by East, Evie
Nice try, assholes.
I’ve begun rubbing my hands together for warmth when Owen stops walking, shrugs out of his sturdy olive green jacket, and passes it to me.
“Here. Take it.”
My throat clogs up. He’s always taking care of me — even when he’s pissed.
“Thanks,” I murmur, pulling it on. Made of heavy canvas-like material, it’s practically the length of a dress on my petite frame, the sleeves hanging down far past my hands. He can’t quite hide the twitching of his lips when he sees how ridiculous I look wearing it.
“Owen—”
His lips flatten into a frown again. “Don’t.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Of course I do. I’ve known you your whole damn life.” He sighs deeply. “You’re going to try to justify why this is the right decision for you, in the long run. Because you’ve no doubt already made a list of pros and cons, and rehearsed all your little talking points in your bathroom mirror…”
My cheeks flame. He really does know me.
“But I’m not interested in any of that fake bullshit, Emilia. I’m your best friend. I want the truth.”
“I told you the truth! I’d never lie to you, you know that.”
“Don’t try to pass off your trial period as an elaborate plan to abdicate the throne.” He shakes his head. “If that were the case, you’d walk out those front gates with me right now and never look back.”
“Owen, it’s not that simple…”
“It is that simple.” His eyes are undeniably sad. “But we both know you won’t. Because there’s a part of you that wants to be here. A part of you that needs to know what it would be like to wear that crown.”
I lock my jaw, not contradicting him. I can’t.
We don’t lie to each other.
“You can tell yourself you’re only doing this so he’ll pay your mortgage, so you can keep the house you grew up in and still maintain your anonymity… but I know there’s a part of you that’s curious what it would be like, living in places like this instead.” He jerks his thumb back toward the Lockwood Estate. “Servants at your beck and call. A bonafide princess, right out of a fairy tale.”
“And what if I am curious?” I snap defensively, growing tired of his judgmental tone. “Is that such a crime?”
“It is if it means selling your soul to these people!”
“These people? You mean my biological father?”
“Yeah, the one who never wanted shit to do with you until yesterday? I recall him pretty well,” he mutters. “Really pathetic to see you fold like a fucking lawn chair the first second he gives you any attention at all.”
Tears spring to my eyes. “Not all of us were raised in a family like yours, Owen. Perfect parents, perfect house, perfect sisters. Some of us have some unresolved issues that, gee, it might be nice to deal with when finally given the chance. I thought, of all people, you would understand that. Maybe I was wrong.”
“You think I don’t know you have baggage? I’ve been the one hauling it around for you for twenty fucking years!” he roars at the top of his lungs, so loud I’m surprised it doesn’t bring the guards running.
“Owen—” My voice cracks as a tear races down my cheek. I honestly can’t believe he just said that to me. Or, more accurately, screamed that at me. In all our years of friendship, he’s never acted this way. I can’t help wondering if this reaction is about more than just me, getting to know my father.
His furious expression crumbles a bit when he sees the tears.
“I’m sorry,” he grits out after a moment, his anger tightly in check. “I didn’t mean to yell, Ems.”
I nod stiffly.
“I just…” He takes a step closer to me. “I can’t stand by and watch as you’re manipulated into a life you never wanted.”
I’m silent.
“I don’t want you getting swallowed up by these people.”
“I won’t. Give me a little credit, Owen.”
He takes a step forward, until our faces are a half-foot apart, and leans down to take my face between his hands. His thumb brushes away a teardrop. “I’m worried I’m going to lose you.”
“You could never lose me, Owen.” I reach up and place my hand on top of his. “Even if I stay, even if I don’t abdicate… nothing will change. Not when it comes to you and me.”
Something flashes in his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but he never gets the chance, because we’re suddenly not alone. Two people in tight athletic clothes jog around the bend in the path, practically barreling straight into us. We spring apart instantly.
“Well, isn’t this cozy,” Chloe drawls, taking in the sight of us with laser-sharp interest. Her red ponytail swings jauntily as a grin spreads across her face.
I know what this must look like to them — me, wearing Owen’s jacket, gazing upward as he cups my face. Not two friends coming to terms with some big changes, but a couple, sharing a stolen moment in a secret garden.
Why do you care what they think? I ask myself, even as my eyes cut straight to Carter. My heart starts to thud. I haven’t seen him since last night — haven’t spoken to him since our screaming match in the hallway. There’s a certain twisted irony in the fact that the last words I hissed at him were an adamant declaration that I don’t have a boyfriend. His cold cerulean eyes meet mine, utterly devoid of all emotion, and somehow I know he’s thinking the exact same thing.
I swallow hard.
“Who’s the regulation hottie?” Chloe asks, planting her hands on her hips. “And where do I get myself one?”
“This is Owen,” I tell her, not offering any more detail than absolutely necessary. “Owen, these are Linus’ step-children. Chloe and—” Why is it so hard to say his name when he’s looking at me like that? “And Carter.”
Carter’s eyes break with mine and slide to Owen’s, his severe expression intensifying. I feel Owen stiffen at my side, rising to his full height as he returns the look. Neither man says anything — not out loud, anyway. But whatever silent communication they’re having isn’t a good one, judging by the frigid silence that spreads over our small group.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Chloe interjects with forced brightness, her eyes sharp as they flit back and forth between her brother and my best friend. “If all of Emilia’s friends are this hot, I think maybe this unwanted-little-sister thing won’t be so bad.”
I force a thin laugh.
Owen glances at her cooly. “Emilia is not your sister.”
“Owen,” I mutter. “She was only kidding. Don’t be an ass.”
It’s clear he’s not in a joking mood, though, as his eyes return to mine. “I don’t give a shit if she was kidding or not. Do you even know anything about these new siblings you’ve decided to live with? Probably not, since you avoid royal gossip like the plague.”
“For good reason,” I insist.
“Not when you expect me to leave you here alone with them!”
“Emilia’s a big girl,” Chloe says, amused. “She can make up her own mind about us.”
“I think that’s what he’s afraid of,” Carter adds lowly.
Owen tenses. “Don’t you speak to me about Emilia. Ever.”
“Why?” Carter smirks. “Afraid you’ll hear something you don’t like?”
“Now, now, boys,” Chloe murmurs. “Play nice or we’ll kick you out of the sandbox.”
Owen ignores her, turning back to me. His eyes are full of such sharp desperation, it scares me. “Don’t you understand? These people represent everything that’s wrong with this monarchy. They reap all the benefits of royalty without any of the responsibility. They’re just… leeches, sucking the lifeblood from our taxpayers.”
Chloe snorts.
He glances at her. “What, you disagree? You’ve made so many visits to rehab, I’m pretty sure your next OD is free.” His eyes flicker to Carter. “And your brother has bedded half the damn country!”
“That’s enough, Owen!” I hiss, totally mortified. “I don’t even recognize you right now!”
“Right back at you,” he snaps. “God, Ems, I know you’re looking for a family, but I think you deserve better than a coke head and a walking STD.”
Carter takes a threatening stride forward, hands fisted at his sides. “Care to say that again, pretty boy?”
Owen turns to him and the dark expression on his face is like nothing I’ve ever seen. “You don’t scare me, little lordling.”
“Then you’re either very brave or very stupid.” Cerulean eyes glitter. “I’m guessing I know which one.”
“Seeing as I’m not the husband of a desperate housewife eager for an affair with some half-royal prick… I think I’m safe from you.” Owen leans in, voice dropping. “Isn’t that your usual MO — bang the wife, humiliate the husband, ruin the marriage? See, unlike Emilia, I do read the papers.”
Chloe sucks in a sharp breath.
Carter’s face goes totally dark — clearly, Owen has struck a nerve. When he steps toward us, I feel my pulse stutter inside my chest.
“You know, you seem a bit preoccupied with my sexual conquests.” Carter smiles without even the slightest trace of humor. “Don’t worry. There are no women in my bedroom here — which, as it happens, is right across the hall from Emilia’s.” He pauses meaningfully. “I’ll be sure to keep a close eye on her for you, mate.”
Owen actually flinches. “If you so much as touch a hair on her head…”
“Oh, I won’t,” Carter goads. “Not unless she asks me to, of course.”
“Please, stop,” I beg, voice cracking under the strain. “Both of you! This is absurd.”
I grab Owen’s arm, trying to shake some sense into him, but he’s beyond my reach — lost in a dark, consuming fury. Staring at his face, at those deep brown eyes, that floppy blond hair I’ve always loved so much… for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m looking at a stranger.
When Carter advances another step, Chloe throws out an arm to halt him. I do the same with Owen, pressing him back with all the strength I possess. I can feel his chest rising and falling rapidly, even through the thick sleeve of the jacket. Both men look like they’re one word away from beating each other senseless on the idyllic garden path. There’s so much testosterone in the air, I’m surprised a five o’clock shadow doesn’t break out on my jaw, just from breathing it in.
Chloe’s wild eyes meet mine. “Maybe you two should go.”
I couldn’t agree more.
With a grimace, I step fully in front of Owen and start pushing him backward, trying to force him out of the line of fire. He resists, legs locked firmly in place.
“Let’s go, Harding,” I snap, shoving his chest. “Don’t make me call your mother. You know I will. And we both know Belinda will be pissed.”
His eyes flicker to mine and for just a second, I see a trace of the boy I used to know beneath this posturing, unrecognizable alpha male.
“Please,” I whisper.
With a sigh, he clenches his jaw, spins, and starts walking down the path — head bowed, hands fisted, shoulders tense beneath the fabric of his long-sleeve shirt. I cast a quick glance back at Chloe and Carter before I follow, totally at a loss for words. I’m stunned by Owen’s behavior. Totally mortified by the things he said about them.
“Oh, don’t you dare apologize,” Chloe cuts me off before I can, her lips twisting up in a small smile. “Things are finally getting interesting around here.”
With a grateful nod in her direction, I turn and dart after Owen. I never spare so much as a glance at Carter. But the whole way down the path, I feel the weight of those too-blue eyes burning into my back like a fire I cannot extinguish, no matter how hard I try.
Chapter Ten
After the Owen incident, I thought life at The Lockwood Estate couldn’t possibly get worse.
I was so very wrong.
“Remember: chin up, shoulders back, grip delicate.” Lady Morrell stares down her long, hooked nose with disapproval. “It is a spoon, not a hand grenade. Your index finger should rest on the silver, light as a a winged hummingbird taking pollen from a flower.”
She’s full of these flowery, over-the-top analogies. Already today I’ve been instructed on how to glide around a dance floor like a soaring hawk taking flight over a pink dawn sky and curtsy low to the floor like a setting sun sinking slowly toward the ever-fixed horizon.
Whenever I start to question why I’m subjecting myself to this, I focus on the hundred thousand dollar light at the end of the tunnel. That’s usually enough to keep me from bolting.
“Very well, Lady Morrell.” I adjust my grip for the tenth time. “How’s this?”
“Wrong. Utterly wrong! Here, let me demonstrate again…”
I swallow a scream. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take before I give up and race back to my rooms…
Like a swift cheetah crossing the Serengeti!
I snort in an unladylike fashion that earns me a glare from my tutor.
As predicted, princess lessons have been completely insufferable. Six hours a day — three in the morning, three more in the afternoon — of Lady Morrell lecturing on the merits of proper decorum, table manners, royal address, and Germanian customs. By Wednesday, my head is so full of banal information, I’ve reached a saturation point.
Use ‘Your Majesty’ to address a king or queen. ‘Your Highness’ for a prince or princess. ‘Your Grace’ for a duke or duchess. ‘My Lord’ for barons, earls, and knights.
Do not curtsey to anyone of lower rank.
Never cross your legs; always cross your ankles.
Elbow-length gloves are to be worn for all official ceremonies of state.
Manicures shall be allowed in nude or pastel shades only.
No autographs or signatures of any kind.
No unauthorized photographs.
No public displays of affection.
No use of social media platforms.
No.
No.
No.
The word has been thrown around so often, I’ve begun to wonder if there’s anything a princess actually is authorized to do — besides smile and wave during scheduled appearances at boring social functions.
Lady Morrell insists she’s only trying to prepare me for what she calls my first royal test — which, as she frequently reminds me, is approaching at the speed of light. I can’t say I’m thrilled by the prospect of attending the funeral on Sunday with the Lancasters — even flying under the radar, posing as just another aide in their entourage. The mere thought of it sends butterflies bursting into flight in the pit of my stomach.
So many things could go wrong.
I’m not remotely prepared to appear in front of anyone as royalty yet. That much has been made glaringly obvious by Morrell’s ever-exasperated expression when she glances my way, whether I’m stumbling through dance lessons, fumbling royal titles, or using the incorrect cutlery during dinner courses.
I try to avoid looking at the towering grandfather clock on the other side of the dining room, knowing it’s only going to disappoint me, but I can’t help myself. Four o’clock. Still another full hour before I’m free. I readjust my grip on the spoon and attempt to take a sip of my soup without, and I quote, slurping like a teenage boy drinking a cola at the cinema.
I suppose the only blessing to Morrell’s maddening tutelage is that it’s keeping me too busy to think much about Owen… or to bump into Chloe and Carter in the hallways of our shared penitentiary. After five days cooped up in this place, I’m sure they’re both chafing to escape just as much as I am. But the King’s Guard still hasn’t lifted the security lockdown. It’s unlikely they will before the funeral, now that the fire has officially been classified as foul play by the arson investigators.
I spent last night locked in my bedroom
, scrolling through news updates on my battered old laptop — which was finally returned to my possession along with my school textbooks, cellphone, and a duffle of clothing selected from my dresser at home. I try not to think too hard about one of the solemn, suit-wearing guards digging through my underwear drawer and touching all my things.
Because…
Ew.
I scrolled through article after article, reading headlines and theories from journalists all over the world about potential motives, likely suspects, possible political implications. The outpouring of grief was immeasurable, bringing the whole world to its knees. And the news that it was murder, rather than tragedy, that took the lives of our king and queen was a kick to the stomach while we were already down on the ground.
Someone did this. Killed the king and queen, along with five members of their staff. Put the crown prince in a coma from which he may never wake. And that someone is still at large.
It’s hard to conceive how something like this could happen. Harder still to imagine that there are no witnesses, no leads…
Nothing.
The investigation hasn’t yielded anything concrete — at least, not according to Simms, who I bumped into on my way back to my room after my lessons, yesterday. As for the rest of the household, everyone seems content to avoid each other. I haven’t seen Octavia since the night I arrived, nor have I encountered Linus since our meeting the other day.
Occasionally, I’ll hear Carter or Chloe walking the halls of the wing where all our rooms are located, but I have no idea how they spend the majority of their days. After the incident in the garden, neither of them has tried to make conversation. Frankly, I don’t blame them.
I wouldn’t want to talk to me, either.
My eyes press closed with horror, thinking back on it… as well as the massive fight I had with Owen, afterward.
Fight. With. Owen.
I’m fighting with Owen.
No matter how many times I say it, the concept is difficult to wrap my mind around. Before this, there’s never been a point in my life when we weren’t speaking. Sure, we’ve had minor spats over the years… but nothing to this degree. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on his face when I walked him to the front gates, the other night, and asked him to leave.
