Dirty Halo (The Forbidden Royals Trilogy Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  It’s not a castle, but it’s damn impressive.

  I’m so awestruck, I don’t remember why I’m here until a crunch of gravel beside me pulls my attention back to earth. The dark-haired stranger stands a handful of feet away, his tone dripping with disdain as he surveys the scene.

  “Seriously? The Lockwood Estate?” he scoffs, eyeing the nearest guard. “The extraction protocols demand you bring me somewhere safe — not somewhere so far removed from anything remotely interesting, I’ll want to blow my own brains out after thirty minutes.”

  The suits, predictably, don’t react except to start walking toward the front door. It’s clear we’re expected to follow, but neither of us makes a move. I, for one, am in no rush to find out what awaits me across that threshold.

  Or… who awaits me.

  I let my eyes slide over to the man at my side. He’s taller than I thought in the car — well over six feet — and he seems determined not to meet my gaze, staring at the house like it’s the first ring of Hell rather than a stunningly beautiful mansion. Belatedly, it occurs to me that he himself must be part of the royal family’s entourage. His presence here means he’s either related to the Lancasters or closely connected to them. I just really hope I’m not expected to call him my liege or my lord or some other pretentious title… because that will not be happening.

  For the first time in my life, I curse myself for forcibly ignoring everything about the monarchy. For avoiding news channels, looking away from tabloid magazine covers, tuning out idle chitchat about the dashing prince with the girls in my freshman year dormitory. I always told myself I had no interest in wasting brain cells on such frivolity, but the truth is… it was too painful to be an outsider pressed up the glass, peering in on a life that was almost mine.

  Yet, now…

  Here I am. About to shatter that pane and step through it.

  I glance at the stranger again. My mouth opens to ask him a question, but I snap it closed before a single word can escape. After our intense tête-à-tête back in the car, I’m not sure we’re still on speaking terms.

  He expels a sharp breath. “For fuck’s sake, just ask.”

  I blink, startled. “What?”

  He looks down at me like I’m the most annoying person to ever dare breathe his air. His dark brows are pulled into a scowl that somehow only makes him more handsome. Or maybe that’s the moon’s doing. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, far removed from any source of light pollution, the starlight is so bright it bathes his every feature in pale, monochrome perfection.

  “Now or never.”

  “Where are we?” I ask before he can change his mind.

  “The Lockwood Estate.”

  “Yes, but where is that?”

  “About a quarter league past bum-fuck nowhere.”

  “Thanks. That’s immensely helpful.”

  He shrugs unapologetically, shoving his hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored gray dress pants. “This place is about halfway between Lund and Vasgaard, if memory serves.”

  “Why are we here?”

  “I assume you saw the news earlier.”

  “The fire at the palace?”

  “Yes.” A bolt of grief flashes through his eyes, buried away so fast I’m sure I imagined it. “When there’s a threat to the crown, the whole royal family is put on lockdown, along with their closest relatives, friends, pertinent connections… You get the idea.”

  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 with the chaos on my own plate, I didn’t realize his might be overflowing, too. That, in all likelihood, this surly stranger’s loss far surpasses my own.

  To me, the king and queen were figureheads.

  To him…

  Were they family?

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly.

  He recoils as though I’ve slapped him. “Excuse me?”

  “The fire… the king and queen… Crown Prince Henry…” My voice is a whisper. “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, zinging back and forth from him to me. When he finally breaks the silence, there’s gravel in his voice.

  “Are 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 blood pressure 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 bolt.”

  “One thing you should know about me?” I steady my shoulders, turn my face forward, and watch as the door swings inward. “I don’t bolt.”

  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 exactly been 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 crown moldings 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 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 sofa 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 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 it’s 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 will—”

  “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. “Let me see if I have this right. 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 m
e 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 tilts her head 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.

  Not now.

  Not him.

  I’m not ready for this.

  I’ll never be ready for this.

  I want to run. To hide. To flee into the night. But… didn’t I just tell Carter that I’m not the kind of girl who runs? Didn’t I just insist I wouldn’t bolt when things got tough?

  Besides, even if I was that kind of girl… deep down, I know there’s no running.

  Not from this.

  You can’t run from the blood in your veins.

  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?