Torrid Throne (The Forbidden Royals Trilogy Book 2)

by Evie East

  I can feel Carter’s eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I chew my bottom lip and try to think of a polite excuse. “Much as I appreciate the chivalry, Alden, it’s been a very long day and I’m tired. I don’t think I’d be good company.”

  “Ah. Well then, much as it pains me to leave you… I bid you adieu.” Winking playfully, he lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses the back of my glove. With a final squeeze, he finally releases me. I’m frozen in place as he strides back to the SUV and extends a hand out to Carter.

  “Thorne. Great trip, man.”

  Carter nods stiffly, not returning the handshake. His jaw is clenched so tight, I’m surprised he can get the words out. “Thanks for driving.”

  Alden lowers his hand. The men face off for a terse minute, neither saying a word, and the air grows so thick with tension I think my knees might give out under the strain.

  After what feels like an eternity, they finally break eye contact. Alden turns toward the SUV, shooting me one last look before he climbs into the driver’s seat.

  “Always a pleasure to see you, Princess Emilia.”

  “Bye, Alden.”

  “Don’t forget… I’ll be cashing in on your promise of that ride.” He winks. “Soon.”

  His door closes with a bang that makes me flinch. The tires crunch over the gravel as he steers down the long driveway, toward the distant castle gates. I watch until the SUV is no more than a black speck before I dare glance back at the man standing ten feet to my left.

  Our gazes tangle instantly — green and blue clashing like swords on a battlefield. The breath catches in my throat as I hold his stare. His face is carefully empty of emotion, but I can see the rage swimming in his eyes.

  “Don’t,” I say softly. Preemptively.

  His mouth twists with dark amusement.

  “Stop,” I whisper — half plea, half prayer.

  “And what is it I should stop, princess?” The question is lethally soft; the first faint drop of rain before the hurricane makes landfall. “Stop looking at you? Stop talking to you? Stop being around you?”

  My mouth opens to retort, but I find I can’t get a single word out.

  “Or maybe you’d like me to disappear from your life completely,” he says lowly, taking a step in my direction, closing some of the space between us. “Is that it, Emilia?”

  I inhale sharply as he takes another treacherous step. We’re only a handful of feet apart, now.

  “Would it be more convenient for you if I stopped existing altogether?”

  “N- no,” I stammer, barely breathing. “That’s not— I just—”

  My words trail off, utterly useless. There’s no use speaking anyway — not when we’re having a whole conversation with our eyes.

  What do you want from me, Princess?

  Nothing.

  You’re a liar.

  Stop.

  I can’t stop. And neither can you.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Keep telling yourself that, princess.

  The small scar bisecting his eyebrow stands out starkly in the cold evening light. It’s almost fully dark, now. The lights of the castle are spilling out the windows into the dark driveway, illuminating us both in silhouette.

  “Please,” I say, but I’m not sure what I’m begging for anymore.

  I should step back.

  Turn away.

  Walk inside.

  But he’s looking down at me like he’s drowning and I’m the air he needs to breathe. And I’m looking up at him like… like…

  Like he’s every star in the night sky, guiding me through the dark.

  He takes another step toward me — or maybe I take a step toward him. I can’t quite tell, and it doesn’t seem to matter. Not when he’s close enough to see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, to feel the warmth of his breath on my face as he looms over me, tall enough to fill my whole visual field.

  My tongue darts out to wet my bottom lip and his gaze tracks the motion, a predator stalking its prey with laser sharp focus.

  “Go ahead, Emilia,” Carter mutters, leaning down until his lips are mere inches from mine. “Tell me again. Tell me to stop.”

  I don’t.

  I can’t.

  My hands curl into fists by my sides to keep them from winding behind his neck, sliding into his hair, crushing his mouth onto mine. I hate that he hasn’t even touched me, but I can feel him in every fiber of my body. I hate that every atom of my soul is singing out for him. And I hate that I keep wishing he’d throw all caution to the wind and close that final sliver of space between our faces in a heart-stopping kiss.

  “Emilia..”

  He leans in, just the tiniest shift, and for a split second I actually think I’m going to get my wish. But his mouth doesn’t claim mine; it curls into a cruel smirk. When he speaks, his whisper is almost violent, splitting the dark like a lightning strike.

  “For the rest of your life, whether its next week or next month or next year, when you’re out on a date with a proper gentleman like Alden who flatters you with perfect, pretty lines and kisses you with all the passion of a yawn… I want you to remember what you felt right here, in this moment, without me even touching you. All that passion and need storming inside, begging for a release… All that desire, pleading for an outlet… For my hands in your hair and my teeth on your neck and my cock buried so deep inside you, that line between pleasure and pain turns hazy…”

  Sweet. Fuck.

  My thighs clench together as a bolt of lust moves through me. I can barely see straight. All my carefully drawn boundaries go up in smoke as a primal, undeniable need hijacks my senses.

  I’m yours for the taking.

  I want him to be brutal, to claim me with a violent lust that will sate the ache deep in my veins. But when he finally closes that last sliver of space, his mouth brushes mine ever so lightly — the mere ghost of a kiss.

  It’s not enough. Not nearly.

  Before I can blink, he’s pulling back again. My moan of displeasure is quickly swallowed up by his low growl.

  “I want you to remember this feeling, Emilia. Because that’s all you’re going to have to live on. A memory.” He steps back, eyes burning into mine with lust and loathing. “I hope it fucking haunts you.”

  He turns and walks away before I have time to respond — not that I could find the words, even if I tried. I stand alone in the dark, cold down to my bones from more than just the chilly November air.

  My heart races double-speed.

  My breaths are choppy pants.

  My lips still tingle from an almost-kiss.

  I hope it fucking haunts you.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there in the dark. Long enough for my fingers to go numb inside my gloves, for my feet to start aching inside my boots, for the tip of my nose to turn red with cold.

  I don’t feel any of it.

  I don’t feel anything at all.

  Eventually, my guards force me to go inside. They walk me to my rooms in silence, exchanging worried glances until I shut the door in their faces. I lock it behind me and fall into bed, lacking the energy to do more than strip off my riding boots. The silence is so crushing, I have to put on music to drown it out.

  As the lyrics of ‘The Night We Met’ by Lord Huron drift down from my speakers, I feel tears gather in the corner of my eyes and know it will be a long, long time before I finally manage to fall asleep tonight.

  Just as I know, when I wake in tangled sheets in the middle of the night, nightmares fresh in my mind, throat raw from my screams… I’ll be alone in my room, with no strong arms to hold me or words of comfort to drive away the dark.

  Chapter Nine

  A knock on my door wakes me from a fitful sleep.

  I sit up in bed, squinting at the harsh morning light streaming through my terrace windows. My gaze is drawn to the door by the soft rasp of an envelope being slid underneath it.

>   Sighing, I shove off my duvet and stretch my arms over my head as I make my way across the room. I recognize Simms’ boring blue stationary before I’ve read a single word of his message.

  Your Royal Highness,

  Your presence is requested this afternoon for an award ceremony, as your father is unable to attend.

  You’ll be presenting a group of Vasgaardian firefighters with the National Medal of Valor for their bravery while battling the inferno in the East Wing last month.

  There will be a short ceremony to thank them for their service in front of their fellow firefighters, close friends, and family members.

  The limousine will be waiting downstairs to take you to the station at eleven forty-five sharp.

  Gerald Simms

  Palace Press Secretary

  As always, he signed off with a flourish of ink beneath his name and position. I’m not sure why he bothers with such formality — I see the man practically every day, for god’s sake. But Simms isn’t the type to loosen up on protocol.

  A glance at the clock reveals it’s already past ten. I’ve slept far later than usual — no doubt because I was up half the night tossing and turning. I shoot a pointed glare at the wall that divides my suite from Carter’s as I walk to my ensuite bathroom to start getting ready.

  He wants to be enemies?

  That’s fine with me.

  Fine, fine, fine.

  I couldn’t care less.

  Standing in the shower, it’s easier to pretend the stinging of my eyes is due only to the scalding water falling in a torrent on my face.

  “Thank you so much for your courage.”

  I shake yet another firefighter’s hand, hoping my voice doesn’t sound shaky or insincere. The deputy chief nods at me, his face stoic.

  “King Linus appreciates your heroism,” I murmur to the man beside him. “It will never be forgotten.”

  Another handshake.

  Another smile.

  And so it goes, until I’ve greeted all twenty men who put their lives on the line last month when the East Wing went up in flames. If not for their swift response, Prince Henry might’ve lost his life along with King Leopold, Queen Abigail, and several members of the castle staff.

  Not that he’s much better off now, lying in a coma in the hospital burn unit…

  As I cross the stage toward the podium Simms trails closely on my heels, no doubt trying to curb any reckless ideas that pop into my head before they come to fruition. By this point, he should be accustomed to me going off script in some humiliating way or another — kicking off my high heels, sticking my tongue out at the paparazzi, giving away priceless Lancaster heirlooms to poor little girls from Hawthorne. You’d think he would’ve given up by now, but he still tries his best to keep me in check.

  Good luck with that, Ger.

  When I finally reach the podium, I turn to look out over the crowd. It’s a gorgeous fall day. The small square where they’ve set up the stage is full of several hundred civilians in hats, scarves, and thick wool coats. Alongside them, a slew of paramedics, firefighters, and policemen stand in their dress blues, supporting the heroes of the hour. There are a lot of children — I smile when I catch sight of them waving to their firefighter fathers up on stage.

  “Good afternoon, everyone!” My voice rings out, clear with purpose.

  Was it really only three weeks ago that I was terrified to speak to a crowd?

  Polite applause fills the air. I hear the click of several dozen telephoto lenses — the press snapping photographs of me. The largest fire station in Vasgaard looms behind me, sure to make an impressive backdrop on tomorrow’s front page.

  “It is my distinct privilege to be here with you today, in the presence of our best and bravest.”

  Cheers ring out from the front row, where several of the firefighters’ wives are standing, beaming with pride at their husbands.

  “I don’t know much about putting out flames. But I do know, it takes a special kind of courage to routinely rush into burning buildings, when anyone else in the world would be running out. To put your life on the line for the sake of saving another. To risk never seeing your own loved ones again, just to ensure someone else get’s to see theirs.”

  The crowd is nodding along with my words. Several wives are dabbing tears.

  I gesture at the line of uniformed men. “From what I hear, this particular company — the brave men of Station One — is especially close-knit. Whether it’s pot-luck dinners on Friday nights or summer barbecues at Chief Johnson’s lake house, taking on extra med-evac training sessions, or showing up at the local kindergarten to make fire drills a bit less scary for the six-year-olds… it’s clear the work you do here extends far beyond a mere job requirement.” My smile widens. More camera shutters click. “I couldn’t think of a more deserving group to receive the King’s recognition. And I’m so very honored to be the one who gets to present you all with the National Medal of Valor for your service to both crown and country.”

  Cheers fill the air as I step out from behind the podium and approach the table to my right, where twenty small black boxes sit waiting. Simms hovers beside it, nodding gravely at me. I grin happily at him and he flinches, unaccustomed to such a show of familiarity.

  If it were anyone else, I’d tell him to loosen up. But this is Simms. Twenty years from now, he’ll probably still be addressing me by my full royal title.

  Twenty years from now.

  Wow.

  The thought is nearly enough to make me stumble off balance. I’m not exactly sure when I started seeing my role of princess as permanent; not certain at what point things shifted from a temporary state of affairs to simply…

  My life.

  This is my life, now.

  I used to look into the future and see a clear-cut set of goals. Graduating with my psychology degree. Completing my internship. Opening my own practice. Finding a nice man to settle down with and someday, maybe, having a family of my own.

  Now, when I look ahead, I see none of that. My future is one big, fat question mark with a crown on top. Still, at some point, the idea of being the princess stopped scaring the shit out of me and started to seem…

  Not entirely suck-tastic.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m still not a huge fan of the constant paparazzi or the utter lack of privacy. I’d sell my left kidney if it meant I never had to attend another tea party with Ava, Octavia, and the other aristocratic gossips of polite society. But I’d be lying if I said I hate everything about my new life.

  I’m stunned to find I actually enjoy going to events like this one every day — chatting with people from all over the country about their backgrounds, learning their stories, recognizing their accomplishments. It’s fascinating to share in so many human experiences, to see how the faces in the crowd light up when I stop to exchange a few kind words.

  Never in a million years did I think I’d become someone who mattered. At least, not on a grand scale. I pursued psychology because I wanted to help people — one at a time, case by case. When I had to give up my internship, I thought that chapter of my life was closed for good.

  Days like today, though… I’m beginning to think Crown Princess Emilia Lancaster might actually be able to make a difference. Perhaps not in the same way Dr. Emilia Lennox would have, but a difference nonetheless.

  Maybe taking on this new role doesn’t have to mean losing the girl I used to be.

  Maybe I can still help people.

  Maybe I can still do good.

  Filled with a new sense of purpose, I grab the first medal box off the table. The audience cheers as I cross back to the waiting firefighters, their chests puffed with pride as they prepare to receive their honors. When I place the medal around Chief Johnson’s neck, the explosion of applause is so deafening, it takes a moment for my ears to register the other sound suddenly filling the square, growing louder with each passing second.

  The unmistakable revving of an engine.

  Wha
t the hell?

  Hands frozen in mid-air, my head swings around to locate the source of the noise. I scan the street bordering the far end of the square and feel the whole world slide into slow motion as a large box truck comes into view, careening around a corner at full speed.

  My first thought is that someone must’ve lost control of the wheel. Surely, this is a terrible accident. But when the truck jolts up onto the sidewalk and barrels straight at the police barricade surrounding the gathered crowd, I feel the blood turn to ice inside my veins.

  This is no accident.

  “Look out!” I cry, but the sound goes nowhere without the microphone to amplify it. My useless warning reaches only those on the stage, who are standing beside me in the same shellshocked horror, eyes locked on the incoming disaster.

  There’s a thunderous boom as the truck smashes into the metal crowd partitions. They fly into the air like they’re made of aluminum foil, doing nothing to slow the vehicle. Several policemen run toward it, guns drawn, shouting for the driver to stop. I hear the whiz of bullets from the snipers on the roof — ricocheting off the grill, fracturing the windshield into a spiderweb.

  Still, the truck keeps coming.

  Too fast to stop.

  Too late to run.

  Straight into the square.

  Straight toward the crowd.

  The firefighters are leaping off the platform now, running headlong into danger in a desperate attempt to protect their families. People are finally catching on and panic is setting in. I watch them searching for an exit in the barricaded square, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. The very partitions meant to keep us safe have sealed our fate. We are animals in a cage, penned in before the slaughter.

  Wake up, Emilia.

  Wake up, wake up, wake up.

  This must be another nightmare.

  Someone is tugging at my arm, trying to pull me off the stage, but I shrug them away. I’m rooted to the spot. I cannot move, cannot breathe, cannot help the people below. I can only watch, helpless to stop it, as the truck plows onward into the crowd. As it carves a path of carnage through the gathering of men, women, and children who, mere seconds ago, were cheering in celebration. Now, they are screaming in pain and terror.