Torrid Throne

by Julie Johnson

  My door slams loud enough to rattle the paintings on the wall, leaving me alone in the dark once more with only my nightmares for company.

  Chapter Two

  I adjust my grip on the round, hard-bristled brush, securing the strap more firmly across the back of my hand. The horse whinnies softly as I continue my rhythmic strokes, brushing along her flank until her coat is gleaming caramel in the shafts of early morning light that filter into the stable.

  “Good girl, Ginger,” I coo, holding my gloved palm flat to feed her a sugar cube. It disappears in the blink of an eye between her large buck teeth.

  I hum to myself as I store the brushes away in the tack box. When I return to untie the lead line from Ginger’s halter, her velvet muzzle butts into my hand, seeking another treat.

  “Sorry — that was my last one. I’ll give you more tomorrow after our ride. How’s that sound? Huh?”

  Ginger’s soft neigh makes me smile.

  “Who’s my good girl?”

  “You do realize she’s not going to talk back, don’t you?”

  The voice startles me. I spin toward the sound and find a willowy redhead leaning against the stall door, dressed to the nines in a sparkly black dress, fitted peacoat, and sky-high heels. Her hair is a bit mussed, her lipstick is long gone, and there’s eyeliner smudged beneath each eye. Even so, she looks totally glamorous.

  “Chloe! What are you doing here?”

  “Can’t a girl visit her stepsister without an ulterior motive?”

  “Sure.” I tilt my head at her. “I’m just surprised to see you up this early.”

  “I haven’t been to bed yet, if you must know.” She laughs, white teeth flashing brightly. “I knew you’d be out here after your morning ride — figured I’d swing by and say hi before I crash.”

  “Oh. Well. Hi.” I turn back to Ginger and remove her halter. Stroking her nose one final time, I whisper my goodbyes, exit the stall, and bolt it shut behind me. I can feel Chloe watching as I bang my knee-high leather riding boots against a nearby wall, dislodging chunks of dirt and manure from their soles. When I glance up, her nose is wrinkled in distaste.

  “Aren’t there grooms staffed here for this exact purpose?”

  I shrug. “I don’t mind doing it.”

  “Her Royal Highness Crown Princess Emilia, Heir Apparent of Germania and Official Mucker of Palace Horse Stalls. Long may she rein.” She smirks at her own play on words.

  Snorting, I fall into step beside her. I wave goodbye to the uniformed stablehands as we pass through the doors — two boys in their late teens with ruddy cheeks and prim navy uniforms. They flush bright red and drop into low bows.

  God, I wish they would stop doing that.

  Trailed by a fleet of soft-footed guards, Chloe and I cross the palace grounds in silence, taking in the icy beauty all around us. It’s chilly — half of November has already slipped away, and with it any lingering vestiges of warm weather. The once lush evergreens around us are now coated with frost. The frozen gravel paths crunch beneath our feet. Snowflakes drift slowly from the overcast sky, dark with promise of the season’s first heavy snowfall.

  I’ll be sad when the deep snows come, as it means the end of my morning trail rides. For the past few weeks, my equestrian lessons with Hans — the gruff, grumpy Master of Stables who’s worked at Waterford Palace for longer than I’ve been alive — have been my only respite from the utter boredom of castle confinement. Without a hobby to distract myself, I fear I may go entirely mad.

  If I haven’t already.

  Chloe is uncharacteristically quiet. Usually, she talks a mile a minute, full of hilarious anecdotes and unconventional life advice. Maybe, after weeks of futile attempts at conversation, she’s finally grown tired of my one-word answers and melancholy disposition.

  I can’t blame her — I’m the first to admit I haven’t exactly been a bundle of joy, lately. Between the lack of sleep and the twenty-four-seven security detail, I’m grumpier than a gold-digger caught violating her prenup.

  We’re nearly back to the castle when I shatter the strained silence, trying my best not to sound jealous. The fact that Chloe gets to leave this place — albeit with a hulking member of the King’s Guard in tow — is nearly enough to inspire a foot-stomping temper tantrum.

  “So, where’d you go last night?”

  “Some hot new designer had a fashion show in Lund. Ugliest dresses I’ve ever seen — one model actually walked out wearing what I think might’ve been a trash bag.” Her shoulder bumps mine. “You would’ve hated it.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Hey.” She stops walking beside a waterless fountain. The stone mermaid at its center seems especially lifeless in the dull grey light. “I know this sucks, okay? I know it’s not fair that you’re—”

  “Locked up here like a fucking prisoner?”

  “Temporarily locked up. Once they catch whoever is behind the threats—”

  “Right, right. I’ve heard it all before.” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “They’ll catch the bad guys and then I’ll be free! The guards will be super chill about me leaving the castle, spending nights out on the town, living like a normal twenty-year-old girl!”

  “Almost twenty-one.” Her lips twitch. “Technically, your birthday isn’t for a few more weeks.”

  “Great! Enjoy celebrating it without me. I’ll be here alone, with only the horses for company.”

  “You’re being a bit dramatic.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m fresh out of patience. These days, I can’t even pee without someone hovering at the door, ensuring I’m not in need of assistance or protection from assassins. I swear, if I’d allow it, they’d cocoon me in plastic bubble wrap and carry me around, lest I accidentally bump into something. Any more of this, I’m going to start praying for a rogue hitman to put me out of my misery.”

  Chloe tries — and fails — to suppress a giggle.

  With a bitter scoff that puffs in the crisp air, I gesture around the desolate courtyard. “Laugh all you want, but I’m not joking. There are four guards trailing us right now — here, in the goddamned castle gardens! If you think I’m ever going to be allowed outside again without a full army at my back, you must still be high.”

  “I did use my vape on the ride home…”

  “Is everything a joke to you?”

  “No. It’s not.” Her laughter fades. A worried crease appears between her eyes. “But this is the first time you’ve actually opened up to me about your frustrations. How could I know you’ve been feeling so stir crazy? I may be intuitive, but I’m not a mind reader. And every time I’ve tried to talk to you for the past month, you’ve…”

  “What?”

  “You’ve pushed me away.”

  “That’s not true,” I insist, even though a nagging voice at the back of my head thinks maybe, just maybe, she might be right.

  “Look, E, I get it. You went through something horrible. Something really fucking scary. You had the rug ripped out from under you right when you finally felt like you were finding your feet. I get it.” Chloe shrugs. “I’m not the clingy type. I won’t push to be in your life if you need space or time to process what happened at the coronation. I’ll be here, whenever you’re ready to let me back in. But… you can’t expect me to understand where your head’s at if you never open up.”

  My stomach twists with guilt.

  She takes a step closer and grabs one of my hands within her own. “You complain about being alone here, with no one but a horse for company. I don’t even think you realize that your isolation is self-imposed.”

  “I’m locked in a castle! The King’s Guard won’t let me leave the grounds! That’s not isolation, Chloe. It’s incarceration. Nothing self-imposed about it.”

  “I don’t mean isolated physically. I mean emotionally.” She sighs. “This past month, you’ve kept this… this wall around yourself. It’s like you’re holding back from everyone. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t break through.�
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  “Whatever, Cher.”

  “See! That attitude, right there, is exactly what I’m talking about. You were always sassy but now you’re…”

  My brows lift. “By all means, don’t stop now.”

  “You’re caustic.”

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize I was required to be a constant rainbow of positivity all the damn time!” I yank my hand from hers. “I suppose I should take a bloody page from your playbook and get high all the time to avoid ever feeling anything real! To avoid feeling anything at all.”

  She flinches as though I’ve struck her. I flinch too, stunned by the words that just came out of my own mouth. The longer they linger in the air between us, the more I want to snatch them back.

  When did you become such a bitch to the people you care about, Emilia?

  “Chloe,” I start, my anger abruptly gone. “I’m… I didn’t mean…”

  “I get lonely too, you know.” Her voice is more vulnerable than I’ve ever heard it — stripped of her typical levity. “You might not have noticed, but I don’t have a lot of allies in this place either.”

  My eyes are suddenly stinging.

  Dammit.

  She’s right. About all of it.

  I have been caustic. I have been pushing her away. Because the truth is, that night — that horrible night, when Linus was dying in my arms — something shifted inside me. That mortal wound in my heart, barely closed after the death of my mother two years ago, broke wide open again. And in its aftermath, the thought of losing anyone else, the idea of going through that kind of grief ever again…

  It was too hard to contemplate.

  So, I closed myself off from the possibility. I erected walls around myself high enough to keep everyone at arms length.

  Your heart can’t get broken if you never let anyone inside it.

  How cold that strategy seems now, in the harsh light of day, confronted by the truth from a girl who calls herself my sister. If Mom were alive, she’d kick my ass for being so selfish. The thought alone is enough to make my heart pang with regret and remorse.

  “Chloe…” I swallow hard to clear the lump of emotion blocking my airway. “I’m so sorry. Truly. It sounds stupid now, but… I guess I was trying to protect myself somehow by keeping my distance from everyone. I didn’t realize I was hurting you in the process.”

  “I understand, E. Really. You’ve gone through some pretty epic changes in the past few months. You’re entitled to a little adjustment time.”

  “Still… the last thing I wanted to do was make you feel alone, or like you don’t matter to me. Because that couldn’t be further from the truth.” I blink rapidly to fight the telltale stinging of my eyes. “Having you in my life means so much to me. I’m sorry if I haven’t shown that recently. From this moment on, I’m going to be better.”

  “A rainbow of positivity?”

  My lips twist in a smirk. “I don’t know about a full rainbow. How about… a grayscale light spectrum of slightly-less-caustic cynicism?”

  “Sold!”

  Eyes gleaming with amusement, she offers a reconciliatory smile. After a moment, I return it.

  “I’d hug you, but…” Her eyes scan me up and down, taking in my dusty riding outfit and mud-caked boots. “You’re gross.”

  “Wow. Thanks.”

  “What are sisters for if not to hit you with the harsh truths no one else will own up to? Now, come on. It’s fucking freezing out here, I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours, and my buzz has officially worn off.”

  I roll my eyes as she leads me toward a side door of the palace, but I can’t deny the smile curling up the corners of my lips. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I’ve taken a clean gulp of air.

  Chloe and I part ways at her suite in the North Wing, a massive yawn splitting her face as she shuts the door. I continue down the hall to my own chambers, passing Carter’s along the way. My ears strain to detect any signs of life behind his wall even as I berate myself for listening.

  For fuck’s sake. Get it together, stalker.

  Quickening my pace, I reach my rooms and shut myself inside. The flip of my lock makes me feel marginally safer from my own unsettling fixation on the adjacent suite.

  I shower off the dust and dried sweat from my ride, the scalding hot water turning my pale skin pink. As my hands drift over my body beneath the stream, I close my eyes and, just for one reckless moment, allow myself to imagine they belong to someone else.

  Someone with dark messy hair and bright blue eyes that cut straight through me, down to my soul.

  My fingers skim a path from my stomach down to the apex of my thighs, slick with water as I begin to touch myself. My spine arches as memories flash through me.

  A moonlit greenhouse.

  A mouth on mine.

  His hands on my neck.

  In my hair.

  Up my thighs.

  At my core.

  The sensations are enough to send me stumbling backward into the tiled wall. Heart thundering, knees weak, breaths short.

  Snap out of it, my common sense snarls. Fantasizing about him won’t fix anything.

  But barring Carter Thorne from my brain is proving more difficult than ever. Since he woke me from my nightmare last night, I haven’t been able to get him out of my head. After a month of careful distance, having him that close, seeing those eyes, smelling his skin… It hit me like a jolt of pure adrenaline, awakening a need inside me I thought long buried.

  Like it or not, that night in the greenhouse…

  He claimed me.

  Body and soul.

  Stroke after stroke.

  Thrust after thrust.

  I ache for him with every atom in my anatomy, and the sensation is only growing stronger the longer I deny myself. Like a drug addict in ever-worsening withdrawal, I crave my fix with a singleminded intensity that scares me as much as it thrills me. It’s such a foreign sensation, I hardly recognize it.

  I’ve never been an adrenaline junkie. Never found a thrill in living on the edge. Before I became Crown Princess Emilia, I was just your average girl next door. A solid student. A hard worker. A reliable friend.

  Financially responsible.

  Good head on her shoulders.

  I’ve never taken unnecessary risks. Never chased the bad boys who made my pulse speed faster or done reckless things for the sake of some bragging rights.

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived my life in black and white — following clear and simple margins, attacking my problems with methodical precision. I rehearse every important speech in my bathroom mirror. I make rational pro-con lists. I trust my head over my heart.

  I like science.

  I like math.

  I like concrete answers and predictable outcomes.

  I’m simply not a girl who lets lusty thoughts cloud her levelheadedness. In fact, I despise those girls.

  And yet…

  Here I am. An emotional tangle of desire and desperation, all over a man I can never even have.

  I know it’s not sane or healthy or rational.

  Still, I can’t stop. I can’t shut it off.

  I can’t shut him out.

  Turning off the rainfall shower-head, I step out onto the heated marble floor and grab a towel from the rack. The Lancaster crest — a double-headed lion — is embroidered into the plush white cotton with thick gold thread. I scowl at it as I dry my dripping limbs.

  Curse this legacy.

  Curse the blood running in my veins.

  Curse the crown they thrust onto my head, without ever asking if I wanted it.

  Everything was so much simpler when I was Emilia Lennox, the studious psychology intern with lavender hair and a pathetically uncomplicated love life.

  Oh, if I could only go back…

  Chapter Three

  Later that afternoon, I find myself wishing for simpler times even more fervently. My fingers drum the mahogany table in a restless tattoo as I wait for th
e guillotine to fall. There must be bad news — that’s the only possible reason for this double-team meeting with both Gerald Simms, the Palace Press Secretary, and Lady Morrell, my official etiquette tutor in all matters royal.

  They sit across the table, evaluating me with their beady-eyed stares. Inspecting me feature by feature, as you would a used piece of china.

  Checking for chinks in my armor, no doubt.

  It takes all my self-control not to fidget in my soft cashmere sweater, not to smooth out imaginary wrinkles in my fitted black pants just so I have something to do with my hands. I keep my posture casual, as though I’ve not a care in the world, but my heart is racing as I wait for one of them to speak.

  Simms finally breaks the suffocating silence. “Thank you for coming, Your Highness.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes; it’s not like I had a choice in the matter. “Your note requested my immediate presence. Here I am. Both immediate and present.” My eyes narrow a shade. “Are you going to tell me why, or do you expect me to start guessing?”

  “That will not be necessary,” Lady Morrell says primly, staring down her hooked nose at me.

  Simms sits up straighter in his seat, the action straining the buttons of his navy herringbone suit. “We are waiting for Her Majesty before we begin.”

  “Octavia?” I hiss. “What the hell does she want from me?”

  “Language!” Lady Morrell admonishes.

  “Tell me what she wants or I’m walking out that door.”

  “Princess Emilia, please.” The roll of fat beneath Simms’ chin quivers. “We are not at liberty to discuss this matter until she arrives.”

  “Screw that.” I push to my feet. “I don’t have any interest in a damn word that viper has to say.”

  I hear Lady Morrell gasp, but it’s quickly drowned out by an arctic feminine voice that pierces the room like a thunderclap.

  “Sit. Down.”

  My muscles tense. With defiant eyes, I turn to meet her — my loving stepmother. Octavia Thorne. Former Duchess of Hightower. Current Queen Consort of Germania.