by East, Evie
“Emilia… are you okay?”
“No,” I croak. “No, I’m really not.”
“Is there anything…” He blows out a breath, as if he’s not sure how to say this properly. “Can I do anything to make this better for you?”
“You don’t happen to have a time machine?”
“Afraid not.”
“Cloak of invisibility?”
His head shakes.
“Then, no, Carter. I think I’m on my own.”
His hands curl around the stone bench seat. He’s practically thrumming with anger and frustration.
“It’s actually pretty funny,” I tell him in a hollow voice that isn’t funny at all. “I’m a psychology student. I study human behavior. I read all these books about our capacity for manipulation and evil. About every atrocity we, as a species, have committed against one another over tens of thousands of years. How we’ve actually evolved to be cruel and self-serving, rather than honest and true.” I pull in a shallow breath. “All that knowledge, right there at my fingertips… and still, I’m totally blindsided when it happens to me.”
“Emilia…” My name catches in his throat.
“Why did he do it?” I ask, another tear trickling out. “He’s my best friend. I’d do anything to protect him — even cut him out of my life when I need him most. But he… he decided to hurt me in the precise way he knew would inflict the most damage. How could he do that to me?” I feel like my heart has been ripped right out of my chest, leaving only a gaping hole behind. “And Linus… Linus…”
I can’t even begin to get the words out.
“Emilia, please look at me.”
I shake my head, still crying, and use his sleeve to mop the tears off my cheeks. “You should go. Just… leave me alone.”
“No.”
“I’m not good company at the moment, Carter.”
“I don’t give a shit. I’m not good company ever. But we all need someone sometimes. Someone to lean on.” He’s breathing hard. I can hear the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he watches me weep. “If you need to lean on someone tonight… I’ll be here.”
My breath hitches on a sob.
He’s whispering, now. Barely audible. “I’m here, love.”
It’s the love that breaks me. My head turns toward him and our eyes lock in the span of a heartbeat. And on any other night, I’d try to fight it — that magnetic tug I feel whenever I’m around him. But I don’t have any more fight left in me.
I gaze into his beautiful face, at the heartbreaking contradiction of tenderness and fear playing out on those gorgeous goddamned features, and I can’t stop myself from falling forward into his chest.
His arms come around me, crushing me to him. It’s not like our last hug — there’s no uncertainty, no hesitation. This one is fierce, fraught with need. The need to touch and cling to a man who isn’t going to rip the rug out from under me. At least, not right now.
I press my wet eyes against the column of his throat and hear him inhale sharply. My hands wind around his broad shoulders, then slide up to lace behind his neck as I flatten myself against him — chest to chest, heart to heart. And it’s totally crazy… but there, with our pulses racing in time to the same beat, I think that Carter might just be strong enough to bear the weight of dark despair inside me. Even if it’s only for a few minutes.
We stay like that until my tears have slowed and my choppy breaths have leveled out. Feeling blessedly numb for the first time in hours, I lift my head to look at him.
Our faces align perfectly in the darkness. My fingers grip the back of his neck, where his hair curls slightly at the nape. A low sound rattles deep inside his throat — whether to warn me away or urge me closer, I’m not certain. His blue eyes burn so hot, flames of desire dance along my skin as I lean in, inch by careful inch. And before I can talk myself out of it…
I brush my lips against his.
It’s meant to be chaste. A simple thank you. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. But that small brush sparks into something else — something that soon blazes out of my control.
Carter’s hands lift to cup my tear-swollen face… my fingertips dig tight against the back of his neck… and quite suddenly, with no warning at all, he’s kissing me.
Or maybe I’m kissing him.
I’m not sure who moves first.
I’m not sure it matters.
The only thing I know with certainty is, now that it’s happening, there’s no turning back. Never mind that it’s wrong. Forbidden. Doomed. Never mind that it never should’ve happened.
A brush. A spark.
A kiss. A wildfire.
We are an inferno. A combustible, uncontrollable flame. With a hungry groan, his tongue spears into my mouth — teasing, tasting, consuming — and I can’t help the cry that tears from my throat.
Yes.
God, yes.
I didn’t realize how much I craved his touch until I felt his big hands moving over my skin. How much I wanted this — his grip sliding back into my hair, his teeth nipping at my bottom lip, his hard body flush against mine.
Or, maybe I did realize, I just didn’t acknowledge it. Not even to myself, except in the darkest corners of my mind when I’d replay that first night we met. That spark I felt, even then, when we were two strangers in the backseat of an SUV, without any names or futures or families to hold us back.
The kiss turns desperate, ravenous. We cling tightly, a rising tide of passion sweeping us both away until any chance of turning back is lost to the undertow. His hands slide down my body, exploring the curves of my waist, searching for any exposed patch of skin he can caress. I try to maneuver myself onto his lap but my damn dress is so tight, it’s impossible to straddle him. Rife with impatience, Carter reaches down to the side slit of my skirt and promptly tears it from upper-calf to upper-thigh. My eyes go wide at the sound of fabric ripping as he does the same to the other side.
A second later, I no longer care that he’s reduced my dress to ribbons, because he pulls me down onto his lap. My knees hit the stone bench on either side of his thighs as I plant myself firmly against him. A bolt of pure, unadulterated lust shoots straight between my legs as I feel the evidence of his desire for me — his long, hard cock, throbbing with need even through the fabric of his pants.
“God, Emilia,” he groans against my neck, gripping me so hard it’s almost painful. I clutch him back just as tight, grounding myself in his touch. Needing to feel something besides grief and sadness and heartache. But even as he holds me steady, I’m spinning out of control. I can feel it happening, and I’m powerless to stop it.
A shout in a silent crowd.
A thousand camera flashes.
A cruel knife to the back.
I kiss him harder, hoping it’ll block the memories I don’t want to see, the emotions I don’t want to feel. I need him to take hold of me until my world makes sense again, to touch me until I forget everything that’s happened since I came to this godforsaken place.
Octavia.
Linus.
Owen.
He nips along my jawline, kissing and biting and teasing his way back to my mouth. I revel in the harsh press of his fingers against my back as our lips tangle together again. Some twisted part of me hopes he leaves marks on my skin, so tomorrow when I wake up, I have proof this wasn’t some fragment of a dream.
In my head, I know being with Carter is dirty and broken and wrong. But somehow, as he lowers me backward onto the stone bench, he’s the only thing in my whole horrible life that feels totally, completely right. My body is a lit fuse, every nerve ending sizzling as his weight comes down on top of me.
I need him.
I need this.
To feel dominated by my choice, not by someone else’s design.
There’s a certain sort of beauty in submission. At least, in the kind Carter is slowly inflicting on me with each sweep of his tongue, each stroke of his hands. I am coming undone beneath him, unraveling into
something I hardly recognize.
Maybe if he touches me long enough, I’ll fade into him.
Cease to exist at all.
Just a memory of a girl on a cold stone bench.
I arch up against him, totally lost in his touch. He gazes down at me and I see a flicker of something in his eyes — not lust, not need.
Concern.
“Emilia,” he whispers, pulling back a fraction.
I try to grab him, to crush his lips to mine again until the world blurs out of focus, but he’s too strong.
“Kiss me,” I plead, voice ragged with desire and despair.
“But you’re crying.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He sits up, pulling me with him. His brows tug inward as his big hands squeeze my biceps. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? Of course it matters.”
“No. It really doesn’t.” I try to kiss him again, but he’s holding me at arm’s length. It pisses me off. “Jesus Christ, Carter, don’t you get it? Nothing I do makes a damn bit of difference in the outcome of this game. Nothing matters. None of this. Not you, not me, not us.”
He flinches like I’ve struck him, but I barely notice. A dam inside me has broken and all my darkness is spilling out in one great flood.
“None. Of. It. Matters. Not my father. Not my best friend. Not my house. Not my future. Not even my damn memories, ‘cause they took those too. Tune in to your local news tonight at five for the Emilia Lancaster show! Learn how her date stood her up for the senior prom! Hear neighbors talk about her tragic teen years! Then, at primetime, we’ll delve deep into her mother’s agonizing death!”
He’s breathing hard, staring at me like he doesn’t even recognize me.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say, feeling something crumble inside me. Another fault line, this one made of broken dreams and bad intentions.
“How exactly am I looking at you, Emilia?”
My voice is a shaky whisper. “Like I’m scaring you.”
“You are scaring me,” he murmurs. “Guess what? I’m still here. I’m right fucking here.”
He reaches for me, but now I’m the one pulling away — out of his grip, off the bench, onto my feet. My eyes are stinging again and suddenly, everything feels a bit out of focus. Like maybe that swirling black hole of grief inside me has pulled me off balance, out of alignment. I’m on a new orbit now, about to crash into something hard enough to do permanent damage.
To me and to him.
Snap out of it, Emilia… before you make an even bigger mess of things.
Cold air washes over my skin. Like waking up from a dream, the past few minutes flash through my mind, sharp-edged details tearing like knives. Horror wells inside me as the haze of lust clears completely from my head. I stagger backward, as far away from him as I can get without leaving the clearing, a hand pressed over my mouth.
What have I done?
What have we done?
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry,” I whisper, staring at his expression. Poignant vulnerability, so contrary to his typical callous smirk. Seeing it nearly sends my to my knees. I want to walk over to him, to take his face between my hands and kiss him until I’m lost all over again.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
“This…” Haltingly, I force myself to say the words — words that feel so incredible wrong. “This was a mistake.”
He pushes to his feet and starts toward me, eyes flashing. “Emilia—”
“No, Carter.” My head shakes. “We can’t.”
He stops short, jaw locked tight, and growls, “We already did.”
“And it was a mistake! We should… we should just… forget it ever happened.”
His face flattens in an instant, turning to the mask of indifference I’m oh so familiar with. The heat in his eyes morphs into frost.
“You could honestly do that?” he asks in a subzero whisper. “You could forget? Just like that?”
I avert my eyes, so ashamed of myself I can’t even look at him.
“I have to.”
My voice breaks. There’s a sob gathering at the back of my throat and I’m not sure how much longer I can contain it. Not waiting for him to respond, I turn and run down the path, my torn skirt flapping around my legs. It’s not till I’m back in my bedroom with the door locked that I realize I’m still wearing his suit jacket. Without taking it off, I curl into a ball of misery on my bed and cry myself to sleep.
Chapter Fifteen
Every little girl dreams of living in a castle.
Even me.
Perhaps especially me, given my particular family history.
But now that I actually live in one, I wish I could go back and tell my five-year-old self to dream about something better. Not to waste her wishes on a cold, stone keep full of winding corridors and drafty bed chambers.
Then again, my perception could be slightly skewed, given the fact that I am, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner here at the lovely Waterford Palace. True, my prison cell is a massive suite done up in peaches-and-cream silks and ornate gold fixtures, with a terrace that overlooks the courtyard… But a cage is still a cage, even if it comes with a king-sized bed, high speed internet, a soaking tub, and a perpetually stocked mini-fridge.
The whole Lancaster clan moved here from the Lockwood Estate the day of the press conference — the same day I stood in front of the world, smiling like an idiot, and declared myself royalty.
All hail Her Royal Highness Emilia Victoria Lancaster, Crown Princess of Germania.
Surrounding me on all sides during this painful interlude was my beloved family: Linus, the father I’ve always dreamed of; Octavia, the loving stepmother who instantly embraced me as her own; and my wonderful siblings, with whom I’ve bonded so quickly, you’d think we shared actual blood ties.
Oh! Wait.
No.
That’s total bullshit.
Apparently, the press is fond of bullshit, though, because that’s the story they’ve been reporting for the past two weeks. I swear to God, if I read one more glowing portfolio about the Lancaster family and my newfound place in it, I’m going to tear my own hair out by the roots.
That would certainly get their attention.
I wish I could say things have calmed down, but I’d be lying. The interview requests are nonstop — Simms is still fielding at least twenty a day — and the paparazzi are so out of control, I’ve been confined to the palace until further notice. For my own protection, of course.
Cue eye rolling.
The press merely provides Linus with the perfect excuse to keep me locked away until his coronation next week. Preparations are in full swing; there must be fifty staff here at any given time, working to get the castle ready for the official crowning ceremony as well as the formal ball that will take place immediately afterward.
With the exception of the brief press conference, the coronation will mark my first official public appearance. I’ll be on full display, mingling with actual members of the aristocracy, stumbling my way through the steps of the traditional Germanian waltz, and generally just trying not to make a complete fool of myself. To say the thought gives me heart palpitations would be an understatement.
According to Chloe, my worry is unnecessary. In her mind, the only thing that truly matters is my outfit.
I’m telling you, E — you could call the Prime Minister a cabbage-brained cuckold and go on to rule peacefully for fifty years. But if you show up in a puce gown with last season’s shoes… they’ll never let you live it down.
Thus, the royal dressmakers have been here practically every day to take measurements. I endeavor to keep still as they hold up different fabric swatches against my skin tone, then do my best not to trip as they try out shoe options from a vast array of high heels — as if anyone is even going to see my feet under the mammoth ballgown they’re designing.
I don’t have the heart to tell them that no matter how hard the
y try to make me look the part of a perfect princess, I’ll never be able to maintain the illusion for an entire evening. Putting a shiny paint job on a rust-bucket only fools people from afar. One glance under the hood, there’s no hiding the truth.
Chloe assures me she’ll stay by my side for the entire event to help me navigate the crowds. I think this has less to do with selflessness than it does the long list of eligible bachelors who will be in attendance, all hoping for a piece of Emilia-flavored pie — her words, not mine. Princes, barons, dukes, and earls from several neighboring monarchies are flying in for the elegant affair. Apparently, I’m a hot commodity now that I’m to inherit control of one of Europe’s most prosperous countries.
Because nothing screams romance like a man who cares more about the crown sitting on your head than the thoughts occurring inside it.
When I remarked on this potential partner flaw, Chloe just shrugged and told me there was no point squandering my good years being single and celibate, so I might as well enjoy the princess perks while they last. A fair point… though the thought of pursuing anything remotely romantic right now is a hard pill to swallow.
Maybe I’d be more inclined to date if not for the slight complication who happens to reside in the suite directly beside mine and goes by the name of Carter. I shoot a glance toward our shared wall, sighing deeply.
He hasn’t been here in days, from the sound of it — or, lack of sound, I should say. He also hasn’t spoken to me since our night in the garden. Not a word, even on the rare occasions we pass each other in the halls or find ourselves in the same room. It’s no accident, either. He’s actively avoiding my presence.
Last week, while exploring the library — by far the coolest room in the entire castle, with soaring ceilings and so many books it would take two lifetimes to read them all — I came around a corner and found him sprawled in an elegant wingback chair, reading a copy of Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ by one of the roaring fireplaces. For a moment, I just stood there looking at him — the flickering light of the flames dancing on his face, the lock of dark hair falling over his furrowed brow, the elegant lines of his tall frame.