by Zoey Oliver
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 photographs 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 t
he untamable 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.
Despite every ounce of determination I have, I turn my face toward him, part my lips, and allow him to kiss me. And oh, does he kiss me.
He starts off so gentle, little butterfly kisses at the corners of my mouth, his lips soft and slow. And they build, his kisses getting deeper and stronger, teasing and sensual, and then his lips are pressing against mine with a fiery passion, consuming and demanding. He groans and whispers my name, running his hands up my neck, into my hair. I melt into his arms as he covers my mouth with his, his tongue caressing the inside of my mouth, tasting me, searching and hungry.
“I need you, Abi,” he whispers, his voice crackling with desire.
I gasp for air, my heart pounding. Between my legs, there’s a slick, fresh wetness that has nothing to do with the water in the tub. The soaking room, indeed.
Henry’s kisses trail down my neck, his tongue tracing a hot line across my skin, his teeth nipping at me gently. I let out a moan, and he squeezes me tightly in his strong arms, lifting me off the floor. I wrap my arms around him. Three long strides, and he slams us against the wall, holding my left leg up to his hip, leaning into me with unmasked urgency.
His erection is straining against his pants, pressing into my sensitive, bare flesh under the towel. “I need you so badly,” he groans.
He runs his hands to my chest and yanks the towel down, his mouth on my breasts as soon as they’re exposed. He swirls his tongue against one nipple and then the other, sucking and kissing until I’m panting.
I reach for his belt and zipper, undoing it as fast as my trembling hands allow me. I want him so badly, he’s like a drug every fiber of my body’s been craving.
His cock is hot and hard when I wrap my hand around it and ease it out of his pants. I stroke him, savoring the feel of his thickness, of the smooth skin and heat in my hand. Words can’t convey how much I’ve missed him — his touch, his tongue, his voice whispering huskily in my ear.
Slipping a hand under the towel, he reaches between my thighs and lets out a long hiss when he finds me hot and wet for him. “Fuuuck, yes,” he groans slowly, his eyes burning with lust.
He places his hand over mine and guides his cock between my legs, rubbing it against me. When it hits my clit I shudder and nearly come on the spot.
Henry’s lips return to mine with a fury, kissing me so hard I can barely breath. I clasp my arms around his neck and buck my hips against him. More, I need more.
He grinds into me, stroking the base of his cock as he slides the head against my clit. “Oh, God,” he breathes. “Abi, I want you. Please…”
I’m so close to giving in, saying to hell with everything and being with Henry the way I’ve fantasized about for years. I want him more than he knows. I want to be his, and only his. Only his… the photographs from the folder flash through my mind and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block them out, but a bolt of agony hits me right in the chest and a sob escapes my lips.
What am I doing? I’m playing right into his hands. All those women… I’m just a game to him. This new-found obsession with having me, after all the times he promised to never rush me? It’s because I’m so close to being unobtainable. He’s desperate for one last chance to claim me.
Henry’s breath is hot and needy in my ear. “Be with me, Abi. I need you so much.”
I release my grip from his neck, pulling my hands to my chest, the words of the advisors ringing painfully in my head. This is what he wanted all along. To draw things out until he could claim me like this, for bragging rights — right before I become another man’s wife. No matter how much I want him, if I do this, he’ll only be using me, and it will ruin everything for my family.
He nuzzles my ear, rubbing the head of his shaft against me, going lower and lower little by little. Even as terrible thoughts race through my mind, my knees have gone weak from his touch and my pussy is pulsing with anticipation of him sliding that thick, powerful cock of his inside me.
Goddammit. Tears well in my eyes as my heart shatters all over again. I’ve wanted this moment for so long, but this isn’t how I want it. This isn’t how I’ve pictured my first time, not with the images of all those women dancing in my head, not with this pain in my chest.
“Don’t give yourself to him, please,” he whispers. “Be mine, only mine.”
His words snap me out of limbo. I push my arms against his chest and shove him backwards. “That’s all you care about, isn’t it?” I cry.
“What?” He looks at me, bewildered as I grab at the towel, pulling it around me tightly.
“You just want to claim the prize,” I say softly, my body shuddering with sobs.
“What prize?”
“My virginity. I’m just another notch on your bedpost.” My voice cracks, and I look away.
“No, Abi, that’s not true,” he pleads, reaching for me.
I slink away from him, heading for the door.
“Just leave me alone, please, before you wreck everything,” I say, my voice growing firmer. That’s it. Be strong. You can do this.
“How? Please tell me what I did wrong,” he begs. “I swear to God, Abi, I would never do anything to hurt you.”
I sniff loudly, my anguish giving way to anger. “How about beating the shit out of Finley? What was that, the jealous tantrum of a spoiled prince, used to getting whatever he wants?”
He swallows hard, his eyes lighting up fury. “He deserved it, Abi. You don’t know what he’s really like.”
“I bet,” I snap, my face drawn into a snarl. “I bet you’d love to tell me just how awful he is. Him and every other man on earth who stands between you and this,” I say angrily, pointing between my legs. “Well, I don’t care what you think, Henry. You’re only making things harder on me.”
“Give me a chance, I’ll fix it, I swear.”
“You’ll fix it?” I ask, my eyes wide with incredulity.
“Yes. I mean, I’ll try my damnedest, I swear. I can’t stand to see you like this.”
I tap my fingers to my chest. “This is who I should have been from the beginning, not the weak woman who fell into your arms every chance I got. I should have been strong and said no to you from the get-go, for my own sanity and for the sake of my family, instead of indulging in my girlish fantasies.”
“You think that’s how I see you? Abi, you’re smart and beautiful and funny. You’re the most—”
“Stop it,” I hiss, cutting him off. “It’s not going to work, Henry. No matter what you say, or how sweetly you say it, or how desperately you want me to believe your lies — my virginity is not up for grabs. I’m getting married, so just stop it.”
He steps closer and gra
bs me, squeezing my arms. “Why? What is this obsession you have with getting married? We had a good thing going, didn’t we? I’m sure I’ve made mistakes with you, but we were having fun, weren’t we?”
“That’s the problem, Henry. Life’s not always about the fun. Sometimes, you have to do the right thing, whether it’s fun or not. My family is counting on me. Just like your country is counting on you. It’s time for both of us to grow up and stop sneaking around like infatuated teenagers.” I pull away from him. “Now, excuse me, I have people waiting on me.”
“Wait, Abi!”
I pause at the door and take a deep breath before looking back. His shoulders are slumped, and his eyes are pleading, desperate, but I keep my face blank and ignore the knots of longing twisting inside me.
“Please,” he says, “do one thing for me, just one thing, and I’ll stay out of your hair. I’ll leave you alone forever, if that’s what you want. Just do one thing for me.”
“What?”
“Don’t marry Finley, please. I don’t understand why you’re in a rush to get married, but if you’re determined to do it, please, just pick anyone but him.”
I throw up my hands in exasperation. “Okay, why, Henry? Why shouldn’t I marry Finley, other than that you just don’t like him?”
“He doesn’t deserve you. He’s not a good person. He’s shady, and dishonest, and he’ll only hurt you, Abi.”
I swallow hard. “Funny, that’s exactly what I’ve been told about you.” I turn away from him and walk out of the room.
Chapter Twenty
HENRY
There’s a knock on the hard mahogany of my bedroom door. A fire burns in the hearth, but my private suites are quiet and dark, every other light extinguished in the West Wing.
I have a very, very limited list of approved visitors, so I don’t hesitate. “Enter.”
The three-hundred-year-old door creaks open, and I see a familiar silhouette.
“Spencer, my dear old friend!” I call loudly. “Come, have some scotch!”
Spencer halts in the doorframe, scanning the room.
I glance around as he does. Looks like the same as it did yesterday, and the day before, and every day since I was turned away from Abigail’s door that night after learning I’d somehow fucked up the best thing to ever happen to me.
