“Your orders were to leave.”
“Not from you, sir.” She pauses, still staring at me. “From her.”
My stomach flips.
Could it be…?
“Galizia, so help me…” Bane takes several strides toward her, getting right up in her face. I wait for her to duck for cover, to back down, to run for the hills. But she simply lifts her chin higher to meet his scowl head-on.
Like I said — either very brave or very stupid.
“If you don’t get out of my sight within the next five seconds,” he growls, “I promise you’ll be scrubbing bathroom floors for a week.”
“All due respect, sir… that’s no longer your call to make.”
“Galizia! GALIZIA! Where do you think you’re going—”
Stepping deftly around her screaming commander, she walks right up to me. Her expression is totally unruffled; you’d never know a man mere feet away was yelling at the top of his voice. Her indifference only seems to incense him more.
“You’re going to regret this, Galizia! You hear me? You should be kissing my boots for even allowing a woman into this unit… No one wanted you here, but I tolerated it… and this is how you repay me? With desertion?”
Up close, she’s striking — tall as a supermodel with that rare, no-frills, natural kind of beauty that doesn’t require an ounce of makeup. If I had to guess, I’d peg her in her late twenties or early thirties.
My pulse pounds in my veins. My mind is reeling with questions. But she does not appear to share my uncertainty. Her eyes never shift from mine as she slowly lifts her right hand to her temple in a solemn salute. When she speaks, her voice is full of such conviction, I know she means every word.
“Your Royal Highness, I’m Second Lieutenant B. Galizia. And, if the offer stands… I’m at your service for as long as you require it.”
There’s no hesitation in her words. No mockery.
She’s serious.
She actually intends to walk away from the King’s Guard. To risk the wrath of Bane, to forsake all the men she’s spent years training with, to upend her plans for a lifelong career in the castle…
For me.
In that moment, I want to take back my own request. To tell her, I’m not worth it, you’d be an idiot to do this for me. And yet, at the same time… I’m so unbearably grateful, I want to yank her into my arms and squeeze the shit out of her. (Since I’m pretty sure that would be breaking about a zillion military protocols, I bury the impulse.)
Somewhere in the depths of my psyche, one of Lady Morrell’s many etiquette lessons must finally click into place, because I manage to summon enough decorum to nod in a dignified, regal manner. At least, I think I manage to.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Galizia. I appreciate your service more than words can say.” My gaze flickers to Bane. He looks fit to be tied, still spouting profanities and promising retribution if she dares to abandon her post. “Now… Shall we get the hell out of here?”
Galizia’s solemn expression doesn’t change, but I swear I see her lips twitch a little. “That seems wise, Your Highness.”
And so, with my heart racing at twice its normal speed and a man cursing my name… I leave The Gatehouse behind with my one-woman Princess Guard in tow.
Chapter Five
The knock on my door is soft, so hesitant, I almost don’t hear it at first. I’m not expecting anyone. At nearly ten o’clock on a Friday night, the only people I plan on interacting with before I fall asleep are of the fictional variety.
So… who’s standing at my door?
My fingers flex against the pages of my book and my heart contracts with violent hope inside its cage. Before I can stop myself, I find my gaze riveted upon the wall that divides my suite from Carter’s…
Don’t be stupid, I tell myself, shoving the reckless feelings down as deep as they’ll go. He’s out for the evening. And even in the highly unlikely, statistically improbable scenario that Carter Thorne is sitting at home on a Friday night… He hates you, remember? He’d never in a million years knock on your door and ask to chat like old friends.
Assuring myself it’s Lady Morrell with a dress for tomorrow or Simms with a list of nagging demands or a chambermaid with fresh logs for my fireplace, I take a deep breath, set down my copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, and turn my attention toward the doorway.
“Come in!”
Despite my best intentions, a bolt of inextinguishable disappointment shoots through me when the door clicks open and I see a young pageboy standing on the threshold, a stack of thick envelopes clutched in his hands. Official correspondence, no doubt. All part of my new duties as ‘the public face of the Lancaster family.’
Joy.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” the page bleats, his face stark white. He looks all of eighteen and seems scared half to death just to meet my eyes. “I’m so sorry to bother you at this hour, but I have some mail here for you. I was supposed to deliver it earlier, except I got held up with some of my other tasks and…” His throat convulses. “I know my tardiness is inexcusable. I promise it won’t happen ever again, if you’ll only give me another chance to prove myself—”
“Hey. Take a breath. It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t. This constitutes grounds for termination, so if you’d like to reprimand me—”
I sigh deeply and hold up a hand to stop him. “That may be my beloved stepmother’s style, but it’s not mine. You made a mistake and you’ve apologized for it. Rather profusely, I might add.” My lips twist. “So, if you’ll just set the mail down over there on my writing desk, I’ll go back to my book, and we can both get on with our nights. Sound good to you?”
Relief steals across his face. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows roughly and starts edging toward the desk. “Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you so much.”
I nod and pick up my book once more. Honestly, it’s probably rude not to get up and accept the mail from him firsthand, but the stone floors of the keep are like ice now that winter has us firmly in her clutches. And I’m far too cozy to move, snuggled in my favorite chair by the fireplace with a white fox-fur blanket tucked around me — even if Lady Morrell would consider it a ghastly impropriety.
A sharp sound of alarm from the pageboy makes me abandon my book again. I glance back at him just in time to see Galizia stalking into my room. Before the boy can dodge her, she snatches the stack of letters out of his grip. When she whips around to face me, her expression is a mix of exasperation and disbelief.
“Your Highness. Do you just call ‘come in’ to everyone who shows up at your door, or is this a special case of stupidity?”
My cheeks heat. My tongue feels suddenly thick. “I— well—”
“You, well, what?” She shakes her head. “He could’ve been anyone, Princess. He could’ve killed you before you even had a chance to scream.”
My brows arch skeptically. “Him? Are we looking at the same boy?” My eyes slide to the page. “No offense.”
“None taken,” he whispers weakly.
“I don’t care how wimpy or ineffectual he may appear—” Ouch, Galizia, let’s not verbally castrate the boy right in front of him. “—A threat can come from even the most innocuous-looking source.”
“He works in the palace,” I point out. “Obviously he isn’t a threat.”
“How can you know for sure?” she counters. “For all you know, he’s a terrorist who stole a palace uniform and snuck in with the sole intention of killing you while you slept.”
The pageboy looks like he might pee his pleated navy pants. “Honest, ma’am, I’m an employee here—”
Frozen silence blasts the room.
I wince. Calling a badass like Galizia ma’am is tantamount to addressing a high-ranking military general as dude. It simply isn’t done. The pageboy seems to realize his blunder, since he turns beet-red and begins stammering out apologies.
“Sorry — I didn’t— that wasn’t—”
“You can leave now.” She dismisses him without ever looking away from me. He bolts so fast, he’s just a blur of navy fabric as he disappears into the hall. Frankly, as Galizia advances on me, I find myself wishing I could follow him out.
“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t check whether he was an assassin but, to be fair, if he was an assassin, do you seriously think I’d have a shot at fighting him off? The fact that he’s at my door, in my suite, means he’s already gotten through about a dozen existing security measures. How much can I possibly do at that point to keep him from slitting my throat?”
“If that’s your mentality, why bother hiring me at all? If you’re just going to roll over and die when confronted with the first sign of danger, what the hell am I doing here? Or is this Princess Guard of yours just for show?”
“Of course not!” My pulse kicks up speed. “I’m perfectly aware I’m not an expert at protecting myself. That’s the whole damn reason I need you!”
“And I will do my best to protect you. But that doesn’t just mean acting as your shield. It also means teaching you to identify threats and guard yourself against them, even if you’re alone. Even if you’re up against a wall, unarmed, with an assailant closing in and no help in sight.”
My stomach twists. “For the record, I really, really, really hope that never happens.”
“For the record?” Her expression softens and a bit of the sharpness goes out of her tone. “We’re on the same page about that, Princess.”
There’s a long beat of silence while we stare at each other. In truth, I’m a little thrown off — it’s been a long time since anyone scolded me like this. A long time since someone treated me like I’m just a normal college kid — a girl who screws up and miscalculates and occasionally needs to be steered in the right direction, for her own good.
Ever since they plunked this crown on my head, most people I encounter either want to put me on a pedestal, pull my strings like a puppet, or hide from my presence altogether. Enemies attempt to manipulate me; strangers fawn over me like a celebrity; staff express outright fear that I’m going to have them tossed in the castle dungeons at the slightest provocation. (I’m pretty positive we don’t even have castle dungeons anymore, but that doesn’t seem to make any difference whatsoever.)
As the princess, as Her Royal Highness Emilia Victoria Lancaster, to most everyone on the planet, I am untouchable. Even Simms and Lady Morrell, with all their critiques and criticisms, couch their anger in polite conversation and conceal their frustration beneath well-practiced platitudes. But my new bodyguard doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck about royal protocols. And she definitely doesn’t worry about offending me by speaking her mind.
It’s a refreshing change of pace.
“Why did you do it?” I ask suddenly.
Her blonde brows lift.
“Why did you agree to work for me?” I shake my head, confused. “Everyone else followed Bane’s orders. Everyone else figured I wasn’t worth whatever trouble defecting from the King’s Guard will inevitably cause… So. Why? Why did you risk it?”
She’s quiet for a long time. I’m pretty sure she’s not going to answer my question at all, until she finally heaves a sigh and grunts out a small laugh. “The guys in the guard — most of them are great. Honorable, well-trained, intelligent. They’re exactly the kind of people you’d want watching your six in enemy territory when you’re out of ammo. They’d take a bullet for you, no question. But that doesn’t mean they were thrilled by the prospect of a woman joining their ranks.”
“Seriously? This isn’t the 1950s, for god’s sake. Women aren’t required to stay home and cook casseroles anymore.”
“Trust me, some of the guys made it clear they thought I’d be better suited to standing behind a stove than holding a lethal weapon.”
“That’s so sexist. You took the same tests. You endured the same training. You earned your spot in the guard, same as them.”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Women in male-dominant industries will always have to work twice as hard to prove they got to where they are based on merit. Do you know how many times I’ve been asked if I slept my way into the unit? Do you know how many instructors asked me if I was lost when I showed up to take the physical qualification tests? How many of them shook their heads and smiled and called me cute when I said I wanted to become the first female ranking officer of the King’s Guard?”
Anger stirs inside me; I’m outraged on her behalf.
“Everyone in the unit has a nickname,” Galizia continues. “Bane picks them during our first week of active duty — some sort of backwards hazing ritual. Yates wears glasses, so he’s Specs. Anderson is from a tiny mountain village, so he’s The Alp. Riggs is our best shooter, so he’s Bullseye. You get the picture.”
“Sure.”
“Know what nickname he gave me? What I’m known as, among the guys?” Her lips press down into a thin line. “Squat. Because women…” She pulls in a rattling, rage-laced breath and swallows down her indignation. “Because I have to squat to pee. Because they had to build a separate stall for me in the barracks. Because I had the audacity to possess different anatomy.”
Her own commander.
Her closest comrades.
The men she is supposed to trust with her life.
The men who are supposed to empower her.
Instead… they tried to tear her apart.
I’m horrified, but I don’t have any words to comfort her. There’s nothing I can say to fix it. “Galizia, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was like that for you.”
“I didn’t tell you because I want your pity. I told you because I wanted you to understand that for me, leaving the King’s Guard wasn’t a tough decision. All my life, I’ve wanted to serve my country at the top-tier, to do the most good wherever I’m most needed.” Her mouth twists. “Seems to me, right now… that’s you, Your Highness. You need someone to watch your back; I saw that opportunity and decided to take it. It’s not complicated. I’m not conflicted about my choice.”
“Still, not everyone would’ve done it. In fact, every other soldier in that room flat-out refused to even consider it. So… thank you. Regardless of your reasons, I’m grateful to have you.” I pause. “Even when you yell at me.”
“Speaking of which…” She lifts the stack of letters still in her grip. “I made sure this particular batch of mail was screened for threats before the pageboy got his hands on it, but from now on, don’t accept anything until you know I’ve checked it personally. It wouldn’t be hard for someone to lace an envelope with anthrax or another chemical agent. Inelegant, yes — yet rather effective as an assassination technique.”
I feel suddenly pale. “Doesn’t everything that arrives at the palace already get screened as a regular security protocol?”
“Supposedly.”
My brows lift, but she doesn’t elaborate further.
“Get some sleep, Princess.”
Setting the letters on my small side table, Galizia turns and walks to the door, her long strides crossing the room in seconds. At the threshold, she pauses. Her voice, if I’m not mistaken, is threaded with barely-contained amusement.
“Personally, I’d go out with the gold-embossed envelope first. He may be a trust-fund asshat like the rest of the batch, but at least he doesn’t try his hand at god-awful, flowery poetry like the blue calligraphy guy…”
“Huh?” I ask, but she’s already gone — disappearing into the hallway and shutting my bedroom door behind her with a resolute click. Only after turning my attention to the stack of envelopes do I figure out what she meant.
See, I was wrong before. Wrong to assume my mail was official correspondence concerning upcoming functions at the palace, vital political meetings, notifications about the ongoing arson investigation…
Nope.
In my hands, I hold over a dozen letters from what can only be described as…
Suitors.
Eligible, extremely wealthy, Germanian
suitors. Men with lands and titles and — dear lord, Galizia was right, judging by this first one — extremely poor taste in poetry. My horror magnifies as I thumb through letter after letter, reading several different date propositions in sloping masculine script.
Consider this your invitation to the formal ball at Glenn Landing…
Please accompany me to the Nelle River Bridge Restoration Gala next month…
It would be my honor to escort you around the Vasgaard Museum of Natural History, since my family donated several prized pieces to the diamond exhibit…
I roll my eyes. Octavia must’ve put out some sort of bulletin: the Crown Princess is officially open for business, lads! That’s the only explanation for this sudden surge of romantic interest. Unless I’m unknowingly putting out a pheromone that exclusively attracts politically-connected men under the age of forty who occupy our country’s highest tax bracket.
I crumple a particularly cheesy letter into a ball and toss it into the fire. The flames quickly swallow it whole. I watch them flare brighter as the paper disintegrates into ash, scowling as I recall my standoff with my delightful stepmother earlier this afternoon. Her snobbish tone echoes inside my head.
You will agree to be courted by the eligible bachelors of Germania’s aristocracy. Suitors specifically selected for their family connections, influence, and titles.
“Like hell I will!” I hiss, rising to my feet and throwing down the rest of the envelopes, unopened. They scatter across the floor — confetti of the finest quality card-stock and calligraphy. “There’s no way she can actually force me to go out with these cretins…”
Muttering under my breath, I pace in front of my fireplace for several minutes, trying to banish all thoughts of courtship from my mind. When the clock in the corner of my room chimes to mark a new hour, I stop seething long enough to check the time. I’m stunned to see it’s already midnight.
Shit.
In eight hours, I have to be pressed and perfumed, on stage at a Remembrance Day ceremony. Lady Morrell told me she’d wake me up at six o’clock sharp, a team of makeup artists and wardrobe consultants in tow. I should’ve been asleep hours ago, unless I want the dark circles beneath my eyes to be the most memorable part of my first public appearance as the Crown Princess.
Torrid Throne Page 5
