ems. I only joined the group because I thought they might have answers about…” His voice drops low, as if he’s scared to say the next words too loudly. “About the fire.”
The whole world stops turning.
“What? You mean the fire here at the palace?”
“Yes,” he murmurs. “Emilia… Not everyone in these anti-royalist groups is content to keep marching peacefully, holding signs and staging walk-outs. Some of them want to take things further.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last year, at one of the meetings, I heard some of the guys saying that the simplest way to solve our problem was to eliminate the source: no more Lancasters, no more line of succession… no more monarchy.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” My voice is a whisper. “Owen…”
“I’m saying that I re-joined the group after you were pulled into this life, because if there’s even a chance those guys weren’t joking…” He blows out a breath. “I couldn’t let you walk around with a target on your back. Not if I knew there was something I could do to protect you.”
My chest aches. I don’t know what to say. I hardly know which way is up, right now. Everything feels skewed, like the world has tilted on its axis.
“Ems? Are you still there?”
“I’m here.” I force myself to take a deep breath — not an easy feat, in this corset. “Do you think… do you think there’s really a chance they could be responsible for the fire?”
“I haven’t found out anything definitive, yet. They trust me to some degree — especially after they saw me on the news, getting detained by the King’s Guard outside Windsor Abbey for outing you to the press. I’m not privy to everything, though. I need more time, plain and simple. But with the coronation tonight…”
“You think something is going to happen.”
“Everyone in Germania with even a drop of Lancaster blood will be in that castle. Plus, elite members from countless other monarchies. It would be a perfect target.”
Horror fills me. He’s right.
“I don’t know what you expect me to do with this information. Linus will never cancel — not without a credible threat. And there’s no way I’ll be able to skip it.”
“I know.” He pauses. “Just… please be careful. If anything ever happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”
A tear slips from the corner of my eye and falls to the hardwood with a small splat. “I will.”
“Good,” he says, voice gruff. I know he’s holding his emotions tightly in check. “Could you… do you think you could call me afterward? So I can h
ear your voice and know you’re okay?”
“Sure,” I whisper. “And Owen?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For having my back, even when things are so messed up between us.”
“Don’t thank me, Ems. Just stay safe.”
* * *
As predicted, my warnings about security fall on deaf ears.
Linus is, evidently, far too busy to speak to me, so it’s Simms who receives my frantic stream of worries. He stands in the small sitting room of my suite, arms crossed over a too-tight tuxedo, double chin jiggling pompously.
“Your Highness, I assure you, you will be perfectly safe. The King’s Guard is fully prepared for all contingencies. The castle is secure.” His eyes scan me up and down, clearly disapproving of my bathrobe and bare feet. “Now, I must attend to our royal guests and you must get ready — unless you are planning to wear that to the ceremony.”
I roll my eyes. “No, Simms.”
“Very good, princess. Then I will send in your hair and makeup team to assist you with final preparations. Please do not dally — guests are beginning to arrive and you’re expected down in the throne room within the hour.”
He leaves in a huff, a cloud of self-inflated ego lingering in his wake like bad cologne.
* * *
Forty minutes later, I study myself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the girl staring back at me. The ballgown is truly a work of art — champagne satin and tulle with intricately embroidered lace appliqué that covers both sleeves and extends downward in shimmering whirls of gold. The bodice is tight fitted, showing off my curves like never before with the help of the stiff corset boning. The back dips low to reveal most of my spine before flowing out into a full skirt, complete with a two foot train.
In this dress, I actually look like a princess.
In this dress… I almost feel like a princess.
I’m thoroughly convinced the hair and makeup ladies have magical powers, because no fairy godmother could’ve done any better — even with a wand. My eyes are lined with black and gold, making the green of my irises pop. My lips are stained a deep berry tone that’s somehow glossy without being sticky. And my wild curls have been tamed into sleek mahogany coils — an up-do specifically designed to suit a crown.
