by Zoey Oliver
The doors slide shut, blocking out Spencer’s questioning expression, and the elevator descends, leaving me completely alone with the maddening, raw emotions welling up in my gut.
I’m sitting on a bench under an ancient, sprawling oak tree at the edge of the East Lawn. The palace is mostly dark now and the grounds are quiet. I’ve brought along a bottle of brandy, grabbed it without thinking from the counter in the chef’s kitchen as I stumbled through the rear of the palace, desperate to get out of the building, desperate for fresh air and solitude.
But the crisp fall air hasn’t helped, nor has the brandy. A third of the bottle is gone, and I don’t feel a fucking bit better. I rub the soft petal between my fingers then look at my hand, trying to remember what I’m holding. Right. A honeysuckle blossom from the half dozen bouquets I ordered while I was away. The ones I had imported and brought to my suite for Abi — a special surprise awaiting her tonight, a way of saying how much I’ve missed her company these past few days.
All the vases are smashed against the walls now.
“Licking your wounds, Henry?”
I look up at the sound of a familiar voice calling to me from the distance, an unwelcome intrusion into my quiet retreat. Fucking Finley. Great. I look up at the Heavens with despair and anger. This, too? Kicking me while I’m down?
“Get lost, Finley,” I call back. “Go choke on your own dick.”
Instead of leaving, Finley saunters over to me. “I assume from the look of things over here that you’ve heard the news?”
“And if I haven’t? I assume you’re going to tell me, given that fake, smug-as-shit look you’re trying to impress me with right now,” I spit the words at him and tip the bottle of brandy up for another chug. I don’t even taste its citrusy sweetness now; it might as well be water, but it’s still not numbing the crushing pain in my chest, nor quieting the relentless clamor of thoughts in my head.
“Oh, it’s real.” He sighs, like he’s already bored of talking to me, and pretends to absent-mindedly pluck leaves off a low-hanging branch of the tree I’m sitting under, crushing them between his fingers.
“Spit it out, Finley.”
He smirks at me but doesn’t reply right away, just stands there gloating. He’s really pissing me off now, with this phony swagger of his.
“What do you want, asshole?”
“I’m so glad I get to witness you learning this news,” he says, practically giddy. “Abi’s chosen me.”
“The fuck she has.”
He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his trousers, and the smug grin goes from just annoying to hideously intolerable. “Oh, I assure you, it’s true. I just came from meeting with Abigail and her parents.”
I jump to my feet, knocking the bottle of brandy to the ground. “You’re a fucking liar. I was just at her suite.”
He laughs, his voice filled with a sickening triumph. “Oh, I know. We heard you out in the hallway, causing a scene. I know it’s crushing your fragile ego right now, Henry. But she’s mine.”
“I won’t believe it until I hear it from her.”
He clicks his tongue and sighs happily. “Well, you won’t have to wait long — we’re announcing it tomorrow before the garden concert.”
I lean my hand against the tree to steady myself. It can’t be. She wouldn’t really go through with this, would she? And Finley? Of all the men clamoring after her, there’s no way she’d pick fucking Finley Prescott.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you two keep sneaking off to cop a feel,” Finley sneers. “But I don’t give a shit about that, because I know she’s mine in all the ways it counts — her hand in marriage, her family estate, her virginity — it’s all mine for the taking.”
“What?”
He looks at me, and then his head tilts to the side, and glee fills his eyes. “You didn’t know about the chastity clause, did you?” He throws his head back with laughter and claps his hands together. “Oh my God, that’s fucking perfect!”
“What the hell are you going on about Finley?”
“All the messing around you’ve been doing? It wasn’t ever going to lead anywhere. That’s why your sorry attempts at seducing her haven’t bothered me a bit. See, we’ve got a little agreement — she’s sworn to remain a virgin until her wedding night. She’s all mine. I’ve made sure of it.”
“Bullshit,” I growl. “There’s no such agreement. That’s not true.”
“Ah, but you know it isn’t, don’t you?” He taps a finger to the side of his head and looks at me with mock pity. “Poor Henry, always two steps behind me.”
“Fuck you, Finley.”
His white teeth flash brightly in a snide grin. “From the look on your face, things are finally starting to click into place. That’s right, she’s been saving that tight cunt all for me.” He cups the front of his pants and tugs. “I’ll let you know how it feels.”
My hands tighten into fists, and the muscles of my legs tense. “Don’t talk about her that way.”
“Our wedding night, it’s gonna be so good. She’ll get her little virgin cunt pounded real nice.” He makes an obscene gesture with his hips and hands, jiggling his groin back and forth in the air. “I have a nice stock of pills to make sure I can ram that pussy wide for hours, Henry, hours. When that loosens up, I can just flip her over.”
“Shut the fuck up, Finley.”
“You can picture it, right? I’m gonna slide balls deep into that bitch and pound her until she can’t remember what your face looks like. She’ll spend the rest of her life on her knees, or maybe with her ass up in the air, pleasing my cock however I want. I’ll own her.”
“The hell you will,” I growl, stepping forward.
I land my fist squarely in Finley’s gut. He lets out a sharp wheeze and doubles over. I don’t hesitate, landing a blow to the back of his neck while thrusting my knee upward, smashing into his face. Then three swift punches to the side of his ribs. I hope I’ve shattered them into dust.
He staggers backward, one hand wrapped around his chest, the other clutching his nose. Blood is dripping through his fingers. “Eat shit, Henry,” he gasps.
“If you lay a single fucking finger on Abi ever again, I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life regretting it. In fact, don’t even utter her name.”
After a moment he straights up, heaving for breath. His eyes burn with indignation, and he spits out a mouthful of blood.
He points at me, his hand shaking angrily. “Just for that, I’m gonna send you some videos of her gagging on my cock. I’m gonna make your sweet little pet my dirty, filthy whore.”
Fury seeps into every cell of my body like an all-consuming black poison. I want to utterly destroy him.
“Those are some big words, Finley. Let’s see if you can back them up.” I wave my fingers at him, beckoning him over. “Come on, bitch boy. Show me how much of a man you are.”
He lunges forward, both arms swinging at me wildly. His blows land across my shoulders as I duck and spin around out of his clumsy embrace, grabbing his right arm in the process, twisting it painfully. He cries out and swings at me with his other arm, but I block his punch and send my elbow smashing into his windpipe.
Finley gurgles and claws at my neck and my hair, trying to get hold of me. I twist, driving a hard blow deep into the left side of his chest. He coughs and shakes his head, throwing an arm toward me, but I shift out of the way, and he stumbles from the momentum of the missed punch.
He staggers a few feet, and I smash my right fist into his face as hard as I can and drive an uppercut into his jaw with my left. He wobbles backward, arms flailing at me wildly.
Swiveling on the ball of my left foot, I bring my right leg up with blinding speed and deliver a roundhouse kick to the side of his head. His knees buckle, and I’m on top of him instantly, jamming my knee into his groin as I tackle him.
When the royal guards finally pull me off him, my hands are covered in blood, and Finley is unconscious.
>
Chapter 19
ABIGAIL
“I don’t think anyone is going to be looking at my feet tonight,” I say to Emily as a short brunette lady attacks the bottom of my feet, rubbing them vigorously with a large emery board. She’s already whittled half of my toenails off with a metal nail file. “Is this really necessary?”
“Your mother’s orders were for the full treatment, head to toe. If you think I’m arguing with that woman, you’re crazy,” Emily says from a chair in the corner of the spa, giving me a look. “So be quiet and enjoy being pampered.”
“I wish I could enjoy it,” I say sullenly. Over the past month, I’ve fallen farther and farther down the rabbit hole into a hellish cartoon mockery of my life.
She frowns at my words, and we share a sad, silent exchange. On a normal day, I might find this situation pleasant — soaking in a large pedestal tub filled with soothing lavender-scented warm water while being fussed over by no less than three spa attendants as I sip on an exotic blend of herbal teas.
But today, not so much. It’s been four days since my life as I knew it came to a hard stop. Four long, lonely, gut-wrenching days where I’ve cycled between despair and acceptance and anger. Publicly, I’m holding it together for my parents, who don’t ever need know about my tryst with Henry or how ambivalent I feel about Finley or how much I really just want to slip out of this palace, get on a plane, and disappear off the grid somewhere in Africa.
I’m functioning outwardly, going through all the motions, but inside, I don’t feel any more put together than I was the night of the meeting in the library, when the advisors showed me that dreadful folder of pictures and told me my only options were Finley, or Finley, or… Finley.
I’m already raw and frayed and broken into a million pieces inside, so being scrubbed and plucked to within an inch of my life by very enthusiastic attendants is not helping me feel relaxed or less stressed. Especially because every other second I’m thinking about why I’m here — preparing for my first big public appearance later this evening.
Originally, we were going to announce our engagement during the garden concert, but Finley’s face was a fucking wreck thanks to Henry’s handiwork. The announcement had to be pushed off a few days, which is fine with me. If it weren’t for the deadline of my birthday approaching and that atrocious agreement, I’d push it off for eternity. No part of me is looking forward to marriage with Finley.
Now we're scheduled to make our public debut this evening, so our parents can present us during an awards banquet after a charity polo exhibition. Yesterday, mother took one look at my puffy red eyes and knotted, unbrushed hair and ordered me to the spa in Doremont to get cleaned up and made presentable.
Before she could ask why I looked so disheveled, Emily told her we’d had a girl’s night out, a bit of an early bachelorette celebration and we’d drank too much and that I’d gotten sick. My mother clucked her tongue, but let the matter drop with no questions.
The spa attendant places my feet back in the water, and I lean my head back, stretching my neck, which is tender from being yanked every which way as the stylist whipped it into a large pile of curls atop my head an hour ago.
“Lady Strathmore,” the tall, thin attendant says, hovering in the doorway to the soaking room, “if you’d like to dry off, we’re ready for you in the dressing room. Then our makeup artist will take over, and you’ll be all done.”
She flashes me a bright smile before leaving.
I sit forward in the tub, gathering piles of bubbles to me. “I bet most of the women who come here to get ready for a big event are nearly beside themselves with excitement — prom, engagements, weddings.”
“I’m sure they aren’t all happy,” Emily says.
“Ugh, that’s even sadder. Those are supposed to be joyful times, special days.”
A loud bang drowns out Emily’s response, and we both jump.
“What the hell was that?” I ask, craning my neck to see through the doorway into the other areas of the spa.
Emily’s on her feet, heading to the door, when a commotion of shouting and loud voices erupts.
“What on earth is going on out there?”
She peeks through the open doorway then steps back quickly, her face ashen. “Uh oh, we have a situation.”
“What is it?”
“Henry.”
“What?”
“He’s here,” she whispers.
The voices get louder, and I look around the soaking room — the door doesn’t have a lock on it, and the room is spacious and barren, just a tub, two small tables holding towels and fancy bottles of bathing supplies, and a few low-slung reading chairs arranged on a plush, pale gold rug. There’s nowhere to hide, no adjoining room to slip into.
A second later, Henry appears in the doorway. Behind him are several spa attendants, looking back and forth nervously between Henry and myself.
“I’m so sorry, Lady Strathmore, His Highness barged in,” the head attendant, Cindy, says, standing on tiptoe to peek over Henry’s right shoulder.
I stare at him in astonishment. “Henry, for the love of God, what are you doing?”
He strides into the room and stops when he’s just a few feet away from me. “Leave us,” he growls, his eyes trained on me and his voice full of royal command.
The attendants quickly scatter as I steal a glance at Emily. She’s frozen in the same position she was a moment ago, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Should I go?” she mouths.
I take a deep breath and look back at Henry. He’s staring at me intently, and I feel my resolve weaken as I look at him… those eyes, that beautiful face.
“Please, just let me have a moment. Please, Abi,” he says softly, his voice choked with barely restrained emotion.
I nod at Emily, and she quickly slips out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
When we’re alone, I stand up in the tub, water running off of me in little rivers. I look at Henry as coldly as I can muster, but the longing on his face as he looks at my naked body sends a rush of heat between my legs.
“What do you want?” I ask, my tone clipped and unwelcoming.
“Is it true?” His eyes move up my bare torso to my face, where they burn through me.
I turn away from him and carefully step out of the tub. Keep it together, Abi. I can feel his eyes on me, following my every movement as I walk to the table along the wall.
“Is what true?” I ask, still facing away.
“Finley. Tell me that you aren’t marrying him,” he growls, his voice raw and guttural, edged with an anger I’ve not heard before.
I take a towel from the table and glance over my shoulder coolly as I unfold it. “I am marrying him.”
Henry’s composure collapses. He drops to one knee, his face buried in his hands, a sob rocking through him. I stare in surprise.
Don’t let this scene sway you, Abi. That sorrow isn’t for you. He’s just upset he can’t claim you as his prize. He only wants what he can’t have.
I look away and wrap the towel around me, steadying my resolve, repeating a mantra of determination over and over in my mind. I will not let him see how much he’s hurt me. I will not let my guard down. I will not fall for his charm.
“I have places to be, Henry,” I say, keeping my voice detached. I walk around the tub and start past him, heading for the door, looking to the side to avoid seeing him crouched on the floor in anguish.
But I don’t make it out of the room. He turns and grabs me, his hands on my hips.
“Let go,” I hiss, averting my eyes from his.
“No,” he says, his voice full of grit and fire. “Not until you tell me why. Tell me what happened.”
I make the mistake of looking down at him. His eyes are misty with tears, and his jaw is set hard and crooked, a desperation on his face I’ve never seen on him before.
A sharp stab of sadness rips through me, and I look away.
It would do no good to mention the photograp
hs of the other women — we never had an exclusive arrangement. I never asked that of him, and neither of us brought it up.
Plus, who am I to judge? I’ve been entertaining suitors for weeks. Doesn’t matter that it’s not an activity I’ve chosen out of desire — I was technically still dating other people during our time together — actually looking for a husband when I wasn’t in his bed — so that’s hardly a chip I can toss at him, is it?
I’m sure with how frequently Henry goes through women, all of his conquests just run together, one unremarkable fuck after another. Why did I think I’d be any different? They meant nothing to him, just as my suitors mean nothing to me.
The difference is that I’m the foolish woman who fell for the untameable bachelor.
“It’s my fault, Henry. I let myself get too carried away with you.”
He stands up, his hands never leaving me. He slides one up to my neck, touches my chin. “Abi, look at me.”
I dart my eyes toward him. “What?”
He lowers his face and presses his cheek to mine, his skin flushed with heat against the damp coolness of mine. “Abi…” he breathes, his voice tender and raw.
I freeze, flight or fight kicking adrenaline through me, making my stomach clench and my pulse race erratically, but I can’t move. I can’t bring myself to pull away from him.
“Abi, my beautiful Abi,” he says, over and over.
My heart flutters at his words. My Abi. His touch has me reeling, and I feel dizzy. I close my eyes and draw in a slow, deep breath to steady myself, but he’s nuzzled against me, and the air at my nose is heavy with his scent — sandalwood and soap, musk and leather, blending together into the most addictive smell — one I’m powerless to resist. Underneath the towel, my nipples harden at the intoxicating, familiar scent of him.
“Oh God, I’ve missed you so much,” he murmurs, sliding his strong hands up my back, across the towel, to my shoulders. He runs his lips along my cheek, down to my jawline, planting the most delicate of kisses, and then to my lips, brushing them tenderly.
