by Amelia Wilde
There were times during my childhood and early adulthood when I thought it would have been much easier to be Marcus. He had all the things I wanted—praise from my father, the title of crown prince, and an easy confidence about him, always seeming to know what he was supposed to be doing and what was expected from him at any given time. It never seemed that he and my father were at odds. I never saw him let his anger get the better of him.
Except when the two of us went at it.
What have I done?
I should go after Jessica right now.
As I start to follow after her, I catch my father’s eyes watching me. His expression is neutral, and he doesn’t break off from the conversation he’s having, but I know he’s waiting to see what I’ll do.
He’s waiting to see where my true loyalties lie.
He might like Jessica—he’s said as much to me—but his main concern is keeping Saintland thriving for several more generations.
I can’t let my reaction to Jessica’s social blunder derail this event, or allow my reactions to affect any other event. That is, not if I’m going to remain on even footing with my father, which is essential if I’m going to succeed in this role.
I change direction mid-stride, take a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, and join my father in his discussion with the Spanish ambassador. When I approach the pair, they’re discussing Jessica.
“That woman—Ms. Reeves, did you say?—is she a member of the royal household or an invited guest?”
“She is our guest at the moment,” my father says, no emotion coloring his voice.
The ambassador sneers. “You don’t think she’s a little…out of control for important events such as this? She seems to have no interest in observing proper protocol.”
My father shrugs his head in an indifferent sort of gesture that could be interpreted as anything. He is a master at reacting without revealing whether he agrees or disagrees—at least in public. I’m certain that my skin has turned to an angry color of red in reaction to the man’s words. Who does he think he is?
Taking a deep, discreet breath and letting it out, I sip on the champagne. Then, instead of defending Jessica and explaining that the ambassador is out of line for passing judgments about guests of the House of Caldwell, I do the opposite.
“Excuse her,” I say, giving the man a winning smile. “She wasn’t feeling very well and let it get the best of her.”
The Spanish ambassador rolls his eyes. In a low voice, he gets in one final crack. “Some women.”
My blood boils in my veins, but I give him a shrug and laugh.
After that conversation, I don’t linger long at the event.
“I have some things to finish up before I turn in,” I tell my father, then make my way to the exit, stopping every few feet to say more goodbyes to the guests.
As soon as I’m outside the doors of the Great Hall, I’m rushing toward the elevator, my heart pounding against my chest, my hands shaking with dread and shame. At the reception, I swallowed it all back so I could accept condolences about my brother and shake hands with a neutral expression and pretend to pay attention to what everyone said.
She needs to know how sorry I am.
My heart beats so hard it hurts as I rush up to the third level of the palace.
Will she forgive me?
By the time the elevator arrives, I’m in a frenzy that’s completely inappropriate for a crown prince. The hallway is empty. I sprint toward her door and pound on it with my fist.
“Jessica!” I cry, silently praying that nobody can hear the anguish in my voice. “Jessica, it’s me! Please come to the door.”
A moment later, as if she’s been waiting for me, the door swings open to reveal Jessica, her hair down and eyes red from crying. She’s wearing the purple silk robe that I had the staff hang up for her in the bathroom before she moved over from the Northern Crown.
“What do you want, Alec?” she says sadly, her voice trembling.
I step closer, cup her face in my hands, and look deeply into her eyes.
She doesn’t look away.
“What do you want?” she repeats.
“I’m sorry.”
I let the apology hang in the air for a moment, and at first her jaw juts out a little. I know she’s deciding whether or not to be stubborn.
Her shoulders relax a fraction of an inch.
“I’m sorry, Jessica,” I press on. “I shouldn’t have said any of that to you at the reception. I shouldn’t have said anything like that to you ever. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I do,” she responds solemnly.
I push her backward a little so I can close the door behind us. “What?”
“Now that you’re the crown prince, you have nothing left for me.” She cuts her eyes to the side, then turns them back to mine. “I’m not trying to complain, but Alec, we never see each other, and then when we do, you’re…you act like that.”
“I won’t be like that anymore. I promise,” I pledge, bending down to kiss her earlobe, then her collarbone, then her other cheek. “That’s not who I am anymore. I’m done fighting with my father, and I’m done fighting with you. I swear.”
“I don’t know, Alec…” She puts both her hands on my wrists. She presses on them, with the lightest touch, warning me…but without much enthusiasm.
“Will you let me remind you what we’re like together? What we’re really like? Who we are?”
She moves her head to the side, letting me drag my lips down the soft skin of her neck. I feel the goosebumps rise on her skin.
“You don’t deserve it.”
“I know. But will you let me? I’m sorry for being such an asshole. Will you forgive me?”
I flick my tongue out, licking the very edge of her collarbone, and she shivers, then twists toward me, her eyes shining with love and lust.
“Fine,” she says, and I hear the forgiveness in her voice.
Once the word is out of her mouth, I lift her up in my arms, carry her to the massive bed, and set about the most important task of the evening: worshipping every single inch of her creamy skin, gently, firmly, until she’s crying out my name from where she lies under my body, my hard cock filling her, the touch of my hands, my mouth consuming her, the two of us surrendering to our passion, her smile lighting up the room.
35
Jessica
If there’s one thing I can’t deny, it’s that Alec touches me like no man ever has, and I’m sure no man ever will.
Literally.
His hands are God’s gift to humanity.
If all we had to do for eternity was touch each other, lick each other, fuck each other, we would get along perfectly.
Unfortunately, some of those other issues are still lingering when I wake up the next morning, tangled under the sheets with Alec.
While he’s still asleep, I take the opportunity to stare at him, his torso rising from underneath the sheets, his chest rising and falling with each breath, every one of his ab muscles chiseled and defined.
How does he stay in such good shape? I wonder absently. He never seems to have time for anything else. Even meals are a rushed affair, unless they’re for formal receptions, and then they take forever.
I’m debating whether to run my fingers over the ridges of his abs and risk waking him up when he opens his eyes and looks at me, the brilliant green color of his orbs taking my breath away.
“Hi,” he says, and smiles, stretching his arms above his head, resembling a Greek god.
“Hi,” I say, but I can’t replicate his smile.
“What is it?” His face is instantly clouded with concern. “You didn’t like last night?” Alec tries to make light of things with a low, sultry voice. “You like it a little rougher, don’t you? Well, you’re in luck. I can do that.”
I can’t help but crack a little smile, but it quickly fades away. “It’s not that.”
“Then tell me what it is,” he says, gathering my
hair back from my face and twisting it around in his hand, then letting it gently fall against the bare skin of my shoulder.
The solution hits me like a lightning bolt. It’s not Alec’s fault that I feel at loose ends. What I need to do is figure out a way for me to have some time of my own, to myself, where I can do as I please.
I never thought I’d say it, but a tiny part of me misses my job at Colton-Hayes.
It’s true that it did contribute to my general dissatisfaction with my life situation in New York City, but at least it provided structure to my days. Life at Sainthall Palace gives me structure, too, but the wrong kind—it’s never of my own choosing. Maybe if I could work a few days somewhere in Sainthall, I would have the energy to fulfill my duties here.
That would strike a wonderful balance.
As I think the idea over, a smile spreads across my face.
“What are you thinking, my lady Jessica?” Alec says, a questioning smile on his lips.
“I’d like to get a job.”
He cocks his head and looks at me with a strange expression, as if he’s trying to figure out if I’m joking. “A job?”
“Yes. I’d like to get a job somewhere in Sainthall. Maybe at one of the shops close to the palace? I was thinking if I could spend a few hours a week working away from here, it would let me take a little bit of a mental break from all the—.”
I break off when I realize Alec is shaking his head and stifling laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I say, the smile dying from my face.
“You can’t get a job. That’s an absurd idea.”
I’m immediately on the defensive. “It’s not an absurd idea. I had a job for years before I met you.”
“No, I’m saying, you’re not allowed to have a job while you’re here. Guests of the royal household aren’t permitted to work—by law.”
“What? Why?”
Alec waves his hand as though the reason doesn’t matter. “It has to do with corruption and influence. When the country was founded, King Edward wanted to be sure that anyone who was living and working closely with the king or queen wouldn’t be susceptible to being influenced by private businesses.”
“I don’t have any sway over you or your father. I practically never see you.”
“You have plenty to do here, anyway. You don’t need to work in the city.”
Anger forms a dagger in my chest. “Oh, is that right? You expect me to sit around all day attending etiquette seminars and smiling at cameras and waiting for you to come around whenever you have a spare second you can waste on me?”
Alec’s eyes flash with his own fury. “What, is living in a palace not good enough for you? Wait, I understand it—back in the United States, you got a front-row seat to watch your rich friends play their games. Now that you’re feeling some of the responsibility that goes with it, you’re going to complain. Ceaselessly.”
“That’s not fair,” I spit, tossing the sheets back and rising out of bed. I’m not going to have this kind of argument while I’m naked and vulnerable. I pull the purple robe off the floor and shrug it over my shoulders, wishing I’d had time to pack more of my own things so I wouldn’t need to rely so completely on Alec.
“Isn’t it?” he says, his tone only slightly softer. “You seem to have a problem with the way things are here.” Alec sits up against the pillows and looks away toward the dresser, his eyes far away for a moment.
I take a deep breath in, trying to quell my anger. Emotions are obviously running too high. This isn’t who we are. I know it’s not. More than that, I love him. Even when I’m pissed, I love him.
I open my mouth to tell him that, to ask if we can start this conversation over from the beginning, when he looks at me and deals the fatal blow.
“Maybe it would be best if you went back to New York for a while.”
36
Alec
Jessica isn’t a delicate flower. She’s handled things in her life, and I know it. I don’t need all the details about her time with Michael to know that it was hard for her to get away from him and then even harder to take a risk on getting involved with someone like me.
She can handle a heated argument or two.
It’s not even that I want to test her. I don’t. I don’t want it to come to that. I don’t need it to come to that.
I’m exhausted.
Physically and mentally.
I’m stretched thin, so thin that I’m about to snap. My older brother is dead. I’m replacing him as the crown prince, even though I never wanted that role—not really, anyway, aside from childish envy when I was young. Now that I understand what comes with the title, I don’t want it.
I also can’t let my father down. I’m the only real family he has left. We don’t always get to choose how we’re going to spend our lives. It might seem like I’m unbelievably lucky to be a prince, but it’s a heavy burden. Heavier than anyone can imagine.
That’s what I’m thinking about during the pause in our tiff as Jessica’s jaw moves up and down. She’s talking, but I’m not even aware of what she’s saying.
It’s not a much lighter burden to be with someone like me.
To have your life planned for you because you happen to love someone in the public eye.
Jessica didn’t know that when we first met. We were playing that stupid, reckless, no-strings-attached game. We should have realized it could only backfire. I should have known that the moment I saw her and my heart practically stopped. One look was all it took. I went ahead with it anyway. I couldn’t have resisted if I had wanted to.
I’ve spent too long being childish, being aggressive, being selfish.
Of course, in typical fashion, I’ve only been trying to fix it in one area of my life.
I must be a letdown to Jessica every single day. She’s essentially alone here, and I’ve done nothing to mitigate the loss of her friends.
At the beginning of all this, my commitment was to her above all else, and Marcus’s death changed that. When my brother died, my eyes were forced open to all the responsibility that would become mine.
When my brother died, I set aside my childish hopes of getting married for love, spending weekends away with one another, sharing plenty of private time by myself with a woman—with Jessica.
How can I ask her to give up her own life for the one I’m leading now?
That’s the dilemma. Now that I’m not such a selfish bastard, it’s clear to me that I’m asking too much of Jessica. The situation is demanding too much of Jessica. She didn’t have all the information when she agreed to be with me. It doesn’t make it less unfair that I didn’t have all the information, either.
My pulse races as I sit up against the pillows.
To be with me, she’ll have to give up most, if not all, of her freedom and privacy. That’s the way of things. Jessica thrives on her freedom. She blossoms in the world knowing that whenever she needs to make a change, she can do that.
It wouldn’t be like that living with me at Sainthall Palace.
Everything in our lives will be tracked, planned, double-checked, monitored.
It’s the price of being part of royalty.
Before she can speak again, I say the words I swore I’d never say. I say them even though saying them batters my heart, breaks it.
“Maybe it would be best if you went back to New York for a while. So we could sort this out without so much bickering.”
Her mouth falls open as if I’ve slapped her, and she draws in a sharp little breath. “You don’t mean that.” Her voice is so soft I almost can’t hear her speak.
My mind turns over each of the times I asked her to come with me, asked her to be with me, asked her to stay. But I don’t back down. I can’t.
“I do mean it. It’s not even about—fighting happens with every couple. But this isn’t the place for you, Jessica. You need to be able to make your own decisions. You have to be able to leave when you want to, work when you want to, do what you want to.
”
I’m trying to be honest, but it’s so difficult to say those things to her that my tone is harsh, unyielding.
Her wide blue eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t allow a single one to drop. “Wonderful,” she says bitterly. “I only wish you’d thought of this before I hopped on a plane with you to come across the ocean. I wish you’d thought of that before I lost my job. I wish you’d thought of that before you decided to break—.” She stops abruptly, looking away. “It would have been nice to have been given an ounce of consideration, your highness.”
Something inside me snaps.
She’s right, of course, but it’s not my fault that I was born to my mother and father. It’s not my fault that I was a prince of Saintland. And it’s not my fault that my brother died. This isn’t fair to either of us, but I am not the only one to blame for this situation. Maybe I should have thought this through before we got on that plane, but Jessica didn’t either.
I don’t need this from her.
I don’t need this from anyone.
“That’s fine, Jessica,” I say, my top lip curling in what I’m sure is an ugly caricature of a smile. “I know women like you have a need to be waited on hand and foot.” I saunter around the bed, throw my shirt over my shoulders, and step into my pants as she watches me, her mouth open, her hand over her heart as if I’m driving a knife into it, slowly, point first. “If that’s the case, then I’m not the man for you. I’m sure you’ll find someone who is perfect for you back in New York.”
As I put my hand on the door handle and pull it open to leave, I hear a strangled sob escape her lips.
In a move I will regret forever, I leave the room, leave her alone, without another look.
37
Jessica
I’m shattered.
Devastated.
Simply crushed.
All the air has drained from my lungs, and when I suck it back in, it feels like knives stabbing my chest.