Torrid Throne (The Forbidden Royals Trilogy Book 2)

by Evie East

  The constant flash of cameras becomes practically blinding. Fighting the urge to close my stinging eyes, I keep my chin up and my feet moving. Somehow, I manage not to bobble on the hunter green high heels Lady Morrell picked out for me to wear with my ebony shift dress and long wool peacoat.

  It’s only fifty yards to the podium, but it feels more like fifty miles. Cheeks aching from my fake smile, I’m finally nearing the end of the gauntlet when I hear a child’s high-pitched squeal from my right — pure and sweet with little-girl wonder.

  “Mama! Mama! She’s a real princess!”

  I glance over and see a small girl in a shabby dress standing with her mother. The woman can’t be much older than I am but her face is etched with lines — the fingerprints of poverty and pain. It’s clear from one glance that her path has not been an easy one. Still, there’s pure love in her eyes as she stares down at her young daughter.

  “Mama, can I grow up to be a princess, too?”

  The mother’s expression falls a bit. Her mouth opens, presumably to break the bad news to the girl. Before I can stop myself, I’m in motion — deviating from my path, turning from the center of the street toward the sidewalk. I ignore the distressed sound from Simms as I approach the barricades. The crowd’s screams grow deafening when I come to a stop a few feet away, everyone crying out my name, attempting to catch my attention. My gaze never shifts from the mother-daughter duo.

  “Hello, there.”

  The woman’s eyes have gone wide as saucers. The little girl is staring up at me in awe. I crouch down to her level so our eyes meet through the metal bars of the partition. She’s no more than four or five years old.

  “What’s your name?”

  The girl looks up at her mother for approval before whispering, “Annie.”

  “Hi, Annie. I’m Emilia. It’s nice to meet you. Where are you from?”

  “Hawthorne.”

  My heart turns over when she mentions the small neighborhood in Vasgaard where I grew up. A few months ago, she could’ve been my neighbor.

  “Are you really a princess?” A slight speech impediment softens her consonants, turning her r’s into w’s. Pwincess.

  I nod. “I am.”

  “Do you live in a castle?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Like in a faiwy tale!”

  “Oh, yes. It’s just like a fairy tale,” I lie.

  “When I gwow up, I’m going to be a pwincess like you!” Annie declares proudly. “Wight, Mama?”

  Her mother turns beet red. “I’m sorry, she doesn’t understand—”

  I shake my head, smiling genuinely for the first time all day. “You know what, Annie? I grew up in Hawthorne, too.”

  Her brows shoot upward. “Weally?”

  “Really. And if I can be a princess, so can you.” Reaching up, I remove the tiara from my head — a tiny, ornate silver coronet Lady Morrell forced me to wear, despite my objections. Without a thought, I reach through the bars and set it atop Annie’s blonde head.

  I hear gasps from the surrounding onlookers — a wave of shock breaking like a great tidal shift. The little girl is staring at me with adoration and awe.

  “There you go,” I murmur, adjusting the delicate headpiece with a wink. “Beautiful.”

  Annie reaches up to touch the tiara, her lips spreading into a huge smile. She’s missing a front tooth. “Do I wook wike a pwincess now?”

  “Totally.”

  She beams bigger.

  “Can I tell you a secret, Annie?”

  “Uh huh!”

  I lean in so only she can hear my words. “There’s magic in that tiara. It makes whoever wears it brave enough to follow their dreams. So, whenever you feel scared or uncertain, I want you to put it on. And I want you to remember that you’re a brave girl, who can be whoever she wants to be when she grows up. Okay?” I pull back a bit to stare into her cornflower blue eyes. “You can do anything you want, Annie. You just have to be brave.”

  She’s wide-eyed with wonder. “Okay, Pwincess Emiwia.”

  When I rise and meet her mother’s gaze, she looks almost fearful. “Your Highness — we can’t possibly accept—”

  I wave her words away. “Of course you can. Besides, it looks better on her, anyway.”

  Shooting one last smile at Annie, I turn and walk back to the middle of the street. From my peripheral, I catch sight of Simms’ pinched expression. I’m sure he’ll ream me out later for giving away a priceless piece of jewelry, but I honestly don’t care. It was worth it to make that little girl’s day a bit brighter.

  The crowd is newly energized as I walk the remaining distance up the stairs to the podium. They scream so loud I worry I’ll end up with premature hearing loss, their individual calls indistinguishable in the crush of sound. Even after I shake hands with the Minister of Veteran Affairs and step up to the microphone, they continue to cheer until Simms gestures for silence. Glancing over at me, he then gives a stern nod. I can practically read the orders in his eyes.

  Smile nicely. Say hello. Step away.

  I try not to roll my eyes as I turn to the crowd and clear my throat. “Wow. Thank you all for the warm greeting!”

  I jolt when I hear my own voice booming out from the speakers, echoing off buildings. It’s a strange, disembodied sensation. My gaze drifts across the many faces in the crowd — young, old, male, female. I see a group of gray-haired men in military uniforms who must be WWII soldiers clustered beside a group of schoolchildren on a field trip, their yellow primary school jumpers a visual assault even at this distance. I see a young couple holding hands beside an elderly pair pressed up against the railing.

  So many different faces, all turned toward mine.

  All with one thing in common.

  Hope.

  It’s written plainly across every expression in the crowd. And when I recognize it… it’s impossible not to be humbled. It’s impossible to keep thinking of what I’m doing here as a chore to check off my to-do list, or some royal obligation to speed through without consideration.

  They’re all looking to you, Emilia. Don’t let them down.

  All the boring, bland talking points Simms gave me go out the window. I can’t just say a quick hello and step away. Instead, I set my shoulders, swallow my nerves, and speak the only way I know how — from the heart.

  “As you may know, I’m rather new to all of this… princess stuff.”

  I hear a choked sound from Simms, but I carry on.

  “Honestly, the only time I’ve ever made a speech before was during my university’s required oration course — and I’m sure both my classmates and Professor Albright would be happy to confirm that it did not go well. So please forgive me if I stumble.”

  There’s a wave of laughter, followed by a flood of supportive applause. I hear someone shout ‘We love you, Emilia!’ from the back of the crowd, and I can’t help smiling wider.

  “It’s a privilege to be here today to celebrate Remembrance Day. The fact is, Germania would not exist without the brave men and women who have dedicated their lives to keeping our great nation safe.”

  More applause rings out.

  “I know, as a whole, we don’t always agree about politics or religion or, hell, even which rugby team to root for—” The crowd laughs. “But I think we can all agree on one thing: our military deserves recognition. Respect. Remembrance. Not just today, but every day of the year.”

  People are nodding along with my words. Many have taken out their cellphones and started filming. I try not to let myself think too much about that.

  “We humans have a tendency to make things more complicated than they need to be. But this— this is simple. Our veterans took care of us. Now, it’s our turn to take care of them.”

  Their reaction is riotous. I have to wait a full minute for it to quiet down before continuing.

  “Without further ado… on behalf of the king, I am honored to announce the grand opening of the state-of-the-art facility you see
behind me. It was built specifically to serve our active-duty personnel as well as retired service members and their families.” Half-turning, I gesture to the gorgeous glass building. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you The Leopold and Abigail Veteran’s Hospital and Rehabilitation Center.”

  The cheers swell to a crescendo when I mention the facility’s namesake — our fallen king and queen, lost so suddenly in October’s deadly fire. I see several in the audience wiping tears, overcome by emotion. And I can’t lie — a few moments later, as a brass band plays the national anthem, I stand with my hand over my heart, my eyes stinging with tears that are surely smudging the makeup Lady Morrell’s fleet of stylists worked so hard to perfect, and find myself equally overcome.

  Crowns and thrones and blood rights aside…

  This is my country.

  These are my people.

  And I’m proud as hell to be one of them.

  Today. Tomorrow. And all the days to come.

  “That was not what we discussed,” Simms mutters in a tight voice as he ushers me back into the waiting Rolls Royce. The deafening sound of the crowd’s cheering is muffled slightly when the chauffeur closes the door behind us.

  “Sorry, Ger.” I settle back against the seats with a sharp exhale. “I told you I wasn’t going to follow your scripts.”

  He stares at me for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his portly face.

  “What?” I ask, not recognizing the look.

  “You. You were…”

  My brows go up. I’ve never seen staid, serious Simms so tongue-tied before. And… is that a blush I see coloring his cheeks?!

  Impossible.

  “What I mean to say is…” He clears his throat. “You were quite good with the crowd, Your Highness. Natural. Charming. A bit unpolished for my liking, of course. But they didn’t seem to mind.”

  “Wait a minute — did you just compliment me, Simms?”

  “Don’t be absurd. I was merely pointing out the facts.” He adjusts his bow-tie and avoids my gaze. “You seem to possess an innate talent for this. With a bit of practice, you could easily endear yourself to the public.”

  Hell must’ve frozen over. That’s the only explanation for this man — one of Octavia’s chief allies — actually approving of something I’ve done.

  “However, I must say, you giving away an antique diadem to a child who will only have occasion to wear it during games of dress-up…” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “Most inadvisable, Your Highness.”

  And, with that, the universe rights itself. Simms is back to regarding me with his typical air of pompous disapproval, and I’m back to being the reckless, ill-mannered heir he cannot abide.

  Staring out the window, I smile to myself as we speed toward Waterford Palace, my mind occupied by happy thoughts of the poor little girl who lives in my old neighborhood, playing make-believe princess with her mom in a ten-thousand-dollar tiara.

  Chapter Five

  “HELP! PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP US!”

  Tears track down my cheeks, smearing my makeup into rivulets. I don’t move to brush them away. My hands are on Linus’ chest, shaking him.

  “WAKE UP! YOU HAVE TO WAKE UP!”

  I leave bloody handprints on his white tuxedo shirt.

  His wheezing grows fainter.

  His eyes are going glassy.

  The sight of him lying there — slack-jawed, vacant — spurs a scream from the depths of my soul. It rings out in the Great Hall, a piercing wail of distress that—

  “Emilia!”

  I thrash, still half-caught up in the dream, and feel my fist make contact with something hard.

  “Ow! Fuck!”

  My shrieks continue as the images play out before my eyes. Blood and death and horror.

  “Emilia, wake up!” the gruff voice orders. Strong hands encircle my wrists, restraining my flailing limbs from doing any more damage. Half-asleep, I vaguely register my body being repositioned against something solid.

  “Dammit Emilia.” There’s a break in his voice as it drops low. “You’re scaring me, love. Wake up.”

  A whimper of distress catches in my throat as I finally come to. My heart is hammering against my ribs like a wild creature desperate for escape from its cage. My skin is flushed and sweaty, my breaths coming too fast to properly fill my lungs. There are two arms wrapped around me. With a muffled gasp, I realize I’m in Carter’s lap, my back pressed tight to his broad chest.

  “Carter?” I sound like a lost little girl — a shell of my normal self.

  “Shhh,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

  I go limp, all the tension draining out of me in a rush. There are tears trickling down my cheeks, falling against my chest. When I lift my hand to wipe them away, I find my wrists still manacled in Carter’s strong grip.

  He releases me instantly, hands falling to the bedspread. “You were thrashing. I thought you were going to hurt yourself…”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, brushing my face with shaking fingers. “Again.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  I still haven’t moved off his lap. I know I should, but I haven’t quite found the strength yet. I’m exhausted from the night terror — emotionally, physically. And it feels so good to have his arms around me. To soak up his heat and his strength until the fresh horror churning through my mind has faded into vapor.

  “I thought you were going to let me scream.”

  Carter pauses for a long beat. “So did I.”

  I don’t thank him for changing his mind, nor does he explain his reasons for doing so. Before I can talk myself out of it, I let my head fall back against the crook of his shoulder. My right hand lands flat on his chest, just above his heart. I can feel it thundering beneath my palm, a match for my own racing pulse. My eyes close as I attempt to calm my ragged breaths into something resembling a normal pace.

  I might as well be lying against a statue, Carter is so still behind me. A man chiseled out of marble and steely resolve. I can feel the tension thrumming through every muscle in his body even as my own relaxes, sapped of all strength.

  I’m almost certain he’s going to push me away. Leave me in the dark to fight off my demons alone. But then… after what feels like an eternity…. with a heavy sigh that rattles his whole chest, he sets one large hand on the crown of my head. I’m stunned when he begins to pet my hair, just like Mom used to do to comfort me as a child whenever I was sick or scared.

  It’s almost funny — we haven’t spoken in weeks. In fact, I’m pretty certain he hates me for everything that’s happened between us. But with each rhythmic stroke of his hand, I feel a bit better.

  I’m not sure how long we stay like that. Long enough for my breaths to slow. Long enough for my shakes to stop. Long enough for what little strength I have left to drain from my limbs.

  Dreams start tugging at me again with heavy fingers, pulling me under. I’m half-asleep in his arms when I mumble his name, my voice barely audible.

  “What is it, Emilia?”

  “Please don’t leave me.”

  His hand stills. I hear a sharp intake of air.

  Before he has a chance to respond, before I can say something even more asinine… I blessedly tumble over the edge of consciousness. The last thing I hear as I surrender to sleep is a deep, rasping voice.

  A single word.

  One I’m not even certain is real or the splinter of a dream.

  “Never.”

  When I wake the following morning, I’m alone in my tangled sheets. I sit up, squinting around my room for traces of Carter but finding none.

  Was he really here?

  Or was he just a dream?

  Wondering will only drive me mad. Scurrying out of bed, I walk to the bathroom, stripping off my cotton tank top and pajama shorts as I go. Under the rainfall shower, I lean my forehead against the tile wall with my eyes closed. No amount of hot water is enough to wash away the sensation of being in Carter’s arms. His
hands in my hair. His voice in my head…

  Never.

  The memory sets of fireworks inside my nerve endings.

  I shove thoughts of him away and focus on getting ready for my morning ride. It’s snowing lightly, so I dress in layers — thick cream colored leggings, knee-high leather boots, a fitted black jacket made with goose down. I’m halfway to the door when someone knocks on it.

  Brows raised, I yank it open to find a nervous pageboy in a navy uniform loitering in the hallway. His mouth gapes open as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. I wait for him to say something, but he can’t seem to get out a single word.

  “Can I help you?” I ask gently.

  “Yes. Um. Your Highness…”

  My brows arch.

  He swallows hard. “The— the—”

  “Hey. Relax, kid. There’s no rush.”

  He sucks in a steadying breath. “The king— King Linus. He’s requested your immediate presence in his study.”

  My stomach drops. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” He squirms, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world except standing here.

  That makes two of us.

  “Thank you,” I tell him, sighing unhappily. “You can go now.”

  He takes off like a shot down the hallway. Frankly, I’d like to follow him. I’m not sure what Linus wants from me, but it must be serious. My father and I aren’t exactly on ‘casual hang out’ terms.

  I’ve seen him only twice since the assassination attempt — once at the hospital and once the day he returned to the palace — and both times we were surrounded by a fleet of doctors, assistants, and armed guards. Not exactly an ideal scenario for father-daughter bonding.

  He’s been holed up in his private chambers in the South Wing ever since, not accepting visitors — with the exception of his personal physician and, of course, Simms, who keeps him apprised of all royal affairs.

  I know I shouldn’t take it personally. The man was nearly killed, after all. He’s entitled to a bit of time to recover in solitude. Plus, it’s not like we were all that close beforehand. (In my defense, it’s hard to be close to someone who coerces you into taking on the role of Crown Princess by threatening to sell your childhood home unless you comply.)