The man sitting on it looks to be in his sixties and in good shape for his age.
Mirabelle touches my arm just before we get too close to him.
“Do you know who I am, Everly?” he asks.
I don’t really know, but I have my suspicions.
“Venture a guess?” he asks in his soothing, calm voice.
“King of York?”
“That’s a good girl.” He nods approvingly.
The King is dressed in a three piece suit with cufflinks. I don’t know why I’m surprised by this. This is the modern world after all. I’ve seen plenty of royals in magazines wearing suits and regular dress clothes. Still, it’s a bit off-putting.
The King runs his long fingers over the arms of the throne as he looks me up and down.
“Modern people don’t have the proper clothes to sit on thrones, do they?” he asks, as if he is able to read my mind.
Not sure how to respond, I shrug.
“It’s not like it was back in the day. I mean, I read about these Kings and Queens and their elaborate garb…because, of course, they didn’t wear just clothes, they wore garb.”
“Yes…sir,” I say.
“You don’t have anything else to add to what I just said?” he challenges me.
I take a moment to collect my thoughts.
“Well, I guess it’s the nature of the world right now,” I say. “With manners and etiquette falling by the wayside, sir.”
I lower my head slightly in a respectful nod. Keeping my head in this position, I put my left foot behind my right and shift most of my weight onto the front. Then I lower down, bending my knees outward.
“An unexpected curtsy! Wow, I’m impressed,” the King exclaims, clapping his hands. “Only, you want to extend your right foot behind your left. Otherwise, that was perfect execution.”
“Yes, sir,” I repeat myself and do as he says. He claps louder.
“Well, well, well, Ms. Everly March. You…are full of surprises, aren’t you?”
I’m not sure how to answer, so I just interlace my fingers and stand broad-shouldered before him.
I look straight into his eyes, but my gaze is without challenge.
The King looks me up and down. His eyes narrow and then relax.
He runs his hands through his wavy dark hair, which is only now getting a few brushes of gray. He is not an unattractive man and I can see traces of Easton in him.
However, unlike Easton, there’s a coldness emanating from him.
I don’t want to admit it, but it fills me with fear.
“I have been watching you, Everly March,” he says, adjusting himself in his seat. “And I like what I see.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What do you think about this competition we are having here?”
That’s a loaded question if I have ever heard one.
What do I think of kidnapping women for your pleasure?
What do I think about the games you play with people’s lives?
Nothing good, I can tell you that.
But, of course, I can’t.
I have to be diplomatic, but more than that actually.
I have to be charming and disarming.
I suspect that he’s one of the judges, so it would behoove me to get him on my side.
“It’s quite challenging, sir,” I say, standing up straight and lifting my chin. “But I like a good challenge.”
He looks at me for a moment. My heart sinks at the thought that I might have said something wrong.
But then he starts to laugh.
A loud roaring sound emanates from the pit of his stomach.
“I like being right, Everly. Even though I’m the King and people tend to agree with me, I like finding those moments in life when I and everyone else knows that I am right.”
“Yes, sir,” I say with a respectful nod.
“Well, at first, I thought that maybe I was being a little cruel with my son, Easton. I mean, he’s kind of a tender soul. Not like my other son, Abbott.”
The mention of Abbott’s name sends shivers down my spine. “So, when it came time for me to punish Easton for raising his hand to his older brother to protect you…”
Punish Easton? What is he talking about? I narrow my eyes for a moment, but then force myself to relax them.
No, I can’t let him see me question him.
But the King doesn’t notice a thing.
“As you know, you are a commoner in these parts, and Easton is a Prince. That means that Easton had no right to hit his brother to protect you from him…no matter what Abbott does.”
I stand before him, motionless.
“Do you not agree?” he asks, raising his eyebrow.
I feel myself starting to tremble in fear, but I remain stoic.
Unreadable.
“Of course, I do,” I finally say.
“I thought you would.” He laughs. “You’re a smart girl. You may not know the rules of York quite yet, but you’ve got a good sense of how we do things when you were…down below.”
My cheeks get flushed.
He knows.
Of course, he knows.
How could he not?
My heartbeat starts to speed up, and I take a deep breath to calm down.
I can’t let him see me flustered. I can’t let him rattle me.
“So, I guess, you agree with me then, huh?”
“About what, sir?” I ask quietly.
“That I made the right decision.”
“I am sure you did.” These words come out even quieter than the ones before.
He is toying with me.
Not quite revealing his whole hand.
Making me guess.
But what is he getting at?
“Good, that’s good!” the King says, clapping his hands. “And I thought that you might be upset by the fact that I had ordered Easton to spend the night with you.”
What does that mean? A hundred different questions run through my mind. I look up at the King, no longer able to keep my true feelings to myself.
“Oh, you didn’t know?” the King asks mockingly. “Well, yes, of course, you didn’t know. I also ordered him not to tell you.” He laughs again and his loud ugly laugh echoes around us.
“Don’t look at me like that, honey. I didn’t have a choice. Easton had to learn a lesson.”
Fighting against everything that’s boiling up within me, I’m somehow able to restrain even one tear from escaping my eyes.
“You know, I really thought you would have a harder time with this,” the King adds.
“No, I understand, sir. You had to do what you had to do,” I say loudly.
“I am glad to hear that. You might make a good Queen after all.”
Good Queen?
What does that mean?
“You may go now.” He waves his hand.
“Excuse me, but what do you mean by that, sir?” I ask. Mirabelle tries to drag me away, but I turn to face him.
“I am looking for a new wife,” the King says, giving me a coy smile.
I’m stunned. I stare at him, dumbfounded.
Mirabelle pushes me to get me to move.
“Let’s go,” she hisses. Reluctantly, I follow her out of the door.
“You knew about this?” I ask when we get outside.
“Please, follow me,” she says instead.
“No, I will not!” I shrug her hand off my shoulder.
“I’m done doing what you tell me. I’m done with this place and these games.”
Hot tears start to stream down my face. I try to hold them back, but I can’t.
“Listen to me.” Mirabelle spins me around. “You are not done with this place. You were great in there. Composed. Elegant. That’s who you need to be.”
“No,” I mumble. “I can’t.”
“If you don’t, then you will be sent back to the dungeons. Or worse.”
“What’s worse?” I ask through the tears.
“Sold o
ff. To one of his friends. In another part of the world. You will never be heard from again.”
I shake my head and collapse onto the ground. “No, no, no. I can’t do this anymore.”
Mirabelle slaps me across the face. This action stuns me and I look at her surprised.
“If you want to survive here, you have to stop feeling sorry for yourself. The King has taken a liking to you. That is not something that happens everyday. Trust me. You do not want to make him regret it.”
“But what about Easton? How could he do that to me?” I ask. “I thought…I thought we had a connection.”
“He was ordered to seduce you and make love to you. He was just doing as he was told.”
I run my fingers over the gravel underneath my feet.
Less than an hour ago, I thought that I had met someone who really understood me.
Cared for me.
But perhaps not.
Perhaps that was all an illusion.
I look up at the sky and watch as the bright yellow moon moves behind a murky cloud.
Can I do this?
Can I survive this place?
I have to try.
What other choice do I have?
Thank you for reading HOUSE OF YORK!
I hope you enjoyed Everly and Easton’s story. Can’t wait to find out what happens next?
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He used to be my only hope. Easton Bay: a man who’s as ruthless as he’s gorgeous and as tender as he is cruel. His every touch sends shivers down my spine.
I crave him.
He saved me once, but will he do it again? He’s a mystery. An enigma. A suspense.
There’s a darkness inside of him. It scares me to my very core. Yet, I pull closer with each breath. I am an addict and he is my drug.
What happens when it’s not enough?
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* * *
I don’t belong here.
I’m in way over my head. But I have debts to pay.
They call my name. The spotlight is on. The auction starts.
Mr. Black is the highest bidder. He’s dark, rich, and powerful. He likes to play games.
The only rule is there are no rules.
But it’s just one night. What’s the worst that can happen?
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Start Reading Black Edge on the next page!
Chapter 1- Ellie
When the invitation arrives…
“Here it is! Here it is!” my roommate Caroline yells at the top of her lungs as she runs into my room.
We were friends all through Yale and we moved to New York together after graduation.
Even though I’ve known Caroline for what feels like a million years, I am still shocked by the exuberance of her voice. It’s quite loud given the smallness of her body.
Caroline is one of those super skinny girls who can eat pretty much anything without gaining a pound.
Unfortunately, I am not that talented. In fact, my body seems to have the opposite gift. I can eat nothing but vegetables for a week straight, eat one slice of pizza, and gain a pound.
“What is it?” I ask, forcing myself to sit up.
It’s noon and I’m still in bed.
My mother thinks I’m depressed and wants me to see her shrink.
She might be right, but I can’t fathom the strength.
“The invitation!” Caroline says jumping in bed next to me.
I stare at her blankly.
And then suddenly it hits me.
This must be the invitation.
“You mean…it’s…”
“Yes!” she screams and hugs me with excitement.
“Oh my God!” She gasps for air and pulls away from me almost as quickly.
“Hey, you know I didn’t brush my teeth yet,” I say turning my face away from hers.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Go brush them,” she instructs.
Begrudgingly, I make my way to the bathroom.
We have been waiting for this invitation for some time now.
And by we, I mean Caroline.
I’ve just been playing along, pretending to care, not really expecting it to show up.
Without being able to contain her excitement, Caroline bursts through the door when my mouth is still full of toothpaste.
She’s jumping up and down, holding a box in her hand.
“Wait, what’s that?” I mumble and wash my mouth out with water.
“This is it!” Caroline screeches and pulls me into the living room before I have a chance to wipe my mouth with a towel.
“But it’s a box,” I say staring at her.
“Okay, okay,” Caroline takes a couple of deep yoga breaths, exhaling loudly.
She puts the box carefully on our dining room table. There’s no address on it.
It looks something like a fancy gift box with a big monogrammed C in the middle.
Is the C for Caroline?
“Is this how it came? There’s no address on it?” I ask.
“It was hand-delivered,” Caroline whispers.
I hold my breath as she carefully removes the top part, revealing the satin and silk covered wood box inside.
The top of it is gold plated with whimsical twirls all around the edges, and the mirrored area is engraved with her full name.
Caroline Elizabeth Kennedy Spruce.
Underneath her name is a date, one week in the future. 8 PM.
We stare at it for a few moments until Caroline reaches for the elegant knob to open the box.
Inside, Caroline finds a custom monogram made of foil in gold on silk emblazoned on the inside of the flap cover.
There’s also a folio covered in silk. Caroline carefully opens the folio and finds another foil monogram and the invitation.
The inside invitation is one layer, shimmer white, with gold writing.
“Is this for real? How many layers of invitation are there?” I ask.
But the presentation is definitely doing its job. We are both duly impressed.
“There’s another knob,” I say, pointing to the knob in front of the box.
I’m not sure how we had missed it before.
Caroline carefully pulls on this knob, revealing a drawer that holds the inserts (a card with directions and a response card).
“Oh my God, I can’t go to this alone,” Caroline mumbles, turning to me.
I stare blankly at her.
Getting invited to this party has been her dream ever since she found out about it from someone in the Cicada 17, a super-secret society at Yale.
“Look, here, it says that I can bring a friend,” she yells out even though I’m standing right next to her.
“It probably says a date. A plus one?” I say.
“No, a friend. Girl preferred,” Caroline reads off the invitation card.
That part of the invitation is in very small ink, as if someone made the person stick it on, without their express permission.
“I don’t want to crash,” I say.
Frankly, I don’t really want to go.
These kind of upper-class events always make me feel a little bit uncomfortable.
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I ask.
“Eh, I took a day off,” Caroline says waving her arm. “I knew that the invitation would come today and I just couldn’t deal with work. You know how it is.”
I nod. Sort of.
Caroline and I seem like we come from the same world.
We both graduated from private school, we both went to Yale, and our parents belong to the same exclusive country club in Greenwich, Connecticut.
But we’re not really that alike.
Caroline’s family has had money for many generations going back to the railroads.
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My parents were an average middle class family from Connecticut.
They were both teachers and our idea of summering was renting a 1-bedroom bungalow near Clearwater, FL for a week.
But then my parents got divorced when I was 8, and my mother started tutoring kids to make extra money.
The pay was the best in Greenwich, where parents paid more than $100 an hour.
And that’s how she met, Mitch Willoughby, my stepfather.
He was a widower with a five-year old daughter who was not doing well after her mom’s untimely death.
Even though Mom didn’t usually tutor anyone younger than 12, she agreed to take a meeting with Mitch and his daughter because $200 an hour was too much to turn down.
Three months later, they were in love and six months later, he asked her to marry him on top of the Eiffel Tower.
They got married, when I was 11, in a huge 450-person ceremony in Nantucket.
So even though Caroline and I run in the same circles, we’re not really from the same circle.
It has nothing to do with her, she’s totally accepting, it’s me.
I don’t always feel like I belong.
Caroline majored in art-history at Yale, and she now works at an exclusive contemporary art gallery in Soho.
It’s chic and tiny, featuring only 3 pieces of art at a time.
Ash, the owner - I’m not sure if that’s her first or last name - mainly keeps the space as a showcase. What the gallery really specializes in is going to wealthy people’s homes and choosing their art for them.
They’re basically interior designers, but only for art.
None of the pieces sell for anything less than $200 grand, but Caroline’s take home salary is about $21,000.
Clearly, not enough to pay for our 2 bedroom apartment in Chelsea.
Her parents cover her part of the rent and pay all of her other expenses.
Mine do too, of course.
Well, Mitch does.
I only make about $27,000 at my writer’s assistant job and that’s obviously not covering my half of our $6,000 per month apartment.
House of York Page 17
