by Geneva Lee
But tonight is a test. Of her. Of me. Of us.
And I’m determined to pass.
We’re not two steps back into the ballroom when Stefan or Anton or whatever the fuck my father’s latest simpering aide is named approaches us. He bows to me, which is completely unnecessary, but only nods to Clara.
I make a note to get him fired.
“Your Highness,” he says. “Your father requests that you join the family for the toast.”
“I showed up,” I say through clenched teeth. “That should be enough.”
“I’m afraid he’s quite insistent,” he says. “I suspect he’ll just call you up in front of everyone if you don’t—”
“Fine!” I toss my hands in the air, giving up and unintentionally losing Clara in the process. She’s frozen next to me, still not speaking. What must she think of this? Of us?
“I’ll see the young lady to a table,” maybe Stefan says.
“She stays with me.”
“But sir—”
“She stays with me,” I say again. There’s no way he’ll dare question me twice. But in case he has a death wish, I grab Clara and drag her towards my family before I punch him. Maybe Stefan is only doing as he’s told, I remind myself—it’s something I should have sympathy for.
But I don’t. All I can feel as I approach my father is dread.
Chapter Seventeen
The entire family is here. Why do bastards always get so much attention? I’m not naive enough to believe the people gathered here came out of love. My father is a hard man to love and an impossible man to like. I suspect the only reason I tolerate him is our shared blood. Duty binds us together. If it wasn’t for our birthrights, tragedy would have torn us apart a long time ago. He’s not responsible for the loss of my mother or sister. I’m to blame for Sarah’s death. But I’ll never forgive him for how he treated me after. And while no one killed my mother, that’s never stopped him from treating my brother like the unwanted third wheel.
We look nothing alike, except our eyes, I’m told. He’s British in every sense of the word. His light hair, once sandy blond, is now fading to grey. Lines crease his face. He stands like he owns the place, a trait that came with his crown. Maybe that’s why we’ve never gotten along. No one owns me. He knows it. That’s a trait that came with my mother’s Greek blood. It’s why the man will probably outlive me out of sheer determination to keep the throne from falling into my hands.
He says I’m too volatile to be King. He’s right.
Edward is dutiful by his side, and guilt washes over me. I can only imagine how many insults he already endured. I thought when I came back to England I might find their relationship had changed, but it’s worse than ever. Edward might keep his romance a secret, but he can’t hide anything from our father. No one can. It’s a perk of having a secret service at your disposal. My brother raises an eyebrow, his face written with warning as though I’m not already expecting whatever hell is about to be unleashed. “Remember, this is about me, Clara,” I whisper.
She nods, but she’s too busy gawking at the others to mean it. I can’t blame her, but I need to get through to her. This is going to be ugly, and most of the nastiness will be directed at her. It’s my family’s favorite strategy: bully the new blood until they break—or prove as indestructible as they are. I take her chin in the palm of my hand, turning her eyes toward mine. I’ve resolved that Clara is part of my life. Everyone else will have to fall in line with this reality—especially her.
Her eyes flutter wider, framed by dark lashes, and she stares through me like she can see everything I try to hide. I feel something inside me slam closed, unwilling to feel so vulnerable.
I can’t. Not here. Not now.
Her gaze dances over me, momentarily puzzled, before the slightest smile appears on her lips as if she’d seen that thought, too. It’s as though she witnessed my defenses raising. Is the smile congratulatory? Is she pleased to have figured me out? No. It’s something else. For a moment, I’m reminded of my mother, and that’s when I understand what the smile means: she’s reassuring me. One simple smile to let me know that she’s here with me. For a second, I let myself believe it will be okay, and I can’t help but lean to kiss her softly. She’s everything I need without even trying. “Good girl.”
“Alexander,” my father calls, stealing the moment like he always does. “You’ve kept us waiting long enough.”
“I’m sorry, father,” I force the apology out. I’ll play nice and keep my claws retracted until we’re alone. Brushing a hand down Clara’s arm, I try to give her an ounce of the reassurance she just gave me. “I lost track of my date.”
“How careless.” He beckons me away from the others. “May I speak with you?”
I shoot Edward a look, and he tips his head so slightly no one will notice. He’s on Clara duty for the moment. I can trust him with her. The others? Not so much. They’re already closing in from all over the room, drawn like sharks to blood in the water.
My father waits until we’re out of earshot before he begins. “I don’t remember telling you to bring a date.”
“I don’t remember caring,” I say, adjusting a cufflink that loosened during the ride to the party. My mind flashes to Clara’s bare skin, the feeling of her warm sex clamping over my cock. Suddenly, I’m looking for a fight. It will be an excuse to leave—to take Clara back to her flat and fuck her until all memory of tonight is gone.
“You have a reputation to consider,” he hisses, his eyes darting out over the pawns he’s gathered for this sham of a celebration.
“Clara is an Oxford graduate whose family is worth several millions and who works in philanthropy. Might your standards be a tad high?” I ask.
“Don’t pretend she’s not a slut. I saw those texts. It doesn’t matter what her file says. Any woman who allows that isn’t suitable,” he says, his voice rough with rage. “She’s not the kind of woman you marry, Alexander.”
“That would be a shame, wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t want to disappoint the family,” I storm.
“Your proclivities are an embarrassment,” he lowers his voice again. This is one subject he’s desperate to keep quiet. It’s why he sent me away. “If you need a woman to fulfill your perverse fantasies, so be it. Pay someone. Someone discreet so that I don’t have to hear about it. But don’t walk them through the front door.”
“Is that how you keep Pepper quiet?” I’ve been saving this slight for the right moment—waiting to use it.
“I have no idea what you’re on about.” His eyes dart away, his body going rigid. I’ve cornered him.
“I’m talking about the fact that you’re shagging your daughter’s best friend.” I won’t allow him to feign ignorance. It’s time for a reckoning.
“I have no idea where you heard this—”
“It’s more about who confirmed it,” I stop him. “I think you might want to aim your discretion lecture toward your bitchy bedfellow.”
“You think you’re so clever with your poisonous barbs and little games, son, but you have no idea how unprepared you are for your role in this family,” he warns me. “That girl will only be a distraction. It’s time for you to get serious about your duty to your country.”
“To this country or to you?” I spit back.
“I am the King. I am the country.”
“You’re a mascot for a dying breed. No one needs the monarchy.” I mean it. Every word. He can’t deny we’re little more than ceremonial puppets who serve for photo ops and charity functions.
“You have no idea how wrong you are,” he says, shaking his head. “No idea what this family is up against.”
“Defunding?” I say coldly.
His fist tightens, and I wonder what will happen if I push him just an inch farther. Would he rescind invitations to future engagements? Or would there be a fistfight and another scandal for the wretched tabloids? “Find your pretty girl and dance with her,” he advises me, shaking off the tense rage with a
shrug of the shoulders. “Play with your toy. I don’t have time for your childish behavior.”
“Oh, but it’s a party. Aren’t we all supposed to cut loose?” I say, even as his words strike like a knife in the back. I know what he’s doing. He’s manipulating me—twisting me into the irresponsible prodigal son that feeds his ego. If I won’t kiss his ass like everyone else, he’s left with no other choice.
My grandmother steps between us, shielding her son as though she senses how close we are to coming to blows. “You disobedient little bastard.”
“Grandmother,” I say dryly. “Lovely to see you this evening.”
“How could you bring that…that American here?” She makes the word sound like a slur. To her, it is.
“You’re a terrible snob,” I inform her. “She’s half British.”
“Half British! There’s no such thing as half British,” she says with a sniff, as though the very idea is an affront.
“As much as I enjoy a good flagellation”—I aim this barb at my father—“I should see to my date.”
Grandmother mutters something about disgusting and attitude and my mother under her breath. I force myself to ignore it.
“Good night, Alexander.” There’s a finality as he dismisses me.
At least he won’t care if I leave, now.
Turning, I spot Edward talking furiously with David. He glances up, our eyes lock, and he shakes his head helplessly. I cross to him in three strides.
“Where’s Clara?” I demand, searching for a red rose in the crowd.
“She left. David saw her—“
I don’t wait to hear the rest of his explanation. A few people try to stop me as I push through the crowd, but there’s only one person I care about, and she’s out in the night—alone and unprotected. I have no idea when she left, but when I slip out into the night, the steps are empty. There’s no trace of her. There’s only darkness, along with a few lingering paparazzi, who snap to attention and begin taking photos. Maybe she didn’t come this way. Maybe she’s still inside. But I can’t sense her presence. It’s as though she’s fled the ball, rushing home to her safe, ordinary life without leaving so much as a glass slipper behind.
Chapter Eighteen
This is why I don’t do relationships. The first reason is my wretched family. The second is the goddamn paparazzi. The third is that, apparently, having a girlfriend also means having a nauseating pit in my stomach all the time. A photographer dares to get too close, and I snarl, snatching his camera and tossing it on the pavement. “Get a sodding life!”
“You owe me two thousand pounds.” He shakes his fist at me as he stands up with the remains of his equipment. He takes one look at me and blanches white.
“You know where to send the bill,” I spit back. I wonder how they’d feel to have every second of their life captured and dissected on a global scale.
The others back away, too shy to get close, but don’t stop taking photos. Tomorrow there will be pictures in the tabloids—pictures of me without Clara. I can only imagine what fun they’ll have with that after we arrived here together. The leeches probably saw her, but there’s no way I’m going to ask them about it. The last thing I need is a story for them to sell along with their candid shots.
I yank down the cuff of my tuxedo, which scares the closest paparazzi back a few more steps. What little men with sad lives. I’m about to tell them this very thing when a firm hand closes over my shoulder.
“Your Highness,” Norris says evenly. “I’ve been looking for you. I found what you’re looking for.”
Relief floods through me, but I’m not about to show weakness, not while I’m being photographed. I round, shrugging off his grip, and stalk back inside the lobby.
“Where is she?” I ask as soon as we’re safely inside. I keep my voice low. Knowing my father has spies stationed everywhere, reporting my every move back to him.
“One of my men is following her,” he says, tacking on “at a distance” when my eyes go wild.
“Following her where? Take me to her.”
“She’s on her way home.”
“Home?” I repeat. “How? Why didn’t you take her?”
“Miss Bishop left in a…hurry.” Norris looks slightly embarrassed to reveal this fact. “Naturally, I had someone keeping an eye on her, so he followed and alerted me.”
“How is she getting home then?” I don’t understand how we can be here calmly discussing this while Clara is somewhere in the city. Perhaps in a nondescript taxi or, even worse, on the tube.
Norris draws a deep breath. “She’s walking.”
“Walking!” I explode. I’m halfway back at the door before he steps in front of me.
“Many Londoners walk home,” he reminds me.
“Many Londoners aren’t sleeping with the heir to the fucking throne.” I’m getting tired of his zen routine.
“She’s being protected, but it seems she needed some space.”
“Take me to her,” I order him.
“I’m not certain—”
“Now.” I don’t leave room for further discussion.
I spend the ride to Clara’s flat fuming at my family for driving her away and at Clara for being so reckless. She needs to understand that her life isn’t her own anymore.
Because of me.
I’m not sure that’s something I can undo. I dragged her into the spotlight this evening. I’m the reason her face keeps showing up on trashy magazines. They’re not going to leave her alone until I move on. The trouble is that the only thing I’m more certain I can’t change than the media frenzy is my feelings about her.
Feelings. Fuck.
That wasn’t part of the arrangement.
What will have to change is her lax attitude toward her own safety. Without warning, a vision of her naked from the waist down, bare ass in the air, bent over my knee, swims to the front of my mind. There are ways I could drive the point home. If she won’t listen to reason…
But that’s not part of the arrangement, either.
Honestly, what am I getting out of this, anyway?
I can’t even entertain the thought. I know exactly what I’m getting out of it: her.
In the end, she’s the one who deserves more—more than I can give her, more than I can ever be. I suspect that if I spend every day trying to achieve the bare minimum of what a woman like Clara should expect, I still will come up short.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t have my little fantasy. Imagine what it might be like to have her under my control completely. She told me she can never do that, so that’s all this will remain—a sick dream from my bastard brain. It might only be in my head, but my cock isn’t getting the memo. Visions of Clara bound and helpless draw my mind away from my seething anger, sending the blood boiling inside me straight to my cock.
By the time we reach her flat, I’m rock hard and over-heated. I toss my tuxedo jacket in the seat. Norris opens the driver’s door, but I wave him off.
He might not be responsible for what happened this evening—I believe the fault lies entirely with my family—but I might take it out on him all the same. I’d rather not.
“I’m going to stay the night,” I inform him.
“Sir,” he starts.
I hold up a hand. “Many Londoners stay the night at their girlfriends’ flats.”
Two could act casual.
He lifts a bushy eyebrow as his mouth flattens into a thin line. I can’t decide if he’s annoyed at the not-so-subtle dig or trying not to laugh.
“Let me do something normal,” I say quietly.
“I’m not certain showing up to Miss Bishop’s house in a limousine after a ball is terribly normal,” he says. That settles it. He’s trying not to laugh. “I’ll leave you to it.”
I have no doubt he’ll be parked around the corner all night, watching. There’s no sense in fighting him about it, though.
I take the stairs to Clara’s flat two at a time. I don’t know if I want to kiss
her or shake her. I definitely need to fuck her.
The only trouble is: she’s not there.
An hour passes—or maybe a few minutes. I can’t tell. I’ve managed to convince Norris to go back and look for her, but he left reluctantly. He’s going to need to get used to prioritizing her safety over mine because she’s much more important, at least in my book. Every creak in the old building, every tenant moving about in their flat sets me on edge. When I finally hear soft footsteps on the stairs, my entire body goes rigid. It’s her. I know it. I can feel it. Still, relief floods through me when her silhouette appears in the stairwell, her shoulders slumping downward, shoes in hand.
“Clara.” Her name tastes wonderful on my lips. She’s here. She’s safe. She starts at the sound of my voice and drops her shoes. For a second, she stares at me with a strange expression.
It’s just long enough for my relief to turn to anger. What was she thinking? Walking through London alone? Leaving without a word?
She must sense my rage because she scampers toward the door, keeping her eyes turned from me.
“Where have you been?” I demand. She’s not getting away from this that easily. I’ve got her back against the door before she can find her keys. She looks tired, not just from the hour, though. There’s a sadness in her eyes that twists my insides. One night with my family. That’s all it took to hurt her this badly.
“Walking,” she says wearily.
It still doesn’t excuse how stupid she’s been. I rake a hand through my hair to keep myself from shaking her. Can’t she see that things are different now? “You leave without a word, and then you walk home?”
“You pushed me away,” she whispers, something dangerous sparking in her low voice. “I didn’t run. I made the choice to leave.”
And now she’s challenging me. I can’t blame her exactly. It’s one of the things that draws me to her. She doesn’t wait around to be kicked by anyone—not even the King and his courtiers. But I’m not them. Why can’t she see that? “You came with me. I expected you to leave with me. I need to know where you are. That’s not a request, Clara.”