Royally Arranged (Bad Boy Royals Book 3)

by Nora Flite

  Dad let go, his grin still solid. He moved away until he was sitting beside my mother in the front row.

  There were no vows. Just lots of yammering about decorum, royal history, and the expectations that came with being husband and wife. Becoming queen to the king. I tuned everything out. The priest was speaking, but I kept staring at Thorne, trying to see into his head.

  He had a habit of keeping his real feelings hidden behind sarcasm. I’d seen it again and again. I wasn’t used to his silence. I’d never had a more intimate chance to gaze on his face without him being able to make a joke and turn away.

  “The ring,” the priest said.

  Darla held her hands out to me so she could take my bouquet. I passed it off, and, as I did, I spotted her envious frown. I’d never seen that pointed at me.

  Long fingers curled around my wrist. Thorne turned me to him, a simple platinum ring in his other hand. He slid the cool metal onto my finger so that it caressed the engagement ring he’d put there only a week ago.

  “Hawthorne Fredricson,” the priest said, loud enough for the crowd. “Do you take this woman, with everything she brings, with everything she will bring, to have at your side for as long as you both shall live?”

  Deep down, I was sure he’d say yes. Who could go this far and say no? Even with that certainty, my throat constricted. My heart was going to burst. It had to, this was too much for one person to bear.

  In slow motion I saw him wet his lips. “I do.” It was a simple statement. Only one other phrase had ever made my eyes water so much: You’re going to live.

  “And do you, Nova Valentine . . .”

  Black spots flashed in my vision. I made myself breathe.

  “Take this man—”

  “Yes,” I blurted. The crowd murmured; I caught the sounds of amusement. “I mean—yes, sorry, I do.” Thorne’s eyes went wide, his smile faltering. Then it came back tenfold.

  Before the priest finished saying, “Then I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss the bride,” he’d swept me into his arms, dipping me with his hand on my neck and the other on the small of my back. His lips were hot, his kiss insistent, unending, as if he was proving to every suspicious eye that he did love me.

  And you can call me a fool, but without him even saying it, I felt that he did.

  The reception was bigger than the coronation ball had been.

  Thorne and I sat at our sweetheart table, placed so we could view the gigantic dining hall from every angle. We would miss nothing. But my attention wasn’t on the people laughing on the floor. I wanted to research how Thorne’s lips could smile, or frown, but do very little in between. In his midnight tux he was stunning. Sometime after the ceremony, he’d dropped his jacket on a chair, letting a servant fuss over what to do with it.

  He turned his head, catching me staring at him. “Hey there,” he said, clutching my hand under the table. Our fingers rested on one of the many layers of my wedding gown. “You good?”

  “More than I thought I could be,” I whispered.

  Under the table, where no one could see, he stroked over the lace. He went deeper, prying the ruffles aside until he found my bare knee. “Think anyone will see us slip away?”

  “Let them.” I reached for my champagne and finished the tall flute. “They won’t stop us.”

  The heat in his hooded eyes scalded me. “They couldn’t if they tried.”

  Together we broke away from the table, wending our way through the noise, the sparkling dresses and suits, smiling politely at anyone we bumped into. The sounds faded at our backs as we ran down the hallway.

  “My room?” I asked.

  “No.” He pulled me by my wrist. “Mine. I’ve wanted you in my bed for far too long.”

  Flooding with anticipation, I barely kept up with him in my heels. We didn’t have to go far before his door rose up in front of us. I started to follow him in; Thorne turned, hoisting me into his arms before I could react. “Oh!”

  His kiss was a firm, hungry thing with a smile hiding in the shadows. “It’s how they do it in the movies, right? Wife over the threshold?” He kicked the door shut behind him. The loud bang of it ricocheted through my bones. This was really happening.

  Setting me on the edge of his bed, he tugged his bow tie free. The black silk dropped to the floor, forgotten. His cuff links went next, clinking softly to the rug. I surveyed his undressing like it was the best show in the world.

  His chin motioned at me. “Stand up.”

  As I rose, his dress shirt fell. He was magnificent, not truly naked, the ink across his upper body like a second outfit. More elaborate than the plain white he’d had on for our wedding. This was the secret second skin that only I was allowed to see.

  In just his black slacks and shiny belt, he approached me. He didn’t blink, like he refused to miss a second of this. “Turn around,” he said flatly.

  Facing the bed, I looked across at the window. The curtains were half-closed, the sun beginning to melt into the distant line of the ocean. Waiting for him to touch me was torture. There was no sound behind me. Not even his shoes on the plush rug.

  Thorne’s breath trailed over the side of my vulnerable throat. Every tiny hair on my body stood at attention. Featherlight, he slid the fingertips of both hands down my shoulders. The path he took drew a heart on my skin. Stopping at my spine, he tugged at the ribbons weaving my dress together. “When I saw you in this,” he said, his voice husky, “all I could think about was how much I wanted to rip it off you.”

  My breath quickened; the sound of the satin ribbons slithering free one by one was so loud to me.

  He kissed my shoulder. “Now that I’m doing it, I want to go slow. Savor it.”

  His muscles ground into my shoulder blades. Thick arms wove around, holding me in a firm embrace. I remained still, hands at my sides, as Thorne peeled my gown away. The flowing material drifted apart, finally crumbling at my ankles, a giant bird’s nest of lace and ivory tulle.

  Thorne held my naked waist, turning me like I was a ballerina, performing for him in private. I knew what he’d see when I faced him. As predicted, his eyes dropped from my rounded breasts, to my belly, and then they stayed there.

  “This,” he said, running his thumb below my navel. He traced the contour of the long scar. “Can I ask what happened?”

  My mind was assaulted by the memories of what I’d gone through. Reaching down, I touched the spot he had, brushing his fingers as he retreated. “Acute kidney failure. It’s when your kidneys just . . . stop working. All at once, with pretty much no warning. I needed a transplant.”

  Well. There had been warning signs. I’d just ignored them the same way everyone else had. The pain had left me bedridden within days. Darla had called me dramatic, asking if this was my new way to get attention. She’d told me it wasn’t working all the way up until I was being rolled into the ambulance.

  Thorne reached out to hold my hand. “When, are you okay now?”

  I looked at the floor, trying to gather my thoughts. I didn’t want to reveal too much. Telling Thorne was important, but he didn’t need to know everything. If he did, he’d look at me with new eyes. He’d see me as something fragile.

  I wasn’t.

  I refused to be.

  “I’m fine now. It was months ago, the recovery wasn’t even bad.” I put on a brave smile, but his grimace didn’t budge. “Shh. Don’t worry. I’m really, really okay.”

  In spite of dancing around the details, I’d failed to keep his eyes from changing. Hawthorne watched me with his smile a distant dream, his pupils wide, absorbing all that I was so he could process it anew.

  Taking him by the hands, I tugged him toward the bed. He came with me, stepping around my dress as I climbed out of it. “Thorne,” I said, kneeling on the mattress. He stood over me, my face level with his stomach. “All you should be thinking about right now is this moment.” Linking my hand with his, I crossed our fingers; our wedding rings ground together. “I�
�m here. I’m healthy.” I’m alive.

  The wax-paper stare went away. He blinked, focusing on our hands and the metal bands. “You’re right. This moment is what matters.” Climbing onto the bed, he hooked his arm around my middle. With ease he positioned me under him in that sea of green and gold blankets.

  Gazing upward, my world was nothing but his sharp features and soft mouth. I was overwhelmed by how naturally we clicked. My body resonated toward his like we were lovers reborn a thousand times.

  In that state of ecstasy, I nearly said something. Words I’d never imagined would come from me, or be directed at me.

  I opened my lips. My tongue started to curl into that sacred shape. At the last second, instead of speaking, I kissed him. Something inside me warned me that it wasn’t time.

  I couldn’t tell him I loved him.

  Not yet.

  - CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO -

  HAWTHORNE

  Costello gripped my hand solidly. “I wish we could stay longer.”

  Everyone had left Torino soon after the wedding. Kain and Sammy had been first—something to do with the baby, no doubt. Francesca had left late last night, her luggage having expanded twice over after a few shopping trips in the city. Apparently Mom had left her in charge of the estate while she was gone. She seemed pretty pleased with that, but I expected all the German shepherds I’d suggested would eat Mic would be rehomed in a few days.

  Only my older brother and his girlfriend remained. Scotch was already in the car waiting to take them to the airport. Before jumping inside she’d given me a tight hug, then a sharp knuckle-punch to the shoulder. I was sure it was meant to be endearing. Probably.

  “Please,” I chuckled, squeezing Costello’s hand back. “You know you’re already sick of this place.” The papers were running multiple stories. Some loved the royal wedding. Others were focused on picking apart me, my father, and our “mysterious” family.

  Someone had leaked info about our criminal history back in Rhode Island. The servants had tried to hide the morning papers, but my mother had demanded a copy with her breakfast.

  Costello, who’d been sitting across from me when the paper had been returned, had tensed up. “Fredricson Family History Full of Blood,” the front page had claimed. There were photos of us all inside—that was when Dad had snatched it, crumpled it up, and thrown it away.

  I’d laughed it off . . . but Costello, who was dating a police officer working her way through the academy, was unable to take it lightly. I was sure he was wondering if the paparazzi here could harm her reputation before she even began on the force.

  He was still clasping my hand, fingers curled over my wrist. I tugged—he released me with a long sigh. “Thorne, you must realize this situation hasn’t become less dangerous just because there’s a ring on your finger.”

  “Are we making marriage jokes now? Because I’ve got a few thousand. Didn’t seem the right time to use them, but . . .”

  “Listen to me.” He eyeballed the castle windows. “The Valentines will never feel secure with us around. The marriage benefits them, not us. All we’ve done is agreed to keep ourselves in arm’s reach of their blades.”

  “Well, I use a gun. And guns beat swords, or so I’ve heard.” He dropped his serious eyes to my face. Before he could say anything else, I lowered my voice. “Chill. Does everyone think I’m oblivious? I know the Valentines aren’t our friends. And I know they’d slice my throat if they could get away with it. But I also know what they want more than this marriage, and it’s something they can’t get if I don’t give it to them. Something I don’t plan to give to them.”

  My brother’s eyebrows hitched higher. “What’s that?”

  Nova’s face flashed through my mind. “A baby. Guess Dad didn’t tell you about that.”

  He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “He didn’t, but I figured as much. An heir would give them a blood right to the throne that they can’t get by marriage alone.”

  Costello had easily linked the dots. He’d heard again and again the way our lineage worked; Dad had drilled it into the perfect little firstborn would-be prince’s skull since birth.

  “Thorne,” he said, pulling me back to the moment, “you say you won’t give them that. Are you sure you can . . . ?”

  “Resist?” I snorted. “I’m not an animal. Plus, there’s this fun invention called birth control.”

  “Surely Nova will think it’s weird you’re using condoms.”

  “Then I’ll pull out,” I said, growing frustrated. “Jesus, Costello. I’ll do what I have to, to keep a kid out of this.”

  The car honked; he glanced at it, then back. The ice blue of his eyes had warmed, disarming me. “Brother, is your plan to just draw this out as long as you can?”

  “It’s all I’ve got. Now get out of here before you miss your flight, or Scotch kills you. Or both.”

  Costello ducked into the car. Scotch waved at me through the gap, then she vanished behind the tinted windows. I kept waving anyway, waiting until they were far past the gates to stop.

  He thought my plan was drawing this marriage out? He was wrong. It wasn’t my plan . . . because I had no plan. But if I could keep Nova from getting pregnant, I could give myself extra time to figure one out.

  On my way up the driveway toward the front doors, I spotted someone coming toward me: Drake, the young servant I’d met before. “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing his head.

  God, that’s worse than being called sir. I missed the sharp-tongued maids who always busted my balls. “Don’t do that, please.”

  Drake looked up at me through his fringe of hair. “Do what, Your Majesty?”

  “That. I hate that.” Gripping his shoulders, I forced him to stand straight. “Just call me Thorne. I prefer first names.”

  He sucked on his teeth loudly. “I’ll try. But it’s not very . . . traditional.”

  “Good. I hate traditions.” Letting him go, I asked, “Did you need something?”

  “Ah. I’ve got a package for you.” He slid out an object wrapped in brown paper, about the size of a dictionary. “Mr. Finbar said to give it to you.”

  “This is from Glen?” Turning it, I hefted it and felt the light weight. “Did he say why?”

  Drake shrugged. “He didn’t. Sorry, Your Maj—Thorne—sir, ah.”

  I hurried into the castle. What would Glen give me? Driven by curiosity, I jogged down the west wing, dodging a few servants in my rush to open the package. I shut my door behind me and sat on the corner of my bed. The brown paper was rough; I got the impression Glen didn’t do much gift wrapping. When I peeled it away, a small, folded piece of paper dropped onto my knee.

  Turning it, I read the messy handwriting:

  Hawthorne,

  Consider this a late wedding gift.

  I kept this in secret since the day your father went missing. No one knew I had it, I doubt even Hester knew it existed. I didn’t know what to do with it, but now, I understand that I hung on to it all this time for a purpose.

  Maybe it will help you understand your father better.

  —G

  “Huh.” Setting the note on the crumpled paper, I held the gift in front of me. It was a medium-size book, the outside cover thick, mustard yellow, and faded in spots. There was no title. Tipping the book open, I revealed the first page.

  January 3rd, 1976

  Mom gave me this journal because she thinks she’s very funny. That, or her suggestion that I write my thoughts down for a year to help understand myself better was genuine. She’s not much for pranks, so I guess she’s serious.

  I’ll give it a go. What’s the harm?

  I’ll need to hide it from Hester. He’d torment me forever if he discovered it.

  My heart slammed into my ribs; I knew exactly what this was. My father’s journal? I fanned it in my fingers. I’d never taken my dad for the type to keep notes about his life. Flipping to a random page, I read the ink scribbles with immense interest.

  M
arch 20th, 1976

  I’m eighteen today. Everyone made a big deal about it, Mother hosted a HUGE party, and when it was over, she donated massive leftovers to the local food bank. I went with her. It was nice to see so many smiles. But what I was really happy about was finally being able to get the family tattoo.

  I told Hester I was a real man, now, and he got that look he always gets when I have something he doesn’t. What was worse was Father overheard us. He took me aside and told me that nothing would MAKE me a man. I had to earn it. What an asshole.

  I sat up straight and reread the passage. I’d been forming my own idea in my head about my father’s relationship with his dad. Between the fishing photos, the big painting, and the general fond memories that came up whenever a local got talking, I’d been sure they’d gotten along.

  But here he was, calling the man an asshole. My face hurt; was I grinning? Fuck, this was so weird. Thank you for this, Glen, I thought gleefully. When my siblings saw this, they’d lose their minds.

  Unable to stop now, I kept reading.

  May 2nd, 1976

  Hester and I slipped out of class early today. Instead of going home, we spent all day fishing in our secret spot by the ocean. It was so good. I wish I could do it more. It’s been stressing me out lately just how much both Mom and Dad keep laying into me about my responsibilities. I’m only eighteen, what are they rushing me to be an adult for? It’s not like I’ll be king for a while. Dad didn’t sit on the throne until he was thirty-six. That’s way off for me.

  September 10th, 1976

  Got into another row with Dad. Apparently, I’m wasting my time being friends with Glen. He says I need to consider my stature and Glen’s limits. What the hell? Does he expect me to fake a smile and hang out with the same money-hungry men that he pretends to like because of “politics”?

  He says again and again that I’m an idiot.

  Fine.

  I’d rather be an idiot than a fraud.

  December 23rd, 1976

  Tonight, I played piano for the Winter Ball. My mother had encouraged me to do it, insisting I’d be great. I’d practiced as much as I could, even skipping out on a hunting trip with Hester to make sure I could play “Greensleeves.” I was so damn nervous. Especially with Dad watching me the whole time from the corner of the room.