Dirty Halo (The Forbidden Royals Trilogy Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  Eyes on me.

  “What…” I shake my head to clear it, hoping she might disappear. “Who…”

  “I’m Chloe Thorne. Sister to Carter, spawn of Octavia, all around pain in the Lancaster family’s ass.” Her head tilts. “Nice boobs, by the way.”

  Startled, I drop my gaze down to my chest and feel my cheeks flame. I completely forgot I fell asleep naked, after my bath. Yanking the sheet up to cover the goods with as much decorum as I can muster, I grit my teeth in the vague approximation of a smile.

  “Care to tell me what you’re doing in my bedroom at the ass crack of dawn, Chloe Thorne?”

  “I hate to break it to you, but it’s nearly one in the afternoon.”

  “What?!”

  She nods. “Yep. Had yourself a real nooner. Not that I blame you. Yesterday was a bit of a shock, I’d imagine — some recovery time is probably par for the course.”

  I run a hand through my wild hair. As I predicted, it feels like I lost a bet involving an an electrical outlet and a fork. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I was curious about you. Secret love child, and all. Who would’ve thought old Linus had it in him?”

  “News sure travels fast around here,” I mutter.

  “Faster than gossip in a high school cafeteria. Plus, I had an inside scoop.” Her lips twitch. “My brother. I believe you’ve met.”

  “Unfortunately for me, yes.”

  She snorts. “Yeah, he mentioned the two of you didn’t exactly hit it off.”

  A bolt of annoyance shoots through my chest. “Mmm. You could say that.”

  “He’s really not so bad,” Chloe assures me.

  “Uh huh.”

  “You’ve had about two hours with him as your so-called brother. I’ve had twenty-two years. Trust my judgment on this one, okay? His bark is worse than his bite.” Her expression falls a bit. “This wasn’t an easy family to grow up in.”

  “So, you’re saying it’s actually lucky I was cast out on my ass like an unwanted piece of refuse for two full decades…” I nod my head, lips twitching. “Good to know.”

  Grinning, she reaches into the pocket of her fitted white blazer. I watch as she pulls out a silver lighter and a tightly-rolled blunt, clamps one end between her lips, and lights up.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, already blowing smoke out the corner of her mouth.

  “Actually—”

  “Great!” She winks. “There are enough prudes in this house already.”

  I sigh deeply.

  I need coffee. And clothing.

  Not necessarily in that order.

  “I mean it.” Chloe takes another deep hit, closing her eyes as the marijuana’s effects begin to roll through her system. “I’ve only been here three bloody hours. If I get one more lecture about leaving ashes on all this priceless furniture…”

  “Maybe they’re a bit sensitive about you starting a fire,” I murmur, my tone sharper than intended. “You know, since a whole wing of Waterford Palace burned down yesterday, and all.”

  She blinks at me, stunned, before a surprised laugh tinkles out of her mouth. “Damn, girl. That was seriously dark. I think I like you already.”

  “Great. Now, get out so I can put on some clothes.”

  She laughs again, clearly not offended by my dismissal, and slides off the bed. I think she’s leaving, but she merely crosses to the armchair in the corner where a large white shopping bag rests.

  “Here.” She tosses it onto the bed. I do my best to catch it one-handed without dropping my sheet. “That was sitting in front of your door when I got here. Compliments of the palace’s fleet of personal shoppers. I’m sure they’ve stocked you with an array of utterly boring outfits. Whatever you do, don’t let them select your dress for the funeral — unless you’re a fan of something black and boxy, likely with a modest boatneck. God forbid anyone in this family ever show a hint of cleavage!”

  “When is the funeral?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  She snorts. “Of course not. A week from tomorrow. Royal functions take eons to plan — especially funerals. And this won’t be just any funeral. We’re mourning the loss of our king and queen. Before the actual ceremony, the bodies will lie in state for a full week.”

  My brows lift in confusion at the unfamiliar term.

  “They’ll be displayed for public viewing at Windsor Abbey,” she explains slowly, as though she’s talking to a child.

  “Sounds rather… morbid.”

  She plunks herself down in the armchair with a sigh. “It’s done so the common people have a chance to pay their respects. Only the aristocracy is invited to the actual funeral.”

  A frown pulls my lips down. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Fair?” She scoffs. “You really are new to this, aren’t you?”

  I ignore her. “How many are expected to attend?”

  “Half the kingdom, from the looks of it. I swear, there’s already a queue forming down the streets surrounding the cathedral, and the official vigil doesn’t even begin until tomorrow. I saw several groups pitching camping tents, so they wouldn’t lose their spots in line.”

  “That’s madness.”

  “That’s mourning. You should see it out there. It’s like the zombie apocalypse. The whole country’s at a standstill. Streets deserted, companies closed, people home from work… Every shop shuttered tight, every flag at half mast. Huge crowds camped out in front of the hospital, praying for Henry. We almost couldn’t get the SUV out the front gates this morning.”

  “How—” I hardly dare ask. “How is he?”

  “Alive. Barely.” Her face closes down. “I was out last night with his fiancée, Ava Sterling, when we saw the news trending on Twitter. Imagine that? Finding out the man you’re supposed to marry was nearly burned alive from strangers on the internet.” She barks out a bitter laugh. “Some fucking world we live in.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”

  She nods. “We went straight to the hospital. Spent the night waiting for news, until the doctors ordered us to go home and get some sleep.”

  I pull in a breath. “So… is he…”

  “Dying?” She takes another long hit. Tendrils of smoke curl upward toward the coffered ceiling panels. “That’s the billion dollar question, isn’t it? Unfortunately, I don’t even think the doctors know the answer, at this point. He hasn’t woken up. He might never wake up. And even if he does… between the risk of infection from the burns, the damage to his lungs and heart from the smoke inhalation, and the blow to his head that knocked him unconscious… it’s highly possible he won’t ever be the same Henry we knew before.”

  My mouth goes dry. I try to speak, but I can’t seem to find any words.

  Chloe’s brows pull in. “Meanwhile, everyone is just sitting home watching the news in a state of panic. I thought the press conference Simms gave this morning would calm things down, but…”

  My heart starts to pound. “Press conference? What press conference? What did he say?”

  “You really don’t know a damn thing, do you?” she asks, amused.

  “Did he…”

  “Did he talk about you?” Her eyes roll. “No. Not a word. As far as I know, the press hasn’t caught wind of you yet.”

  A whoosh of relief moves through me.

  I’m safe.

  For now, at least.

  One glance at Chloe — now sprawled horizontally in my chair with her feet hooked over one of the arms, designer heels dangling in the air — tells me she doesn’t plan on vacating anytime soon. Resigned to my audience, I dig through the shopping bag until I locate a plain white cotton shirt. I grimace at the unflattering neckline when I pull it from the bag.

  “What’d I tell you?” Chloe giggles helplessly. “Boatneck.”

  It may be ugly, but it’s better than being naked. I yank it on and rummage through the rest of the clothes until a pair of dressy navy capri
pants materialize. They’re like nothing I own — far too formal to wear to classes or the clinic. I promptly realize why when my eyes snag on the price tag.

  “Sweet Christ,” I mutter. “What are they stitched with, solid gold thread?”

  “One of the perks of princess-hood,” she drawls. “The clothes rock.”

  “Glad to hear there are at least a few perks.”

  “Considerably more than a few.” She flicks the tip of her blunt and I watch a small shower of ashes scatter across the immaculate rug. “As soon as the world knows you exist, designers are going to be tripping over themselves to dress you. Play your cards right, you’ll have the power to become a style icon.”

  “Dreams do come true,” I snap sarcastically.

  Her eyes narrow, despite the haze of drugs clouding them. “You know, for someone who just had the world handed to her, you’re kind of a wet blanket.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Yeah, well, if you’re looking for someone to throw you a pity party, you’ve come to the wrong girl.”

  “I’m not looking for pity. And you came to me, if I recall.”

  “Not the point.”

  “Do you have a point?”

  Her lips twist. “I can give you all the advice in the world when it comes to surviving in this place… but you’ll get it straight up, no filter. And if we’re going to be friends, I’ll expect the same in return.”

  “Fine. You want honesty?” I shove the shopping bag off my bed with the sweep of an arm, smiling as it thunks to the floor. “Excuse me if I’m not overjoyed about my new reality as Emilia Lancaster: Style Icon.” I scoff. “I want more from life than expensive clothing and boring state dinners and… and…”

  “Modest boatnecks?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, ask for it.”

  I blink at her slowly. “What?”

  “Ask. For. It.” She pushes to her feet and looks at me like I’m the stupidest person she’s ever met — an expression that instantly reminds me of her brother. “You’re the fucking princess. You’ve been elevated to a position most of us can only ever dream of possessing, just because Linus happened to blow a load in your mom a few decades back.”

  I wince. “Was that visual necessary?”

  “Probably not.” She stubs her blunt out in the flower arrangement sitting on my dressing table and props one hip against it. “Right now, with Henry hanging by a thread and the whole damn country in turmoil… they need you a hell of a lot more than you need them. That’s called leverage, E. That’s called power. Stop whining and use it.”

  I look at her, reeling as her words rattle around inside my head.

  She’s kind of a genius.

  “I thought my fairy godmother was supposed to have wings and a wand,” I say finally, smiling despite myself. “Instead I get a foul-mouthed stoner in designer heels?”

  “Yeah, well, I thought when my mom became queen I’d finally get a proper royal title,” she volleys back, spritzing herself with a bottle of the perfume on the vanity to cover the skunky smell of pot. “Instead I’m handed an evil stepsister with perky tits and purple hair.”

  I laugh. “Haven’t you heard? Life isn’t fair.”

  Fluffing her long auburn hair, she crosses to the door and yanks it open. “Screw fair,” she tells me, her brows arching sardonically. “Life is a chess game, E. Welcome to the board. I suggest you choose your moves carefully.”

  With one last wink, she slips out into the hall. I barely have time to yell a belated thank you before the door clicks closed behind her. And for the first time in twenty-four hours, a smile spreads across my face as I realize that the life I want is still well within my grasp. I just have to be brave enough to reach out and take it back.

  That’s called leverage, E.

  Time to see if my fairy godmother was right.

  An hour later, all signs of my smile are long gone. I glare at the portly man blocking my path into the private study, his double chin quivering with righteous indignation as he peers down his nose at me.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness, that’s simply not possible.”

  “I haven’t been coronated yet, Simms. Stop calling me Your Highness,” I snap. “And get out of my way.”

  “King Linus is currently occupied. Official crown business.”

  “Yeah. You said that.” I tilt my head at him. “Thing is, I still need to see him. Urgently.”

  “He is a very busy man, Your High—” He hiccups when he sees my lethal glare, and wisely changes course. “—Miss Emilia.”

  “Too busy to speak to his only daughter?” I ask, desperate enough to play any card in my deck, if it means getting what I want.

  Simms shifts uncomfortably, but does not yield. “Unfortunately, I cannot make any exceptions.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I try to evaluate him like he’s one of the patients at the clinic; try to assess him as one of my professors would, during a practical lesson.

  Snappy dresser, suggesting a dramatic streak… Unfailingly loyal to the Lancasters, almost as a point of pride… Aspirations of a long career connected to the royal family…

  Between his perfectionist tendencies and the near pathological degree of self-importance, there’s only one potential chink in his armor I can see: it’s not in his nature to burn a bridge with someone who might help further his position, sometime down the line.

  Someone like me.

  I just have to remind him of that fact.

  “You mean to tell me, the king is too busy to speak to the sole heir of Germania?”

  “I’m sorry… but…” Simms wavers.

  “You know, Gerald — can I call you Gerald?” I lean in, eyes locked on his beady brown ones. “I’m new to all of this, so forgive me if I’m off base here… but if I were in your position, I wouldn’t want to make an enemy of a girl who might, one day, inherit that official crown business they’re currently discussing behind those doors. And as your princess…” My jaw sets in a sweet smile. “Maybe even as your future queen… I suggest you let me pass.”

  His face pales a shade. “This is highly unprecedented…”

  I lift my brows and wait.

  Approximately three seconds later, he pivots on his shiny shoes and knocks quietly on the study doors. “Your Royal Majesty? Please forgive the impertinence…”

  My smile returns.

  Leverage, indeed.

  Chapter Nine

  I sit in a leather chair at a massive mahogany desk, engaged in a staring contest I fear I cannot win with the father I wish I’d never met. It’s almost like looking into my own eyes — same deep green shade, same slightly almond shape, same mix of curiosity and caution projected in their depths as we evaluate one another.

  It’s just the two of us; he dismissed his counselors and his personal guards when he saw me hovering in the doorway to his study, Simms chortling out apologies at my side. In the crushing silence left behind, I find myself wishing they’d stayed. I’m suddenly second-guessing my whole rationale for insisting upon this meeting.

  “So.” Linus steeples his hands in front of him and leans back in his leather chair. “You wanted to see me.”

  I nod.

  “I must say, I’m surprised — given your reaction last night.”

  My eyes press closed as I recall my outburst; the words ‘shove it up your ass’ replay in my head on an endless loop. Not exactly my finest moment.

  I can’t bring myself to apologize, but I do arrange my features into a suitably contrary expression. “Last night, I was overwhelmed and exhausted. It was… a lot to take in all at once.”

  “Still, I thought you’d be halfway to Hawthorne by now.”

  I jolt, startled when he names the small neighborhood in Vasgaard that I call home.

  “Are you surprised I know where you grew up, Emilia?” he asks softly. “Would you be surprised to learn I know a great deal about you and the life you’ve led?”

  I wouldn’t touch that
question with a ten-foot pole. The potential answer is far too scary.

  My pulse kicks up a gear. “Honestly? I’m more surprised you’d let me go home at all.”

  “You are not a prisoner, Emilia. You were brought to Lockwood Estate as a form of protection during an emergency. And, despite what you might think, everyone in this household is thrilled to have you here.”

  “Yes, that’s precisely the impression I got from the armed guards who dragged me here against my will.” I snort. “And especially from your wife.”

  “Admittedly, some are struggling with this transition more that others.” A glimmer of humor appears in his eyes. “But even Octavia will come around eventually.”

  I stare at him skeptically.

  “If I may ask… what is it you came here for?” He coughs — a wet, racking sound that reminds me of my mother before she went into the hospital. I try to focus on the talking points I put together, but it’s a struggle.

  Is he sick?

  “Emilia?” Linus prompts. “Much as I enjoy your company, I do have matters to attend to. If you won’t tell me why you’re here—”

  “A negotiation,” I blurt.

  “Oh?” His expression turns curious. “And what are we negotiating?”

  “You want something from me — need something, actually,” I correct rather clumsily, wishing my words were coming out the way I rehearsed earlier in my bathroom mirror. “But I’m going to need some things in exchange.”

  His bushy gray brows lift. “Do go on.”

  “I…” I force out the words. “I will agree to consider becoming your heir — and I mean really, truly consider it, with an open mind, withholding all judgment — but I can’t do that if the whole world is watching me. I want the chance to see what this life would be like without being under the public microscope.” My cheeks stain red. “No royal announcement. No press. No pressure.”

  He doesn’t react.

  I suck in a fortifying gulp of oxygen and keep going. “This way, you can teach me about the kingdom, about this life, about the responsibilities that come along with being a royal, before I’m locked in for all eternity. If you manage to convince me to stay, I will accept my role as the Crown Princess. But, if not… you will allow me to return to my life, under no obligation to ever take on a royal title.” I shrug lightly. “Call it… a trial period.”