Crown of Thornes : a modern day royal romance

by Delaney Foster

  A rush of guilt washed over me for invading her privacy this way, but I quickly brushed it off. This was total abuse of power, and I knew it. I just didn’t give a shit. “No, but the name is Katarina Bellizzi. I want to know when she took the train, where she went, and how long she was there.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get on it right away.”

  I pissed her off. She left the next day. Not long after her return, that email was sent. It couldn’t be a coincidence, no matter how much I hoped it was.

  While I waited on Antonio, I decided to do some investigating of my own. Sure, I knew her DNA. I knew who her parents were and where she grew up. I knew she liked poetry and classic literature and baked a helluva cupcake. I knew she wasn’t a virgin—well, her mouth wasn’t anyway—and I knew that her eyes went from sky blue to midnight when she was turned on. I knew she avoided curse words and she talked to herself in the garden. Other than that, I didn’t know much about Katarina Bellizzi at all. And I wanted to. I wanted to know more. I wanted to know everything.

  For the next thirty minutes I creeped her social media, careful not to accidentally double tap any photos. Basic Stalker 101.

  I scrolled past obligatory pictures of food and of her smiling while oversized sunglasses hid her face. Pictures of her eating cotton candy by the Ferris wheel and of her riding on some guy’s back on the beach in a bikini. I felt like reading the comments just to see who the guy was so I could promise to feed him his own balls if he ever touched her again. All her posts were captioned with some kind of quote, a favorite book or poem, no doubt. And in every single picture she looked happy. I wished I could’ve known that Katie, the happy one with sunshine in her smile. I wished she could be just a girl and I could be just a guy. I wished our families weren’t enemies.

  The one woman I couldn’t stop obsessing over also happened to be the daughter of evil incarnate. How fucked up was that?

  Suddenly, the posts stopped. It had been four months since she last uploaded anything new. Until yesterday when she posted a glass of red wine, her delicate finger poised along the rim, on a table obviously set for two and captioned it: I drink to make other people more interesting. ∙Hemingway∙

  My phone rang before I could read too much into it. “I have the information you requested, Your Highness,” Antonio said after I answered.

  “That was quick.”

  “Yes, sir. There isn’t much to report. Once a month, for the past four months, she visits the same place. But never for long. Thirty minutes, tops. Then she comes right back to the castle. Except for yesterday when she went into Valetta and spent the whole day there.”

  It was all there in her post. The table. The wine. She left the castle to meet with someone—someone other than Keaton because if it were him, she wouldn’t have needed permission to get through the gate. I remembered how different she looked when I saw her, the newfound glow she had on her face. It was the kind of glow people got after hearing good news or having a mind-blowing orgasm. An urgent, possessive need crept through my veins, threatening to suffocate me if I didn’t break loose. I wanted to know who she was with and what they did, even though I wasn’t entirely sure the reason had anything to do with the email anymore.

  “And this place she visits every month. Where is it?” I questioned.

  Antonio cleared his throat, hesitating a beat before answering. “It’s the old Bellizzi Estate, sir.”

  What the fuck? Why would she go there? That farm didn’t belong to her family anymore. It had been sold months ago.

  “Get me everything you can on the new owner. Thank you, Antonio.”

  I ended the call, printed the email, and headed straight for the fucking library.

  Eleven

  Last night my dreams were flooded with secret passageways and hidden rooms. When I was awake, Sutton’s words and Mama’s secrets haunted my thoughts. My mind wasn’t safe anywhere. I was physically and mentally exhausted, and it looked like the only person I could count on for answers was me.

  I slid my hands along the smooth, red walls on the second floor of the library, knocking on the sheetrock as I went. Not that I knew what to listen for. It all sounded hollow to me. I pulled books from shelves to inspect the walls behind them and knelt to find traces of cracks in the baseboards. There was nothing there. No evidence that there had ever been a door anywhere up here.

  Dad would’ve known exactly what to look for, what to listen for. He was always good at things like that. He used to tell me that I got Mama’s brains and beauty but not a lick of his common sense. I wished he were here now. Then again, if he were here, I wouldn’t be. Life would be different. Things would be normal again.

  I started downstairs, ready to give up on the mystery of the hidden door, when I remembered Sutton’s words about the royal records. The second floor was basic compared to the rest of the castle, the forgotten lovechild of ordinary and elegance, classic yet simple. It was bare except for a long conference-style table surrounded by uncomfortable wooden chairs, a crystal chandelier, and built-in shelves filled with all of Torryn’s secrets. I didn’t spend a lot of time up here. It was dark and eerie and not nearly as interesting as all the magical worlds I found on the shelves downstairs.

  I scanned record book after record book, wondering what any of them had to do with my dad. The more I searched, the more I wondered why King Phillipe ever put me in charge of books like Parliamentary Debates and Orders of the Day. Probably because he knew I was the last person to care about any of those things—meaning I would never bother studying royal business. I preferred to stay away from things that didn’t concern me. Life was simpler that way, and I liked simple. I dusted shelves and read classic literature. I minded my business and kept to myself, and in the four months I’d been here, no one ever told me to do anything different. Until Sutton found his way into the kitchen and opened Pandora’s box.

  My fingers traced the spine of an exceptionally thick book labeled Record of Lords. What did any of this have to do with my dad? He was a regular guy, living a normal life, doing his best to take care of his family. He was a farmer, not a lord. His name didn’t belong in any of these books. On the last bookshelf next to a window, I finally found a collection of tax records. They were the only records that could possibly have anything to do with my family. It was the only thing that made sense. I grabbed a handful of books and spread them out on the long wooden table in the middle of the room.

  An hour later, I had searched through three record books, and they all read the same. Every year under my father’s name it stated: Taxes paid: $0. Yet every year, King Phillipe had allowed my dad to defer more taxes. None of it made sense. Dad had always been financially responsible. We never did without. Our lives were comfortable—not to the extent of the royals—but we lived well. Taxes were a debt I knew we were more than able to pay. Which is why losing the farm was such a surprise. Not to mention that if it was such an issue, why did the king let it go for so long? Why was Sutton so upset about it if his own father had said it was okay?

  The heavy thud of a closing door echoed up the stairs, and my heart fell to my stomach. Only the king and Keaton, and more recently, Sutton, ever came into the library. The king practically vanished weeks ago, and Keaton wasn’t speaking to me, so that could only mean one thing. It was Sutton.

  “I know you’re in here,” he called out into the open air.

  The sound of his voice sent tiny jolts of panic prickling across my skin. Or maybe it was anticipation? I wasn’t sure. I remembered the last time we were alone in this library. It didn’t end well. The chair legs scraped the hardwood floor as I slid away from the table and stood. I walked to the top of the stairs, stopping to judge his mood before going any further.

  He wet his bottom lip when he saw me. “Nice outfit. You going somewhere special?”

  I was wearing a white, silk sleeveless V-neck top and a pair of taupe dress pants with a belt that tied in a bow at the waist. It was hardly anything special, but it was a far cry
from my usual spaghetti-strap sundress. By the way he watched me come down the stairs, I guessed it passed inspection. I stopped at the bottom step and curtsied. “Your Royal Highness.”

  He let out a breathy laugh and shook his head. “Don’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Sutton took a step back. “Don’t pretend to respect me.”

  Ouch.

  I should’ve argued with him, but it would’ve been a lie, so I kept my mouth shut. A flash of white caught my eye. He held something in his hand. Paper. I wondered what it was and if it had anything to do with his hard voice and the emotionless look in his eyes. The chances of him writing me poetry were slim to none, so it had to be something important. Like an eviction notice. I almost asked him about it until he interrupted me before I could.

  His jaw tightened. “Where did you go yesterday? When you needed permission to get back into the castle. Where were you?”

  “When did that become your business?”

  I walked toward him. The closer I got, the bigger and angrier he seemed.

  He inhaled a deep breath through his nose. The clear blue flecks in his eyes darkened and blended against the green like a storm swirling against the ocean waves. “You live here, do you not?” I didn’t answer. The question was rhetorical anyway. “In my castle, everything is my fucking business.”

  “Well, sir… As you so politely reminded me once before, this is your father’s castle, and I live here because of him. So, I don’t owe you anything. Newsflash, Your Highness: you’re not the king.”

  He flinched then shook it away. Apparently, that was a blow to his ego. Even though he looked every inch of royal in his white button up shirt and navy-blue dress pants. The cuffs were rolled up on his shirt, revealing his thick, veiny forearms. I quickly averted my gaze to keep my imagination from going into deep, forbidden places.

  “Where did you go?” he repeated, emphasizing every syllable of each word.

  “Shopping. Obviously.”

  I turned my back to walk away from him, but he grabbed me by the elbow and stopped me right before I reached the leather sofa. “Anywhere else?”

  What was he? My keeper? I didn’t owe him any explanations.

  Like the idiot I was, I gave one anyway. “Lunch.”

  His grip tightened as he stepped closer, moving directly behind me. Tension crackled in the air. “With?”

  “A friend.”

  He pulled my arm, forcing my back against his chest, then pushed my hair to one side and breathed against my ear. “Try again. Who did you see yesterday?”

  I focused on the bookshelves across the room, careful not to show any physical reaction. Even though my insides felt like lava. Bronte, Tolstoy, Austen—the books were a blur, but I knew the shelves by memory. The leather sofa, the wooden tables, the walls of bookshelves, and the closed door—they all seemed like bars of a cage holding me in. I wanted to escape but had nowhere to go. So, I dug my heels into the ground and decided to stand and fight. Breathe, Katie. Focus.

  I didn’t like Sutton, but I loved the way this made me feel. How he always seemed at war with himself. Like the very thread that held him together threatened to snap and break when we were together. It was a unique kind of power, and I relished every moment of it.

  “I saw lots of people. There was a woman drinking coffee, and a couple riding bicycles. Oh, and this one guy selling flowers. He tried to give me one for free. I didn’t take it, but I should have because he was really, really cute—”

  “One more comment like that and I will fuck the memory of him right out of you.”

  Sutton managed to tear me apart with his very words. I knew if he ever actually touched me—really touched me—it would rip me to shreds. He pressed his body against mine, then brought his hand around to my throat, tilting my head back. My heart thrummed in my chest. He was hard—all corded muscle with an erection that sent waves of heat licking up my thighs. I ignored the incomprehensible ache to reach behind my back and touch him. He wasn’t the only one with a thread, and I wasn’t the only one with power. My resilience was so close to snapping in two.

  He leaned his head forward, dragging his cheek against mine until our faces aligned. I was so aware of him, of his closeness, of my thirst.

  His lips brushed my skin as he spoke. “A name, Katie. Who did you have lunch with?”

  Was he jealous? Why did he care who I was with?

  “Chelsea.” Better yet, why was I even entertaining him? Because being this close to him, having him touch me like this, so brutal and possessive, was about to light me on fire from the inside out. The sooner I answered him, the sooner he would let me go. “And I wasn’t told I had to check in with you, so why does it matter?”

  He raised his head and let go of my throat, bringing the air back to my frozen lungs. Then he slammed the paper against my chest, holding it there while I fought to catch my breath. And just like that, the spell was broken.

  “This. This is why it fucking matters,” he spit out.

  He stepped away as I took the paper from his hand and read the contents.

  I spun around to face him, holding the printed threat out in front of me. “You think I sent this?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.” I read the email again and almost felt sorry for him. I thought my life was miserable. I couldn’t imagine living every day thinking everyone I knew was out to get me. Oh wait, yes… I could.

  “Why do you still go to the farm when it doesn’t belong to you? Do you think you can actually get it back? You think you have that kind of money? That kind of power? Or maybe you’re just fucking someone who does. That’s what you do, right? Fuck your way to the top like you tried to do with me?”

  I squinted him into focus and carefully inspected his pupils. He had to be high because there was no way he was serious. I started toward the door, stopping when I reached for the handle. I looked over my shoulder at him. He looked as infuriated as I felt. Sutton wanted the truth? I pulled the pin and threw him the grenade, hoping it would blow up in his flawless face.

  “I’m sorry you’re dealing with this. I really am. But I don’t know who sent that message. I can promise you that it wasn’t me. And not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not sleeping with anyone. I don’t know why my dad didn’t pay taxes or why my mama can’t answer my questions. I go to the farm because I don’t want to forget my old life. I don’t know what your mother hides behind sealed doors, or what your family did to deserve that email. And I don’t know why you hate me so much.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “It seems I’m the only one around here who doesn’t know much of anything. But I do know I don’t have to stand here and let you treat me this way.” I turned the handle and opened the door. “Good luck, Your Highness. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  Twelve

  I marched straight to the barracks to find Keaton, not caring if Sutton followed me. Someone was going to give me some answers, and if there was a threat to the Thorne family, Keaton would know about it. It was probably better off left alone. The email didn’t concern me. Except it did. Sutton thought I sent it. There had to be a reason for that.

  If the rest of Thornebridge Castle was luxurious sophistication, the barracks were raw masculinity. They were all in one huge building behind the West Garden, a tall brick fortress with hardwood floors and storm gray walls. I never came to the barracks, but it was increasingly obvious that this wasn’t the type of place where respectable women hung out. Thank goodness, I wasn’t looking for respect. I was here for the truth.

  Grown men wandered the wide, open hall in their underwear, groping and grabbing and scratching themselves as they went. Some simply ogled as I walked past. Others were more vocal. If my grandmother were here, she’d be clutching her pearls. This was a glorified frat house. I ignored the catcalls and whistles as I walked down the hall like I had any idea where I was going.

  I approached one of the few
fully clothed guards who I hadn’t caught checking out my butt. “I’m looking for Keaton.”

  He stopped staring at his cell phone screen long enough to answer me then pointed down the hallway. “Down there. Third door on the left.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If you can’t find Keaton, you can always come to my room.” I spun around to face a young guy with chiseled abs. His blond hair hung in messy curls, and he wore nothing but a pair of baggy plaid pajama bottoms. So, this is what the guards did with their time off. He held one arm against his door frame while a toothbrush lazily hung out one side of his mouth.

  Right about then, the third door on the left flung open. “What the hell is going on—” Keaton stepped out into the hall, not caring that he was practically nude, and stopped short as soon as he saw me. “Katie?”

  He hurried toward me, grabbing my hand and pulling me inside his room. “You can’t be here walking around this place looking like…” Keaton raked his eyes over my body. “That.” He adjusted the towel wrapped around his waist, making it really hard to concentrate on why I was here.

  “You wouldn’t answer my calls, and I needed to see you.” I glanced down at my clothes. “And what’s wrong with the way I look?”

  He stalked toward me until my back was pressed against the door. “Nothing. And that’s the problem.” His bright eyes twinkled when he smiled.

  I realized I had never been in Keaton’s room until now. It smelled like him, all cinnamon and cloves. He arched a brow when he caught me studying the walls around us. “You want the grand tour?”

  The way he looked at me made my chest hurt. It was so easy to fall right back into step with him, to pick back up as if nothing had happened. That’s who we were. Words like “jealousy” or “anger “didn’t exist between us.

  So why was I standing still?

  He pointed to a four-poster bed with a dark blue comforter that rested against the back wall. “This is the bedroom,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Which is what you really came to see.” I rolled my eyes, and he laughed. “Living room.” He pointed to the other side of the room where a brown leather chair sat next to a dark wooden table. On the opposite wall there was a long dresser with a television on top.