I get up with the sun and make my way to the kitchens for breakfast. I feel a bit groggy, like I have the remnants of a hangover that stays with me all the time. Pushing through the discomfort, I eat a bit of dry toast and make my way to the garden.
Throughout the morning, my movements are labored, and the roses smell so damn sweet. After an hour or so, I end up puking behind a rose bush. Wiping my mouth, I lean on my knees and sigh. This is going to be a tough nine months—well, seven and a half months, now.
A noise at the gate makes me turn my head, and Flora’s smiling head appears. She coughs into her hand, and then smiles at me again.
“Jo!”
“Hey, kiddo.”
“I’m not a kid,” she says, rolling her eyes. She coughs again, her whole body contracting.
I frown. “You okay?”
“It’s nothing.” She forces another smile. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Maybe you should get some rest.”
“I’ve been waiting for ever for you to come back, and now you want to send me away?” She has the same big, blue eyes as her father. Right now, they’re wide and pleading, and I can’t say no.
“All right,” I sigh. “Grab that bag, I’m picking up the fallen petals.”
“Mr. Marcel said the roses bloomed again in September. Is that true?”
“These ones will.” I point to the roses along the southern fence. We get to work. Flora coughs a lot as we gather the wilted rose petals. She has to sit down after a few minutes, and coughs so hard I’m afraid her little body will break into pieces.
“Let’s go find Mrs. Grey, Flora.” My voice is a bit sterner, now. The Princess shouldn’t be out here. Maybe it’s because I have my own child growing inside me, but my motherly instincts are starting to kick in.
The Princess doesn’t protest. I slip my hand into hers, and we walk back toward the castle. Mrs. Grey meets us at the door—she always has a sixth sense when it comes to Flora. The old woman’s lips pinch together as her brow furrows, and she takes the coughing girl over to the East Wing.
I watch them leave, and worry knots my stomach.
The Prince told me cystic fibrosis is hereditary… Will my baby have it, too?
Shaking my head, I get back to work. My mind keeps flicking back to the Princess, though, and my stomach keeps twisting. She didn’t look well. I haven’t known her very long, but seeing her so pale, and weak, and coughing so much. It’s scary.
I head back to the Gardener’s Cottage around two o’clock in the afternoon. My feet and back are aching, and I can’t get rid of the nausea that seems to churn my stomach every time I move. So, instead, I go back to my little abode, put my feet up, and pull out Paulette’s book.
I can’t help it. It’s addictive. A lot of her stories, I dismiss immediately as lies. Still, she’s woven in enough truths for her book to sound plausible. I can see Gabriel in her stories—the wildness in him, the walls that he put up, the chaos that he seems to attract.
WHEN A KNOCK COMES on the door, I jolt awake on the couch. The sun has gone down, and I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep. Paulette’s book has tumbled to the floor, and I stuff it between the couch cushions. Heading to the door, I try to smooth my hair and make myself look presentable. There’s only one person that knocks on my door at this hour—Prince Gabriel.
Yet when I open the door, it’s not him standing on my stoop. It’s his butler, Bertrand. The eagle-eyed man inclines his head.
“His Highness regrets that he can’t join you tonight,” Bertrand says, his face unreadable. “The Princess has fallen ill.”
A cascade of emotions rushes through me. First, embarrassment—Bertrand knows about us? Second, disappointment that Gabriel won’t be coming over. Third—worry.
“She’s sick?”
Bertrand nods. “She hasn’t been this bad in almost a year.”
“She was coughing a lot in the garden today.” I open the door wider. Bertrand hesitates, but steps inside. I offer him some tea or coffee, but he shakes his head.
“Is she okay?” I ask, putting the kettle on anyway.
“She started coughing blood. You know that with her condition, she gets lung infections easily.”
I nod.
Bertrand shakes his head. “It’s bad. The Prince is worried.”
Typically, Bertrand is the image of professionalism. He’s fiercely loyal to the Prince, and never lets his own feelings show. Today, though, he sinks into a chair and drops his head in his hand. My heart starts to thump.
“It’s bad, Jolie,” he says quietly. “She’s very sick.”
“How could it get so much worse so quickly?”
Bertrand shakes his head. “She’s very vulnerable to infections.” He lifts his eyes up to mine. “The medical staff were talking about airlifting her to Farcliff. They’ve set up good medical facilities in the castle, but nothing compared to the Farcliff Royal Hospital.”
“Airlifting her out of here?”
Bertrand nods, sighing.
“And the Prince—is he okay?”
“I haven’t seen His Highness like this in a long time. I think…” He hesitates, lifting his eyes up to me. “I think he might benefit from your company.”
“You want me to go up to the castle uninvited?” I ask, biting my lip.
A small, selfish part of me worries about my unborn child, too. If Flora has some sort of bacterial infection, couldn’t I get it, too? What if I got sick?
Bertrand lets out a heavy sigh. “Maybe not.” He pushes himself up to his feet and heads for the door. When he gets there, he pauses and glances over his shoulder. “The Prince has been happier since you’ve been here.”
Our eyes meet, and for a brief moment, I see how much Bertrand cares about Gabriel. It looks like the love of a father, worried about his son.
I nod my head as if I understand, but I still don’t know what to do.
Bertrand leave the cottage, and I stare off into nothing. The butler may think that I should go up there, but I’m not sure I can. I glance down at my stomach and let out a heavy sigh.
I just can’t bring myself to put my own child into any kind of danger—however slight it may be. So, instead, I sit down at the desk and try to write. The words I put down are complete garbage, and I know I’ll have to scrap them all, but at least by typing them, I’m not thinking about Flora, and the Prince, and me.
I DON’T SEE Gabriel at all that night, or the next day. There are whispers in the castle that Princess Flora’s condition is deteriorating, and the possibility of her being transported to Farcliff by helicopter becomes more and more likely.
I desperately want to go see her. I want to wrap my arms around the Prince and make sure he’s coping. I want to kiss Flora’s forehead and hold her hand…
…but I don’t.
I stay away, and I wait for Gabriel to come to me. He needs his space, I tell myself. He needs to be with his daughter, and it’s not my place to interrupt. When he said he loved me, he didn’t say that I could use the castle as my own home. He’s never invited me to his own chambers—what right do I have to go up there at all?
That evening, I go back to the cottage and I wait for him, unsure that he’ll come at all. He doesn’t—not until dawn the next morning.
I wake up to a soft knock on the door. I fell asleep on the couch again, waiting for him. I rub the sleep from my eyes and open it up, and my heart breaks.
The Prince is broken. He has big, dark bags under his eyes, and he looks like he’s aged ten years overnight.
“Oh, Gabriel,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around him.
He sobs, trembling in my arms. I drag him inside and hold the Prince as he breaks in front of me. Standing there, in my tiny cottage, I hold him in my arms as if it’ll do anything to keep him together. He pulls away from me, his eyes rimmed red and tears still streaming down his face.
“She’s sick, Jo. Really sick.”
“Will they airlift he
r out of here?”
He nods. “By this afternoon at the latest. I’m going to Farcliff with her.” He opens his mouth, and for a moment I wonder if he’ll ask me to come with him.
Yes, I’ll come. I’ll do anything.
Instead, he drags himself to the sofa. Leaning back and staring at the ceiling, he lets out a heartbreaking sigh.
“I can’t lose her.”
“You won’t.” I sit next to him, leaning my head on his shoulder.
The Prince shifts his weight to put his arm around me. I rest my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat as it slows down. He takes a few deep breaths, tangling his fingers into my hair. His lips press against my forehead, and I hold him close.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “It’s good to be able to not be strong for a little while.”
“You’re still strong, even if you’re hurting.” I brush my fingers over his cheeks. I kiss him tenderly, wanting to draw the pain out of him and into myself.
Then, a sequence of events makes my entire life unravel like an old sweater. The Prince shifts his weight on the couch, putting his hand down on the edge of the cushion. He makes a noise, feeling something hard with his fingers.
My heart starts to race as I realize what he’s just touched between the cushions.
People say that things happen in slow motion, that they can see everything happen in vivid detail, and that their life flashes before their eyes.
That’s not what happens to me. Things occur very, very fast. First, Prince Gabriel shifts his weight. Then, he reaches between the couch cushions. It takes approximately four nanoseconds for him to recognize the book that he pulls out of the sofa, and two more nanoseconds for him to explode.
I can feel the rage vibrating within him as he swings his gaze toward me.
“Gabriel…” I silence myself as he stands up, his eyes wide with fury as he glances at the book, and then back at me.
Nothing flashes before my eyes. Time doesn’t slow down. It crashes around me all at once, and I know it’s all over.
30
GABRIEL
ANGER IS TOO KIND a word for what I feel. Rage is too gentle. Fury is too soft. Poisonous, gangrenous betrayal is injected straight into the center of my heart, and I die. In those few seconds, I die over, and over, and over.
The woman that I love—loved—stares at me with those unforgettable eyes. I look at her, and then at the book, and my body starts to shake. My heart turns black, and my vision clouds. A deep, unending well of wrath is opened in my soul. It spills venom into my veins and kills everything inside me. In that moment, I realize there’s no beast inside me.
I am the beast.
Then, everything goes dark.
I BLINK, and I’m in a helicopter. There’s a dull thumping in my head. Someone is prodding at my palm. I look down, dazed.
Blood everywhere. My blood.
Is it mine? Or is it Jolie’s?
I close my eyes, and flashes of memory go through my mind.
Flora’s illness. Jolie’s kindness.
The book.
The betrayal.
I remember Jolie’s cries as I smashed the door to the cottage. The sound pierces through my head like a thousand daggers. I bring my hands up to my face to try to drown out the memory of her voice. Something scratches against my cheek as pain shoots through my hand.
“Easy, your Highness,” a medic says. “I’m trying to get the thorns out. Try to sit still.”
I squint, trying to make sense of the blood on my hands. It runs between my fingers and soaks into my sleeves. It stains my shirt, my pants, my socks.
The chopper’s blades go whomp-whomp-whomp against my skull, and I close my eyes again.
I remember my breath, ragged and heavy as I dragged myself away from the cottage. Away from Jolie. Away from what I might do to her if I stayed.
I remember stumbling, as if drunk, on my way to the rose garden.
Exhaling, I open my eyes. Memories return to my mind like the flick of a light switch, illuminating the putridness of my rotten soul.
I destroyed everything.
I ruined it all.
31
JO
MY KNEES SINK FURTHER DOWN into the dirt as my tears soak the soil. I’m in the same spot where I collapsed in the rose garden when Gabriel’s monster was unleashed.
I watched him rip the plants from the earth with superhuman strength. I heard him roar like a man unhinged. His screams were wordless, but I know what they meant.
This is your fault, he told me, ripping the bushes from the earth. You killed these flowers, just like you killed me. You did this.
I watched him tear his hands to shreds on thorny bushes, snarling and snapping his teeth as he tore from one end of the garden to the other.
I knelt, crying.
When his vengeance had been extracted from the plants we once loved, he walked past me without a word. He left a trail of blood in the dirt beside me, and I wept. I wept until the helicopter landed on the grass, and the medical staff took Flora and the Prince away. I wept until the sound of the aircraft faded, until I was alone.
I still weep.
I can’t stop crying. I can’t move, or think, or do anything except kneel among the butchered roses.
My chest splits open as if the Prince took an axe to it, cracking it asunder with all the strength of his fury. I bleed into the soil with him, dying on the patch of dirt that I tended in his honor.
When the chill of the air starts to freeze my body, I force myself to stand up. Everything aches. My knees are covered in dirt, and it’s hard to walk. I stumble, catching myself on the fence.
I have to turn away from the carnage. I lean into the intricate iron fence, resting my forehead against one of its spikes as I take a deep breath. I can’t bear to look at it, but I have to.
Straightening myself up, I turn to look at the destruction in the garden. No plants have been left untouched. Every single rose bush is uprooted, broken, and destroyed. When I get to the trellis of climbing roses, my heart breaks all over again. The Prince pulled the trellis off the wall and ripped the delicate plant from the earth. He tore the bush apart, bit by bit, knowing it was my favorite.
My lip trembles, and I take one of the few remaining roses between my fingers. I cradle it in my arms like a wounded bird, my tears dripping onto its soft petals.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the rose. “I’m so sorry it ended like this.”
I say it to the rose, and I say it to myself, too. I weep for the relationship that could have been between Gabriel and me. I know it’s over now.
Even if he apologizes, it doesn’t change the fact that he did this. I’ve seen this side of him, and I’m not sure I can ever be okay with it.
I bring the wilting rose up to my nose and I inhale, burying my face in its petals. My other hand drifts to my stomach, and the pieces of my shattered heart melt into my flesh.
Yes, I was wrong to bring the book to Westhill. Yes, the Prince has a right to be upset about that.
But this destruction is wrong. This kind of anger is unacceptable.
I have to think of my child—and that’s not the kind of person I want as a partner.
Tucking the rose into my pocket, I take a deep breath. I walk to the small shed at the corner of the garden and pull on some gardening gloves. I’m still wearing my pajamas, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t go back to the cottage. I can’t look at the broken door, the smashed chairs, or the book he tore to pieces.
There’s too much destruction around me, and I need to fix some of it.
So, I get to work. I’m barefoot, and within minutes, the soles of my feet are cut and bleeding. All the better—we’ll both bleed in this dirt, and maybe it will nourish the roses in the future.
A light flicks on, and I ignore it.
“Jo?” Sam’s voice calls out. “Are you okay?”
I turn to see her with Mrs. Grey, their faces painted with concern.
“G
ot to clean this up.” I grab a shovel, turning away from them.
“Go to bed, dear,” Mrs. Grey says softly. “We can work on this tomorrow.”
I shake my head. “No. It has to be now.”
Sam tries to take the shovel from me, and I growl at her. I literally growl at my friend.
Maybe the Prince and I aren’t that different, after all?
“I have to,” I whisper, as if that explains anything. Mrs. Grey puts her arm around Sam’s shoulders, but Sam shakes it off. She walks to the shed and puts some gloves on, and starts working beside me. Mrs. Grey lets out a heavy sigh and walks away.
The older woman comes back with a tray of coffee, bread, and butter, which she leaves by the edge of the garden. “Don’t stay up too late,” she says, sadness creeping into the edges of her voice. I nod to her, and then turn back to the roses.
At one point, maybe around two or three in the morning, I notice Sam is crying. Silent tears stream down her cheeks, and I wrap my arms around her. We cry in each other’s arms, not needing to say a word to each other. Nothing can bring comfort right now, so we just cry for a few minutes. Then, we keep working.
When the sun comes up, Sam stumbles to bed, and I keep working. There’s a feverish sort of need inside me—a panic, as if I’ll die if I don’t fix this. We’ve cleared about half the garden, and I’ve salvaged a handful of plants. Less than ten percent of the exquisite roses will survive, but my tears have dried up. I don’t have anything else to give. My body is sore, my eyes are stinging, and my feet are bleeding.
Once I finish this cleanup, I’m not sure what will be left of me.
A few minutes after Sam leaves, Harry shows up with two other gardeners. He nods at me without saying a word, and for the first time, I’m grateful for his presence. I see a softness in his eyes, and I think I might have judged him too harshly before. We work until about noon, clearing the garden of its murdered flowers. We’re able to salvage about twenty plants whose root balls were still intact. The rest of the garden, though, is gone.
A massive pile of brambles and dead flowers lays in the center of the rose garden like a funeral pyre.
Cruel Prince: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (Royally Unexpected Book 3) Page 18