Royal Arrangement #2

by Renna Peak

  Of course, I know many places have ongoing issues with providing for all their citizens. It’s an unspoken secret among many countries—the problems with homelessness. Rosvalia has suffered greatly the past decade or so, making our problems even worse than they were. We’ve slashed budgets wherever we could—even the palace has narrowed its budget to near nothing.

  Except for Father’s budget for the Royal Guard. That has not suffered at all.

  I’ve no need to think of my father or whatever it is he’s hiding in the east wing of the palace. As far as I know, it is some pet project of his that he wishes to keep secret, at least from me. I’m sure Reginald knows about it, though my mother may or may not. For all its loveliness, Rosvalia still holds a very misogynistic attitude toward its female citizens, myself and my mother included.

  I just want to take a long, hot shower and wash this day from me, and afterward, sleep for as long as I’m able and try to forget everything I’ve seen today, at least until I wake up tomorrow.

  William must be asleep by now, I think. I can sneak in, take my shower and slide into bed without him ever hearing me. He likely won’t be in my bed, anyway. Even if I might want him to be, he made himself perfectly clear earlier—he’d rather sleep outside in a storm than share a bed with me.

  It’s fine, I remind myself. There are only ninety-six days left of this sham of a marriage.

  Yes. That is what I need to keep reminding myself. America isn’t much better than Rosvalia as far as the homelessness problems—and even the sometimes misogynistic views—but at least I’ll be free of my father and my brother. And of William.

  I tiptoe into the living area, quietly closing the door behind me. William isn’t on the couch, at least. I set down my things and peel off my rain jacket—I’m still soaked to my skin. I should just strip here—William is likely outside or he’ll have found himself another place to sleep tonight. Even if we can’t have another room officially until tomorrow, he might have made himself at home in one of the nearby sitting rooms or library couches.

  The French doors to my bedroom are closed—the curtains covering them block out the light, so it’s impossible to tell if it’s dark in there or not, even though the window is still broken with merely a sheet of plastic covering it.

  Oh, who am I kidding? William will not be waiting for me.

  I take off my blouse, leaving my bra on as I open the door to the bedroom.

  And William is there, shirtless. He’s lying backward on the bed with his head hanging off the end, a book in his hand.

  I press my wet blouse to my chest and walk over to him, taking the book from his grasp. I suppress my growl when I see he’s found another copy of my book of poetry. But my growl is quickly released when I see three of my journals lying on the bed next to him.

  He rolls onto his stomach, looking up at me with a grin. “Welcome home, Princess.” His gaze drifts over my body. “You should come home like this more often.”

  I press my blouse closer to me. “I asked you to leave it alone, Your Highness.”

  He arches a brow, his grin widening. “And why would I do that when it’s so fun to see you blush?”

  My cheeks must be on fire, but I can barely feel anything but my rage. “Because I asked it of you—”

  “You might be a princess, Princess, but that doesn’t mean you’re in charge.” He chuckles. “Besides, reading such timeless lines as When our two bodies became one…” He shakes his head. “You really know how to write poetry, don’t you?”

  Something about his words… Or maybe it’s his tone… I’m not sure what comes over me—perhaps it is only the emotional extremes I’ve been through today—but hot tears well in my eyes in an instant.

  I can’t let him see me like this—vulnerable like this. I simply can’t. I edge around the bed and dart for the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind me and sliding the lock an instant later.

  “Princess.” William’s voice is close—he must have followed me to the door. “Princess, don’t be angry. The imagery in your poetry is…something.” He chuckles. “I’m not sure how some of that made it past whoever published it—”

  “Fuck. You.” My voice is trembling, and I’m sure he can hear in my voice the tears that are now streaming down my face.

  “Now that’s the kind of vocabulary that gets published, Princess.” He chuckles again. “If you’d merely talked about fucking instead of joining or whatever the hell it was you said—”

  I open the door and throw my blouse in his face. “Fuck you, Your Highness. Let me know when you have your first works published so that I may shit all over yours, too.”

  He pulls the soaking blouse from his face and tosses it to the floor. His jaw drops and he stares at me for a moment before I slam the door again.

  This time I lock the door and walk away, stripping the rest of my wet clothing from my body as I start a steaming shower. I allow myself to cry, releasing the pent up emotions from this stressful day.

  It isn’t bad enough that I’ve had to see my people suffer. My own husband wants me to suffer. I’ve been a bitch, certainly, but I don’t believe I’ve done anything to him to deserve such treatment. He doesn’t seem to grasp the concept that he took my life from me. That he stole any chance at happiness that I might have had in Rosvalia. Instead, I’m going to have to run away to America—away from my home—to be able to start a new life. And I’m going to have to suffer like this for three more months? Be the butt of his insufferable jokes for three more months?

  I think not.

  I’ll speak to my father in the morning, as much as I find the idea distasteful. I’ll see if he can speed up the process of whatever it is he has planned for William and allow me to pursue a life on my own terms. I just do not believe I can take another three months—or even three days—of this torture.

  As soon as I finish in the shower, I realize I didn’t bring any nightclothes with me to change into. There’s a robe on the back of the door, but it is oversized. Even if I wrap it around myself and tie it as tightly as I’m able, William will still likely get an eyeful as I walk to the closet. And for as big of an asshole as he is, he’ll likely follow me into the closet to watch me dress.

  It’s a little surprising, now that I’m thinking about it, that he didn’t try to pick the lock to watch me shower.

  I decide to make do with the robe—I finish combing out my hair and walk back out into the bedroom, hoping against hope that William will have either fallen asleep or will have taken the hint to leave.

  But he’s still there, sitting on the edge of the bed. At least he isn’t reading any of my journals—God only knows what he’d find to make fun of in them.

  He looks up at me, frowning. “Princess—”

  I hold up my hand to interrupt and quickly remember why I’m holding the robe shut at my chest. I pull the thing closed again. “Don’t. Just…don’t.”

  “I’m sorry, Princess. I… I didn’t mean…” His voice trails off and he stares up at me.

  “With all due respect, Your Highness…” I straighten and narrow my gaze at him. “Go to hell.” I don’t wait for his response—I walk across the room to the closet. I walk in and pull the door closed behind me.

  Unlike the bathroom, this door has no lock. And I realize how unfortunate that is when William opens the door a moment later.

  I shake my head at him as I grab a nightgown from the bureau. “So, let me get this straight, Your Highness. You have no respect for my poetry. No respect for my happiness. And clearly…” I motion at the door, forgetting again that my hand grasping my robe at my chest is the only thing keeping me from flashing the man standing before me. His gaze seems to drop to my chest instantly before I’m able to recover. “You clearly also have no respect for closed doors.”

  “On the contrary, Princess. I have nothing but respect for you. If I hadn’t, I’d have bedded you on our wedding night.”

  “As I recall, Your Highness, I offered to let you bed me on our
wedding night. It was you who declined.”

  “A mistake I regret more than you can imagine.” He frowns. “Justine…I was only teasing. I never meant to hurt your feelings—”

  I interrupt with a shake of my head. “I don’t really want to hear it, Your Highness. And you aren’t fooling me by calling me by my given name. Call me Princess, call me bitch for all I care. I will never, ever—”

  He closes the distance between us in an instant and loops his arms around my waist.

  My hand doesn’t move from my chest as I step back, trying to break his grasp on me. “Putting your tongue down my throat also isn’t going to change my mind about you, Your Highness.”

  He grins, stepping back with me, almost as if we’re dancing. “Allow me to try, Princess.”

  William

  I wait, watching her.

  She’s in a mood tonight—and I suspect it’s about far more than finding me with her writings. In all honesty, I haven’t even looked at the journals—for some reason, that felt like a violation tonight. But I wanted her to see me with them, though I can’t say exactly why. Maybe I just wanted to get a rise out of her.

  But I didn’t expect it would upset her this much. There’s clearly something else going on here, and I intend to find out exactly what.

  I lean a little closer, but slowly, giving her the chance to pull away. When she doesn’t, I pause again.

  I wait for what feels like an inordinate amount of time, but what is actually probably only a minute or two. Finally, she makes an exasperated sound and pushes away from me.

  “You’re terrible at making threats, you know,” she says. She grabs the front of her robe and holds it shut.

  “Are you complaining? You’d have preferred it if I’d made good on my words?”

  “I’d prefer it if you respected my privacy.”

  With a sigh, I cross my arms and lean against the wall behind me. “I only want to get to know you better. To help you. And since you won’t be open with me, I’ve resorted to finding other ways to learn the things you won’t tell me.”

  “Ah, so this is all completely selfless, is it?” She spins away from me, pulling her wet hair around over her shoulder. “Smooth.”

  “It’s not completely selfless. But I also don’t think it’s inappropriate to want to know about my wife’s past. Or her feelings.” I hesitate, then go on. “I didn’t read your journals. I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

  “I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “Believe whatever you want—that’s the truth.”

  She pulls open a door and roots agitatedly through the contents. After a moment, she pulls out some pajamas in favor of the nightgown she’s already holding, but she doesn’t put them on. Instead, her shoulders sag slightly.

  “What do you want from me?” she asks, her voice soft. She sounds sad—and completely defeated. It makes my chest ache.

  “I want to know how you feel,” I say. “Something is obviously bothering you—and it’s not just me and your journals. I’ve met your family, Justine. You’re certainly not getting any emotional support from them. So let me help.”

  She shoves the drawer shut. “I don’t need your help.”

  “I didn’t say you did. But I’m offering it.”

  She turns on me, anger flaring in her eyes again. “Stop treating me like I need your pity. Or like I’m some puzzle to be solved. I’m a woman, and I don’t feel like spilling my feelings to anyone who asks.”

  My eyes never leave hers. “I’m not anyone.”

  I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth—I know they’ll probably only piss her off more. Instead, though, something seems to break in her. She squeezes her eyes shut, and all of the fight seems to leave her.

  “I’m just tired,” she says finally, her voice barely audible. “I’m tired of fighting. Of being forced to put on a brave face when choices keep being ripped away from me. Tired of being the only person in this entire palace who seems to give a damn about what happens outside these walls.” Her eyes open. “You know what I did all afternoon? I went out into the city and tried to help. But there’s only so much I can do when my father refuses to use funds to update infrastructure or make critical repairs. We knew the risk, and yet my father did nothing. And I had to see my people, try to comfort them and tell them everything would be all right, when we all know that’s a lie. They look to me for help, but I have no more power there than I do in any other part of my life.”

  She raises her hands, presses the heel of her palms against her eyes. Then, with a frustrated shake of her head, she lowers them again.

  “I’m just so, so tired. I can’t do this anymore.”

  I take a step toward her—but just one. “Then you should go to bed.”

  She gives a bitter laugh. “Yes, that’s exactly what I need to do.”

  I nod, glad that for once, she’s not arguing. “Once you’ve rested, you’ll feel better. At the very least, you’ll have a clear head and be able to—”

  “No. That’s not what I meant.”

  Her eyes meet mine, and though they shine with tears, there’s something else there, too—something that, in spite of everything, brings my body to immediate attention.

  She steps toward me. “I need to escape all of this for a little while. To just…let go.”

  I don’t move. The last thing I want is to misinterpret this. “And…how would you like to let go?”

  She’s right in front of me, and this close, I can actually see the tears clinging to her lashes. I can also see the exhaustion—both physical and emotional—etched on her face. She hesitates only a moment before reaching up and placing a hand on my chest. Her fingers burn against my bare skin.

  “Don’t make me say it,” she says. “I just… I’m so tired of fighting. Can’t we just, for tonight, forget all of it?”

  I don’t know how to respond—my mind is racing, thinking this is another trap of some sort, but my arms move of their own free will, coming up and wrapping around her, pulling her closer. She falls against me, sinking into my chest, clinging to me.

  I stiffen, waiting for her to tell me this was some sort of test. But it doesn’t feel like a test—it feels like someone needing to be held, and I don’t have the strength to resist her. I tighten my arms around her, dropping my face to her hair. She trembles slightly and grips me tighter.

  After a moment, I feel wetness against my chest—tears. They start as a trickle, but within moments, she’s silently sobbing, holding onto me as if I’m her only lifeline in this cruel world.

  “It’s all right,” I murmur into her hair. “You’re not alone. And we don’t have to fight anymore.”

  She responds by squeezing me so tight I struggle to breathe, but I don’t mind.

  “You’re not alone,” I tell her again. “It’s all right. I’ll hold you all night if that’s what you want.” God, I want that, too. I don’t know what she’s done to me, but having her here in my arms like this, feeling her cry against me, has made me feel more protective than I thought possible. I ache to comfort her, to ease whatever pain she’s feeling.

  “Yes,” she whispers against my skin, her breath warm. “That’s what I want.”

  “Then let’s get you to bed.”

  Carefully, I pull back just enough to lift her up. Once she’s in my arms, I carry her out into the bedroom and lay her down gently on the bed. She holds onto me the entire time, and when I try to straighten, she refuses to let go, instead pulling me down beside her.

  I don’t fight her. I fall into bed next to her and pull her fully into my arms again. Her face presses against my shoulder, and mine finds her hair again. I inhale the scent of her.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I assure her again.

  Her tears have stopped, but she still grips me as if she doesn’t know what else to do.

  How long has she been holding this in? I wonder. How long has she been so alone?

  I’m not sure how long we lie there, clinging to each
other, before I finally pull back slightly. She makes a small sound of protest.

  “I’m just turning off the lamp,” I tell her. I reach over and flick off the switch, then try to pull her up against my chest again. This time, though, she resists, pulling back from me.

  “That’s not what I want,” she murmurs.

  Disappointment fills my stomach, but I try not to let it show. “That’s fine. I can—”

  “No,” she says. In the dark, her hands find my face. “This is what I want.”

  She doesn’t give me a chance to respond. Instead, she pulls my face down to hers.

  Justine

  He hesitates, but his lips fall onto mine after a moment. It isn’t the hard kiss of reckless passion I need from him, though. It’s soft, almost…caring.

  Impossible.

  I know what he wants from me. I’ve seen it in his eyes since our wedding day. And though I may not want the same things he does, I can’t deny that at this point I need this. I haven’t been with a man in a very long time—and he was the only man I’ve ever been with. And even though my stomach twists with a nervous energy I can’t remember having felt in some time, I remind myself again… I need this. A night of passion is exactly the cure for what is ailing me at the moment. Considering sleep may never find me tonight, this is the next best thing.

  I just don’t want it to mean anything.

  His hand finds the back of my neck, and he holds me, kissing me with a tenderness he’s never shown me before now. He pulls his face away from mine after a moment. “Justine…”

  My hands find the bare skin of his back and I pull him into me. “Don’t talk. Just…do.” I press my lips to his again.