by Maisey Yates
He figured she would probably avoid taking dinner with him anyway. So, when he walked into the dining room and saw her sitting in the same spot she had occupied last night, he was surprised.
After the kiss in the library, and the scene in what had been his wife’s parlor, he had expected her to take refuge in her room. But, here she was.
“I hope there’s cake tonight,” she said by way of greeting.
“If you put in a request Athena will make sure there is cake,” he returned, taking his seat next to her.
She looked down at her empty plate, and she kept her focus there until the dinner of chicken and vegetables was served. They ate in silence for a while, nothing other than the sound of silverware scraping over the plates sounding in the room. Then she sighed heavily.
“You wish to say something?” he asked, not bothering to ponder the fact that he could read her so easily.
“Yes,” she said, “and I know that you probably don’t want me to say anything, but I can’t keep things to myself. It’s hard for me.”
“Really? Other people find it so easy. It’s most certainly not a matter of self-discipline and practicing restraint. By all means, do go and say whatever is on your mind.”
“I’m not going to take a lecture from you about restraint, Adam,” she said.
There was something about the way she said his name—about the fact that she said his name at all—that struck him like a blow to the stomach. How long had it been since someone had said his name to him when they were so near each other?
It was all so “sire,” and “Your Highness,” “Your Majesty” this and that. No one called him Adam except for his friends, and then it was only over the phone.
“I have a title,” he said, as a reminder to himself most of all.
“Yes, I know. I could use it if you want.”
“No,” he said, deciding then that he would rather hear her say his name. “You are to play the part of my lover, and so you should seem somewhat familiar with me.”
“Anyway. Adam. I am sorry. It makes more sense now. Why you put my father in prison for what he did. Why you don’t allow paparazzi on the island. Why you don’t have any patience or tolerance for it. You...you lost your wife in the accident.”
“I didn’t lose her,” he said, his throat feeling scraped raw. “She died. Losing someone implies that you can find them again. Ianthe isn’t missing. I’m not going to lift up a couch cushion one day and find her there.”
Belle shook her head, a tear sliding down her cheek. She reached up and wiped it away, and he marveled at it. At the fact that this woman shed a tear for his pain.
“I do know that,” she said, biting her lip and nodding. “It’s a terrible thing to say. That your wife is dead. I can’t imagine what it must be like to actually feel the loss. And she was...”
“She was eight months pregnant,” he finished for her. “And, yes, our son died too.”
She looked down, delicate fingers clenching into fists. “I wish you would have told me.”
“Why?” He leaned back in his chair. “Because it makes me less of a monster? It makes you less my prisoner? Neither of those things is true.”
“It makes me understand you. At least, a little bit.”
“Do tell me all the things you understand,” he said, keeping his tone deliberately dry.
For some reason, his stomach tightened. Thinking about her trying to understand. Thinking that she might just.
“The man that I saw in that picture...he wasn’t a monster.”
“No,” Adam said. “He was one of the most celebrated royals in all of Europe. Renowned for his looks as much as for his temperament. He is a stranger to me.”
He could barely remember being that man, and more to the point, he often didn’t like remembering it. But, there were nights when he wandered down the halls, wandered down his memories, and ended up drunk in that room. It never ended well. It always ended with things broken. Just like his life.
“He’s part of you,” she said, her tone muted.
Adam shook his head. “He’s not. He’s dead, along with everyone else.”
“Well,” she said, softly. “I think that’s terribly sad. Seeing as you’re still breathing and everything.” She looked up at him, the steel in her blue eyes belying that softness in her voice.
“Have you ever lost anyone?”
“I might lose my father. I lost my mother emotionally when I was a child. That emotional loss? Well, that one hurts worse, in some ways. If my father dies, it isn’t because he chose to leave me. My mother...she didn’t want me. That’s a particular kind of pain.”
“You don’t know,” he said, keeping his voice hard. “Until you have held someone in your arms while they die, someone you love, and felt them growing colder? You don’t know.”
He felt that cold spreading inside his chest now. That ice.
She cleared her throat. “I don’t. You’re right.”
She reached across the expanse of table, placing delicate fingertips over the back of his hand. Her skin felt so hot against his. Especially in conflict with the memory of all that cold.
She began to draw away, and he pressed his other hand over the top of hers, holding her against him. For some reason, he was reluctant to break the contact. No, he knew why. He felt his body stir, heat flooding his veins where before there had been only ice.
She made him warm. She made him feel. And he wanted to cling to that. Wanted to cling to her.
Her eyes widened, and her tongue darted out and slicked over her lower lip, leaving it glistening, tempting. He could not forget the way it had felt to have her lips pressed against his. To delve deep inside her mouth and taste her, consume her.
There was something powerful in it. Something magical. Something he had not experienced in a long time. Touching another person, needing another person. At least physically. Yes, physically, he was ready for that.
He had spent a long time in this house, essentially alone, doing nothing to satisfy the growing hunger inside him. For touch. For a woman. Ignoring it so completely that he had been able to convince himself it no longer existed.
“I could try to understand,” she said, the words broken. “I could try.”
He lifted his hand from hers, reached out and cupped her chin, holding her face steady as he continued to look at her. She was lovely, like a rose, beautiful as her name suggested. There was something simple to her, something wholesome. She was not overly made up, though that could perhaps be because of what had or had not been provided for her by his staff.
Her lips were red, her cheeks dusted with color. Like petals strewn across new-fallen snow. Something striking and rich against the stark white. He wanted to gather all that to himself, take it, taste it, make it his.
There was a time when he had been a man who had collected beautiful things. Who had enjoyed beautiful things. But he had forgotten that man, and he had forgotten that simple pleasure. He was remembering it now. But this need for her was different, it wasn’t simply about collecting, but about possessing.
It struck him then that he didn’t particularly want to take her out in public with him, drag them both into the light. Rather, he was much more interested in bringing her down into the darkness with him. Indulging in this yawning passion that had opened up inside him, seemingly endless, fathomless. So impenetrable that not even he could quite work out what it was, or what it would take to satisfy.
If he had just a few hours alone with her in the darkness, perhaps he could find it. Perhaps they could sate it. Together.
He leaned in, and she made a sound that might have been a protest, cut off by the firm press of his lips against hers. If it had been a protest, it wasn’t evidenced in her response to the kiss. No, she didn’t push back. Instead, she softened against him, a sigh escaping as she seemed to melt beneath his touch.
He didn’t touch her anywhere but at that spot on her chin, where he held her firm as he continued the kiss, sliding his
tongue along the seam of her lips until she capitulated, until she opened to him, begging him to take it deeper with that simple movement.
When he pulled away to catch his breath, she was trembling, the color in her cheeks even more vivid against the stark white of her skin. “I really do have a boyfriend,” she said, her voice husky. “And I’m your prisoner.”
“I can see how that would be a problem,” he said slowly, “for you. I don’t understand why I’m supposed to be perturbed by either.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t.”
She did not sound outraged, however. She sounded drugged.
“I could make your stay here more enjoyable for the both of us.”
She shook her head slowly, drawing back from him, removing her hand. “We should just eat dinner.”
A lock of dark hair fell forward into her face, and she did nothing to sweep it away. He examined her, the gentle curve of her delicate neck, the stubborn set of her jaw, that subtle slope on her upturned nose. He watched her and said nothing all through dinner. She was his captive, it was true, but in some ways she was beginning to hold him captive, as well.
It wasn’t good for a man to be celibate for so long. In his grief, he had allowed himself to forget his physical needs. He would not do so again.
“What do you like?” he asked.
She blinked rapidly. “What?”
“You are not my prisoner,” he said, not quite sure when he had decided to take this tactic. Perhaps when he had first felt her skin beneath his hands, how soft she was. Perhaps it had been then. “You will help me step out for the first time, and in order for us to accomplish all that we need to, all that I need to, I need for the two of us to be somewhat united. If we are to present ourselves as lovers to the world...it must be believable. The chemistry...that, I believe, will be the least of our problems. However, more than occasionally you look as though you want to finish the job my accident started.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I can’t imagine that you would think I would have...easy feelings toward you. And just because I feel sorry for you—”
“You do not enjoy my kiss because you pity me,” he said, his tone hard, firm. He had felt her melt beneath his touch, had felt her respond to him. That was more than pity.
At least, if he could be trusted to remember what desire felt like.
She went stiff. “There’s no point talking about it.”
“Because you’re ashamed.” He examined her more closely. “Is it because of my face?”
“No,” she said, almost comically fast, “I’m not ashamed because of your face. I... I should be angry at you. And, I have a good boyfriend. He’s very nice. I like him. You asked me what I like. I like Tony.”
“I see,” he said. “Your cheeks do not turn pink when you talk about him. They get pink when you look at me. When I kiss you.”
“My face turns red when I get mad,” she said, that stubborn jut to her chin even more pronounced than usual. “That’s all.”
“I could easily prove it’s more than anger, Belle, though I imagine there is an element of that. If mostly anger at yourself. You want me.” A lick of heat skated over his veins as he said it. As he allowed himself that confidence. There had been a time when he had been certain of a woman’s desire for him. When he’d never had reason to doubt. He had never even put himself in that position one way or the other since the loss of Ianthe.
Doing so now...recognizing her need...it made him feel things he had thought long since dead.
“Impossible,” she said, the word a hushed whisper. “Because I like Tony. And I like books. I don’t like fearsome, angry men who seclude themselves in their palaces.”
“No,” he said, his tone sardonic. “You don’t like me. You just pity me. Though, I have a feeling you would like to demonstrate that pity for me in a very physical manner.”
She jerked back as though she had been slapped, and something in him regretted that. Regretted that step backward when he had been attempting to build an inroad. But she was making it difficult. Was making it impossible. She wanted him, and he didn’t see why she was so intent on denying it. Certainly, she had a boyfriend, but he was back in California; he was not here. And, if Tony were a compelling lover at all, she wouldn’t be so drawn to Adam.
When he had been with his wife it had been a simple thing for him to eschew the pleasures of other women. He had loved his wife and no one else, so no one else had tempted him. Belle, however, was tempted by him, no matter what she said about lovers and captivity.
“You really are kind of a beast,” she said, standing up. He caught her wrist, stopped her from leaving.
“And what bothers you most about that? The fact that you would like to reform me, that you would like for your time here to mean something and you are beginning to see that it won’t? Or is it the fact that you don’t want to reform me at all, and that you rather like me this way? Or at least, your body likes me this way.”
“Bodies make stupid decisions all the time. My father wanted my mother, and she was a terrible, unloving person who didn’t even want her own daughter. So, forgive me if I find this argument rather uncompelling. It doesn’t make you a good person, just because I enjoy kissing you. And it doesn’t make this something worth exploring.”
She broke free of him and began to walk away, striding down the hall, back toward her room. He pushed away from the table, letting his chair fall to the floor, not caring enough to right it as he followed after Belle.
He caught up to her, pivoting so that he was in front of her. She took a step backward, then to the side, butting up against the wall. Then he caged her in between his arms, staring down at her. Her blue eyes were glittering, her breasts rising and falling rapidly with each breath.
“This is the only thing worth exploring. Not what could be, but what you have. The fire that burns between you and another person. For all you know, in the days since you’ve been here the entire world has fallen away. And if we were all that was left...would you not regret missing out on the chance to see how hot we could burn?”
She shook her head. “But the world hasn’t fallen away,” she said, her trembling lips pale now, a complete contrast to the rich color they had been only moments ago. “It’s still there. And whatever happens in here will have consequences out there. I will help you, Adam, but I’m not going to give you my body. I’m not going to destroy that life that I have out there to play games with you in here. You’re a stranger to me, and you’re going to remain a stranger to me. I can pretend. I can give you whatever you need when it comes to making a statement for your country. But beyond that? I can’t.”
Then she turned and walked away, and this time, he let her go.
CHAPTER SIX
BELLE BARELY SLEPT. Her room was beautifully appointed, the bed plush and lovely, but after what had happened with Adam—again—she had been unable to relax. Not because she was afraid of him. If he wanted to force himself on her, he could have done it already. He would have done it already. It wasn’t force that scared her.
It was the potential for seduction.
She shivered as she got out of bed. For the first time, she made her way over to the ornate wardrobe. When Fos had come in with her clothing yesterday she had simply asked for a comfortable outfit to wear, and then, last night when she had come back to the room after dinner she had dug blindly for a pair of pajamas.
She hadn’t really examined the contents. She needed clothes, obviously, but she had a feeling the purchase of those clothes was all part and parcel to the mistress ruse.
All the better for rumors to abound about the sudden purchase of a woman’s wardrobe by the Prince of Olympios’s personal shopper.
The large piece of furniture was heaving with clothing. From lacy underthings to beautiful ball gowns. She could hardly believe it. Every item was more beautiful, more extravagant than the last. The fabrics were exquisite, so much so that she could scarcely bring herself to touch them. But then, once she di
d, she had a difficult time not touching them, because they felt so wonderful.
She and her father had lived a comfortable, simple existence in Southern California. Most of her life was spent in cutoff shorts and flip-flops, though, she took it up a notch by wearing jeans to class at school.
But mostly, she was accustomed to the more casual vibe of the West Coast of the United States. Certainly, she wasn’t accustomed to things like this.
She dug around for a while until she found a gray T-shirt that was made of material so soft it made the casual garment feel like a luxury. Then she found a pair of ankle-length black pants and a simple pair of black slip-on shoes.
She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and examined her reflection in the mirror. “Very Audrey Hepburn,” she said to herself.
She wasn’t sure why she cared what she looked like at all. In fact, she was mostly pretending she didn’t care, which was why she had chosen the most unassuming pieces that had been provided for her. Because she didn’t want to look like she was putting on a show for Adam. She didn’t want to encourage herself to put on a show for Adam.
He was...well, he was barely civilized. He clearly didn’t remember what it was like to be around people. Evidenced by his table manners. And his manners in general. He was tragic, his life story painful for her to even think about, even when she was angry with him.
No one should have to go through what he had gone through. To lose a wife and a child, an entire future in one night...it was more than any one person could be expected to bear. And, it was clear that Adam had not born it particularly well. He had been altered by it. Utterly and completely. So much so that he felt the man he had been was dead.
Her heart twisted, and she placed her hand to her breast, rubbing it slightly as she walked out the door of her bedroom. She didn’t know what she was doing. Where she was going. To get food, she supposed. It was tempting in some ways to stay holed up in her room. To hide from him. But, then she really would feel like a prisoner. She needed to keep from going crazy.
