by East, Evie
I nod.
His eyes narrow on me. “Since you never told me who the hell you are, I’m assuming you’re connected to someone of importance. Someone who wanted to ensure your safety, in case this fire turns out to be…” He runs a hand through his hair, his jaw clenching with sudden strain. “Something more than an accidental candle left burning in Henry’s chambers.”
The casualness with which he refers to the crown prince strikes me instantly.
Henry.
They’re close. Friends. Maybe even family.
I suddenly remember his earlier words.
It’s been a long night. A night which I intended to spend getting gloriously drunk to forget about all the shitty things that have happened today.
I feel myself go pale. God, I’ve been so wrapped up in the chaos of my own night, I didn’t realize he might have his own fair share to deal with.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quietly, tamping down the urge to reach out and take his hand in mine.
He recoils as though I’ve slapped him. “Excuse me?”
“The fire… the king and queen… Prince Henry…” My voice goes soft. “I’m sorry for your loss. For what you must be going through, right now.”
His eyes hold mine for a long moment. I might as well be staring at two cerulean shields — he’s totally unreadable. I should probably look away, but I don’t. The space between us starts to simmer again, strange currents charging the air. When he finally breaks the silence, there’s gravel in his voice.
“You done?”
“Done?”
“With your questions.”
“Not nearly.”
“Too bad.” He looks away sharply. “Time to face the firing squad.”
I must make a sound of distress, because his smirk returns.
“The metaphorical firing squad.” He pauses. “Then again, when Octavia sees that hair of yours…”
“Who’s Octavia?” I squeak, but he’s already walking toward the guards, who are waiting for us at the steps leading up to the front door. “Who are you? Who’s in there? Wait!”
“Sorry, love. The Q&A portion of the evening is over.”
“But you’ve barely told me anything!”
“Next time, ask better questions.”
I let out a grumble. I have no choice but to scamper after him, tugging down my mini-skirt and smoothing my hair as best I can as we round the edge of an ornate fountain surrounded by elaborate topiary. My heartbeat increases in direct proportion to our dwindling distance from the doorway. By the time we ascend the five marble steps to the threshold, four guards flanking us from all sides, I’m sure I’m about to keel over from a massive coronary incident.
Just before we step inside, two blue eyes cut to mine. “Ready for this?”
“Not remotely,” I whisper.
“Last chance to run.”
“Thing to know about me?” I steady my shoulders, turn my face forward, and watch as the door swings inward. “I don’t run.”
With that vow hanging in the air, I step forward into the manor.
* * *
In all my life, I’ve never felt more frizzy and frazzled than I do as my eyes sweep around the Lockwood Estate’s soaring atrium. Between the grand staircase, the crystal chandelier, and the carefully appointed collection of antiques, I’m about as out of place as Maria arriving at the Von Trapp family home in The Sound of Music — one of the old Hollywood films I used to watch on repeat as a little girl, back when I still believed in happily-ever-afters and fairy tale endings.
There’s a rotund man in a pinstripe suit waiting for us. I startle when I realize I saw him on television earlier: the palace press secretary. Offscreen, his expression is equally sour — perhaps more so, when he catches sight of me. His eyes scan from my outgrown lavender roots down to my chunky black heels and back. I know, from that two second perusal, he has taken my measure and found me sadly lacking.
“Well, then,” he says in a haughty tone, as though we’re inexcusably late for an appointment. His jowls quiver with displeasure as he turns his gaze on my companion, evaluating every flaw from the lipstick stained collar to the messy hair to the bloodshot eyes. “Lord Thorne, you may go occupy yourself doing… whatever it is you do in your vast free time. Just do not leave the premises.”
“How magnanimous, Simms,” my stranger — Lord Thorne? — drawls from beside me. “But I think I’ll stay for the show.”
“If you wish, my lord.” Simms sighs tiredly before his eyes slide back to me. “As for you…”
My brows lift.
He pivots sharply and starts walking down a hallway to the left. “Follow me, please.”
I glance over and find Lord Thorne — I am never calling him that aloud, I don’t care if it’s a royal transgression — watching me carefully.
“Still don’t want to run?”
“Nope,” I lie through clenched teeth.
He smirks, as if he knows I’m full of shit, and gives a mocking bow. “After you, then.”
I swallow hard, set my shoulders, and stride after Simms, trying not to wobble on my heels. God forbid I stumble into a 15th century antique end table and break it. I may be petite, but I’ve never been exactly graceful. Mom always says I move through life like a force of nature, a tornado overturning everything in my path.
Always said.
The verb tense still trips me up, every now and then. It’s been nearly two years, but I’m still not used to her being past instead of present. I doubt I ever will be.
We pass several closed doorways as we move to the end of the hall, where an archway opens into a large sitting room. I press my lips together to keep my jaw from going slack with awe.
Everything is decorated in creamy tones, from the furniture to the curtains to the pale hardwood floors beneath my feet. Tasteful bookshelves line the walls, a grand piano dominates one corner, and three white settees are artfully arranged around the focal point of the room — an incredible marble fireplace, its mantelpiece thicker than my body and twice as long.
The only point of color in the room is the coiled auburn hair of a glamorous middle-aged woman sitting by the roaring fire, her legs crossed gracefully, the white linen of her dress a perfect match for the settee beneath her. When my eyes meet her light blue ones, I try not to flinch at the icy unwelcome in her stare. Thankfully, they soon move past me to focus on the man at my side.
“Carter.”
It’s truly amazing how much distaste she’s able to convey, just saying his name — a name that, it must be said, suits him well. Lord Carter Thorne. I glance at him and find his whole demeanor has changed. He’s carrying himself differently: his shoulders stiffer, all traces of humor and nonchalance stripped from his countenance. He might be made of the same marble as that fireplace, for all the humanity left in him.
“Where is Chloe?” the woman asks in that same frigid tone.
“I’m not her keeper, Octavia.”
The woman doesn’t react, other than to reach out and lift her teacup off the coffee table in front of her in a smooth, soundless move. She takes a methodical sip, holding Carter’s eyes the entire time over the rim in some sort of strange staring contest. I’m not sure who they are to each other but the air between them is so frosty, I’m surprised I can’t see my breath. Even Simms looks uncomfortable as he hovers dutifully by the far wall, awaiting a command like a well-trained dog.
Carter breaks eye contact first, glancing down at his dress shoes. I’m standing close enough to hear the resigned exhale of air that hisses out from his lips. “Last I heard, Chloe was going to a club opening in Lund with Ava. I’m sure they went straight to the hospital when they heard the news about Henry.”
The woman sets down her cup and saucer without even the faintest rattle before lifting her eyes back to Carter’s. “And you didn’t feel you should accompany them?”
“To sit there and watch him die? No. I think there are enough people doing that already.”
“You’re being quite dramatic.”
“And you’re being predictably indifferent.” Carter’s voice is a snarl of disgust. “God, Octavia, you could at least pretend to feel a little grief for Henry. But why bother, right? You’ve landed yourself exactly where you’ve always wanted to be. I expect you’ll be doing cartwheels down the castle corridors, as soon as the smoke clears.”
“Again with your dramatics.” Her lip curls with disdain. “Someone has to step up in this time of turmoil, to take command before things begin to spiral out of control. Though, seeing as you live your life stumbling belligerently between one party and the next, I wouldn’t expect you to understand what I’m talking about.”
“War profiteering?” he suggests bitterly.
“Duty.” Her blue eyes flash. “I will step into the role that has been thrust upon me and do what I must for the sake of my family, my husband, and my country.”
There’s a marked pause before Carter’s hands begin to smack together in slow, mocking applause. I flinch with each sharp clap in the silent room. In the corner, I see Simms doing the same.
“Wow.” Carter whistles. “That was a nice little speech. Almost sounded rehearsed. Something you’ve been practicing for weeks.”
“Rehearsed?” The redhead’s voice drops low. “Don’t be absurd. This was a terrible accident.”
“If it was such an accident, why have we been quarantined here under full guard?” He shakes his head. “We both know this was something more. An attack.”
“That remains to be seen. Perhaps Chloe will provide more information when she arrives. ” Her eyes scan him up and down. “At least one of you is of some use.”
“Oh, mother, do stop — you’ll spoil me.”
Mother?!
She continues to stare coldly at Carter. “You expect my praise? You look as though you’ve just stumbled out of a brothel.”
“Maybe I have,” he seethes, jaw clenched tight. “But that shouldn’t be a surprise to you. Chickens always come home to roost — isn’t that right, Octavia?”
I’m not sure what, exactly, he means by that, but its evident she does. The words are an undeniable blow. She goes pale and her manicured fingers clasp so tight, I can see the whites of her knuckles even from here. The way she’s looking at her son, she’d clearly like nothing more than to cross the room and slap him across the face. Instead, in an eerie show of composure, all she does is smile placidly.
Who the hell are these people?
Thoroughly uncomfortable, I shift from foot to foot, wishing I could teleport myself literally anywhere else in the world to escape the suffocating malice of this room. Instantly, I realize my mistake — the small motion draws Octavia’s laser-like attention to me. Her eyes flicker up and down, practically dripping with hauteur as she takes in my scanty clothing, my limp curls, my smeared eye makeup.
“And here I thought you were joking about the brothel.” She shakes her head. “Did you truly think it wise to bring one of the escorts here with you?”
Wait, what?!
“Hasn’t this family endured enough for one night?” Octavia hisses. “Why must you insist on always making a scene?”
A low, angry sound rattles in Carter’s throat. “Octavia—”
“Honesty, I am so very tired of these attention-seeking stunts! Your stepfather—”
“Excuse me,” I cut her off, stepping forward before she can spout another venomous word. She looks completely dumbfounded that I — a common brothel wench! — have dared interrupt her diatribe. “Did you just call me a prostitute?”
She sniffs, as though she smells something foul, and doesn’t deign to answer.
“Perfect!” I snap, my hands flailing out in a burst of pent-up emotion. “Just fucking perfect. That’s the goddamned cherry on top of the goddamned cake!”
There’s a simultaneous gasp from Simms and Octavia at my crass language, but I’m too worked up to stop myself, let alone apologize. “You people send armed guards after me, have my best friend bludgeoned over the head, throw me in the backseat of an SUV with absolutely no explanation, drive me to the middle of the countryside…” My voice crescendoes with each word. “And now you actually have the gall to sit there and CALL ME A WHORE?!”
As though she hasn’t heard a single word, Octavia reaches out and picks up her teacup again. Her eyes scan me up and down once more — the rapid rise and fall of my chest, my hands planted on my hips, my furious glare — and with a delicate sniff she takes another infuriatingly slow sip of tea.
Ugh!
I take a threatening step her way but jolt to a stop when a warm male hand lands firmly on my shoulder. Carter. His fingers flex against my bare skin, but I’m not sure whether it’s to comfort me after my outburst or warn me against continuing it.
“You two are quite the melodramatic pair, aren’t you,” Octavia says haughtily. “Feel free to tell us who you are and why you are here.” When I don’t respond, her eyes flicker to the press secretary. “Gerald! Who is this girl? Why is she here, privy to our private family matters?”
Simms’ double chin bobs nervously. “Your Grace… She… Well…”
“Spit it out, Gerald.”
Simms has gone beet red. “She’s… she’s…”
“She is my daughter,” a deep, rasping voice says from the doorway.
Octavia’s teacup crashes to the carpet with a clatter.
Carter’s hand disappears from my shoulder.
Simms lets loose a chortle of pure distress.
And I — well, I don’t do a damn thing. I can’t. I’m frozen with dread and fear and rage.
No.
It can’t be.
Heart in my throat, I force my feet to pivot around toward the archway. My trepidatious gaze lifts to the man standing within it. His thick, salt-and-pepper hair has just the slightest hint of wave. His skin is weathered with sun and age. His eyes, the deepest shade of green, hold neither warmth nor recognition.
And why would they?
We’ve never met. We’re nothing to one another.
He didn’t want us, Emilia, Mom’s memory whispers. He didn’t want you.
For a full minute, there is total silence in the parlor. I don’t think anyone dares to breathe — not Carter, not his mother, not Simms, not the three suited guards flanking the man with whom I share strands of DNA. Least of all me.
Linus takes two strides into the room, that evaluative stare unwavering as he takes me in — purple hair, exposed midriff, bared thighs, brazen expression.
If he’s shocked by my appearance, he doesn’t let it show. Not that I’d give a fuck if he found me lacking. I stopped waiting for his approval around the same time I gave up playing dolls and dress up.
My chin jerks higher, so he knows I’m not intimidated. Maybe I’m supposed to bow my head in supplication, maybe I’m supposed to play nice — he is the king, after all — but I can’t bring myself to show even an ounce of respect to the man who threw me and Mom away like the condom he should’ve been wearing the night I was conceived.
Bastard.
Oh, wait. No. That’s me.
His green gaze sweeps around to address everyone in the room and, in a voice that rings with kingly authority, he says the words that alter the entire course of my life.
“Her name is Emilia Victoria Lancaster. She is my daughter. And, as it currently stands… she is next in line for the throne. The Crown Princess of Germania, by blood and by right.”
Chapter Five
“No,” I whisper, reeling backward at his words.
I bump straight into the hard wall of Carter’s chest. It takes all my strength not to lean into him. To let him absorb the weight of my watery bones, now that my knees have gone weak. The room tilts around me as those words spin through my mind.
Next in line for the throne.
Crown Princess of Germania.
He must be mad — that’s the only explanation. I’m not the only one who thinks so, either.
&n
bsp; “Linus!” Octavia is out of her seat and across the room so fast, I’m not confident she doesn’t posses powers of teleportation. “Tell me it’s not true.”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” Linus says, never shifting his eyes from mine.
God, he looks like me. Or, I suppose, I look like him. And I hate it. Hate it so much, it makes me want to smash every mirror in the world, to have my face surgically altered, to burn every picture I’ve ever taken in a sacrificial fire.
“But you cannot be serious!” Her shrill tone pierces my ears like a knife. “Look at her! She can’t possibly be—”
He stiffens. “She is my daughter, Octavia.”
“Perhaps we should discuss this matter in private,” she says pointedly. “Before any hasty decisions are made—”
“Hasty?” His brows lift skyward. “This is not an act of haste. If anything, it is twenty years overdue.”
“But—”
“My decision is final. I will not hear another word on the subject.”
Octavia’s lips press into a thin line. Her eyes slide to me and I’m grateful that looks cannot, in fact, kill people because otherwise my blood would be spattered all over their immaculate white oriental rug.
“Your Majesty,” Simms interjects in a placating tone, breaking the stilted silence. He bows slightly at the waist, formally greeting his new king. “If I can be of assistance in any way at all, please let me know. Whether drafting a statement for the press or helping with smaller matters. I am at your disposal.”
“Thank you, Gerald. If you would please ensure that there are suitable rooms ready for Emilia’s use upstairs. And perhaps send for appropriate ensembles. We won’t be briefing the press quite yet — not until Emilia is…” His eyes flash back to me. “Settled in.”
Read: made to look like a properly groomed princess.
I roll my eyes.
“Of course, Your Majesty. I will contact the palace personal shoppers immediately and have them send a selection of clothing first thing in the morning.” Simms glances at me. “Your size, miss?”
I cross my arms over my chest instead of answering. I refuse to be party to my own reinvention.
