by Evie East
I remember the first time I ever saw him — sitting in the back of a black SUV just like this one, my whole world on the brink of utter destruction.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
A muscle jumps in his cheek as he nods, stores the folded wheelchair on the floor, and shuts my door with a soft click. Chloe scrambles in the other side a moment later. She curls up against the leather seat without so much as a word, her eyelids fluttering closed. Exhaustion is etched on every line of her face; she’s been awake all night, waiting by my side for news.
That’s what family does.
The realization is enough to put a chip in the thick ice around my heart. I brace myself against it, afraid if I let in any emotion at all, the rest will come flooding back as well.
Carter hops into the front passenger side, beside a taciturn member of the King’s Guard, and we start to drive. I can’t see anything through the blacked-out windows. It’s like the whole world has gone dark.
None of us possesses either the energy or the desire for conversation as we make our way from Fort Sutton to Windsor Palace. The mood of the car is decidedly somber. I can’t say I blame Chloe for nodding off. In fact, I envy her. I wish I could sleep — it would be an escape from the constant pain — but I’m terrified of what I’ll see when I close my eyes.
The first thing I notice when we pull into the castle is a massive security presence. There are more guards than I’ve ever seen stationed at the secluded back entrance to the grounds. I’d imagine the main gate looks like a scene from the WWII resistance, when the Nazis cordoned off Vasgaard and attempted to seize control of the castle. A full scale show of military force.
All to keep me safe.
We pull around the circular driveway and stop before the palace doors. I suck in a breath when I see the entire household staff — maids, cooks, pages, stablehands, guards, grooms, drivers — all lined up in full uniform on the stone steps, waiting for us.
The Master of Stables, Hans, is there, looking gruff as ever in the very back row. I spot Anita, one of the royal seamstresses, standing beside Patricia, who just so happens to make the best chocolate chip cookies in the country. At the very center of the greeting party, Simms and Lady Morrell stand shoulder to shoulder, color coordinated in their navy outfits.
They did this for me.
To welcome me home.
My eyes are suddenly stinging again and, despite the ice block inside my chest, I feel a pang of real emotion.
Maybe that mangled organ isn’t entirely dead after all.
Chloe’s still fast asleep beside me, snoring lightly. I suppose I could wake her, tell her we’re home… but she looks like she could use the rest, if the bags under her eyes are any indication.
In a surprising show of chivalry, Carter hops out of the front seat and pulls open my door before any of the servants has a chance. He reaches for the folded wheelchair by my feet, but I shake my head to stop him.
His brows lift in question. Our gazes clash and, suddenly, we’re having one of our wordless conversations.
What the hell do you think you’re doing?
I’m walking in there on my own two feet!
Don’t be stubborn, Emilia.
Don’t tell me what to do, Carter.
He sighs, as if he’s already regretting this, and offers me his arm to help me down. I grab it gratefully, ignoring the tinge of pain that shoots through my leg whenever I put any weight down on it. In full view of the household staff, we hobble slowly from the SUV toward the stairs.
It takes a long time.
An embarrassingly long time.
But I do it with my head held high and my face composed.
I will not be brought to my knees by a senseless act of terror.
I will not cower or hide from those who wish to destroy me.
I am Emilia Victoria Lancaster.
The Crown Princess of Germania.
The Heir Apparent.
The People’s Princess.
I will not falter.
Not now, when they’re looking to me for strength.
Not ever again.
No one laughs at me. No one looks bored or restless or annoyed by my crawling pace. They look almost proud — as though they know exactly why I have to make this halting, heartbroken walk on my own volition. As though they understand perfectly that I’m reclaiming something here, step by step, inch by inch.
Somehow, we make it to the stairs. I’m breathing hard, leaning heavily on Carter, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He supports my weight easily, keeping me steady when I begin to sway off balance.
My eyes meet Simms’ and, between the space of one breath and the next, fill to the brim with tears. I’ve never been so glad to see the pudgy press secretary in my life. His absurd pinstripe suit, that familiar pompous expression. Last I saw him, he was standing onstage beside me in the middle of the melee. I wasn’t even sure he got to safety in time, and I was too afraid to ask. I couldn’t bear to add another casualty to my kill-list.
It’s long enough already.
He’s looking a bit red around the eyes as he walks down the steps to us. He stops a customary two feet away, always careful to leave a proper margin of distance between himself and the royals he serves.
“Welcome home, Your Highness.” His voice is thick with unspoken emotions. “I’m— I’m quite relieved to have you back here, safe and sound, where you belong.”
I wait a beat, simply staring at him. Trying to think of something suitable to say. Finally, I decide the best way to express what I’m feeling isn’t with words at all. Launching my body forward, I fling my arms around his massive shoulders and hug him as tight as I can manage.
“Oh!” he exclaims stiffly, stunned beyond words. He doesn’t return the hug but, when I release him, I notice his eyes are glossed over with tears. He dabs at them with an embroidered handkerchief as he pivots around to flee back up the steps, muttering some excuse about Lady Morrell needing him.
What an old softie.
I start to sway again, but Carter’s suddenly there — looping his hand around my waist, taking on my weight. I wind my arm around his back and press my fingers into his side, eyeing the long set of stairs stretching upward to the door.
“Thank you for helping me,” I whisper under my breath, wondering how the hell we’re going to make it all the way to the top.
“Thank me after we make it up these damn steps,” he growls happily. “And then thank me again later, when I call your doctor back to treat you for overexerting yourself with this pigheaded endeavor.”
I sigh and start hobbling.
I’m almost to my suite when my legs finally give out beneath me. Cursing colorfully, Carter manages to catch me before I hit the stone floor. He sweeps me up into his arms, cradles me against his chest like a child, and starts striding down the hallway. If I had any remaining energy whatsoever, I’d be utterly embarrassed. Thankfully, all I feel is exhaustion as he wrestles open my door one-handed and carries me over the threshold.
The room is dark and oh so quiet. The only light trickles through the glass terrace doors. It’s begun to snow outside, the falling flakes muffling the whole world. I watch them fall as Carter sets me down on the bed, cradling my head until it hits the pillow.
I stare up at him, lost for words. It’s been the worst day of my life — full of unimaginable sorrow, unspeakable pain. And yet, there’s a part of me that is comforted by his touch, soothed by the feeling of his hands on my skin. He is a salve to the jagged wound inside me. One I’m not sure will ever heal.
“I’ll let you rest,” Carter says lowly, eyes full of sharp-edged thoughts I can’t decipher. “You’re exhausted.”
He starts to stand, but I reach out and grab his arm. There’s an urgency in my grip. A sort of desperate fear at the sudden thought of him walking out that door, leaving me alone in the dark with a mind full of memories I can’t hold at bay for much longer.
/> “Please… stay.”
A jolt moves through his body, like I’ve electrocuted him. “I don’t think that’s the smartest idea, Emilia.”
“Please, Carter.” My voice drops to a whisper, barely audible. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”
His jaw tightens and I know he’s deliberating. I see the conflict warring in his eyes. He doesn’t want to leave me, but he knows it’s probably wrong to stay.
Wrong for me.
For him.
For both of us.
Whatever look he sees on my face is enough to sway him. Moving cautiously, as though navigating a minefield, he stretches out beside me on the bed. For a long stretch of time, we just lie there looking at each other.
Not touching, not talking.
He stares into my eyes, into my soul, and I know he’s reading all the darkness inside me, swirling around like poison with no outlet.
I make a sound — half sob, half sigh — and his careful composure falls to pieces. Without a word, he reaches out and pulls me close, until we’re plastered so tight together I can’t tell where I end and he begins. His strong arms envelop me, warm and safe. His legs tangle with mine, careful not to put any weight on my bruises.
With my head on his chest, I listen to the steady thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat and let my eyes drift closed, safe in the knowledge that he’ll be here with me, when the nightmares come.
Chapter Twelve
The truck is barreling closer, closer, closer and there’s no stopping it. I hear the sound of bullets whizzing over head. I hear Simms telling me to run. I hear the firefighters yelling for their wives and children, frantic with fear. And loudest of all, I hear the screams.
So many screams, ringing out in the air.
Screams I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
Screams that—
“Come on, love. Wake up.”
There are arms around me, holding me close. Tethering me to the real world. Keeping the horror at bay.
“Shhh. You’re okay, Emilia. You’re okay.”
My feverish screams die out as consciousness returns with a jolt. My heart is pounding double-speed. Carter’s arms are still wrapped tight around my body.
“You’re okay,” he repeats in a soothing voice. “I’ve got you.”
I crane my neck to meet his eyes, whimpering softly. “The truck…”
“I know, love. But it’s over now. You’re safe.” His hand strokes my hair. There’s gravel in his voice. “I promise. I will keep you safe.”
There’s no room for doubt in his tone. He means every word.
My heart expands. I pull in a gulp of air and try not to focus on how close my face is to his, or how good it feels to be pressed against the hard planes of his body. I hate myself for even noticing. For being able to feel anything at all besides grief or loss or pain.
By all rights, I should be dead right now. How can I possibly be thinking about this?
Perhaps that’s precisely the problem, though: I should be dead. I came so very close. And there’s a part of me — a recklessly off-the-rails part — that whispers about living life to the fullest while I still have a chance.
Our gazes are still locked, and I can’t look away. There are deep shadows beneath his eyes — evidence of his sleepless vigil. I want to trace them with my fingertips, erase them with a kiss. I want to lean forward, press my mouth against his, and lose myself in him for a while.
Thankfully, I manage to pull away before I cave to the impulse. My cheeks are stained red as I sit up. I hope he doesn’t notice in the dark.
“I need to shower,” I whisper. Between the dust and debris from the explosion yesterday, the germs and grime from the hospital, and the sweat from my fitful sleep, I’ve never felt dirtier in my life.
Carter sits up too. His breaths are a bit uneven but when he speaks, his voice is steady. “Do you want me to call someone to help you?”
I glance at him. “Would…”
“What?”
“Never mind. It’s stupid.”
“Tell me,” he orders softly.
I can’t look at him. I look down at the bedspread instead. “Would you help me? I just… I don’t want to be around anyone else, right now. I’m not ready to face the rest of the world. Only you.”
There’s total silence in the room for a long moment — so long, I begin to think he’s not going to answer me at all. But then, so softly I can barely hear him, he simply murmurs, “Okay.”
I try to walk to the bathroom, but the ache in my bruised leg makes it impossible. The pain meds have definitely worn off. I cry out, almost falling, but Carter manages to catch me for the second time tonight. Carrying me into the bathroom, he sets me on the shallow stone bench inside my walk-in shower, then kneels down so we’re at eye level.
“Do you—” He breaks off, swallowing roughly. “Do you need me to—”
I shake my head and reach for the drawstring of the sweatpants they dressed me in at Fort Sutton. They’re huge — probably the former property of a military cadet — and they slide easily to the tiled floor. My thighs press against the warm stone as I reach for the bottom hem of my shirt and begin to pull it up over my head.
Carter averts his eyes, turning to the valve controls embedded in the wall. He turns on the rainfall setting, sidestepping to avoid the sudden torrent. I stare at his back, watching as he shoves a hand beneath the stream to test the water temperature. Once it’s perfect, he sets my bottle of shampoo and conditioner on the bench beside me.
“There. Good to go,” he informs me without turning, his voice tight. “I’ll be just outside the door. You can call me when you’re done and I’ll bring you a towel.”
I push shakily to my feet, using the wall as a brace to keep the weight off my battered leg. Shuffling a step closer, I watch the muscles flex beneath the fabric of his t-shirt when I reach out and lay a gentle hand on his back.
“Carter.”
His name is a plea on my lips.
Letting out a low, pained groan, he turns to face me. The look in his eyes when he sees me standing there, stripped to the skin, nearly makes my quaking knees give out completely. His gaze drags down my body, taking in every curve, every slope, every infinitesimal detail. And any other day, I’d feel self-conscious or stupid for putting myself on full display. But after everything that’s happened, there’s no room in my head left for embarrassment.
Steam is filling the bathroom, fogging up the glass cube around us. Carter’s whole body has gone rigid with tension. I can see it in his every muscle and tendon. He doesn’t close the gap between us but the unadulterated longing in his eyes tells me how ardently he wants to.
“Emilia… let me get someone else,” he begs, eyes still drinking me in. “Please.”
“But I want you.” I take a shaky step toward him. “I need you, Carter.”
I need you to make me feel alive again.
I need you to remind me that I didn’t die today.
That there are still things worth living for, worth fighting for.
His expression is a study in contradiction — pain and longing warring in equal measure. He wants this too. Badly. Maybe even more than I do.
He’s just better at controlling himself.
I take another shaky step. This time, I nearly lose my footing. He sees my stumble and grabs hold of me before I fall. The minute his hands hit my bare skin, I know it’s over. Dragging me to his chest, his last shred of self-control slips away, leaving only need behind. His need to touch me. His need to reassure himself that I’m still alive, still here with him.
His forehead comes down to rest on mine. He’s breathing hard. His eyes are pure fire and his voice is pure growl. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“I know,” I murmur back, staring up at him. “It’s probably the worst idea I’ve ever had.”
He kisses me, then — his mouth coming down to claim mine without another beat of hesitation. It’s the kind of kiss I’ve only ever d
reamt about. The kind of kiss you read about in books or see on movie screens, but never get to experience for real. The kind of kiss I didn’t know someone like Carter Thorne was capable of giving.
It’s full of tenderness and warmth, but also passion and heat.
A dance of lips and teeth and tongues that makes me dizzy with desire.
The best kiss I’ve ever had… on the worst day of my life.
He backs me slowly beneath the torrent of water, heedless of his clothes getting soaked. Pressing me up against the tile wall, he pins my body with his hips as his mouth devours mine. My hands wind around his shoulders, clinging tighter, and I arch my back until there’s not a single molecule of space left between our bodies.
For a long while, with the water streaming down, he merely kisses me. Thoroughly, ravenously, as though making up for all the lost time since we last found ourselves drowning in each other. It’s been an eternity since I felt the press of his lips, since my breasts brushed the hard planes of his chest, since my fingers slid up into his hair.
Too long.
Far too long.
With every move he makes, Carter Thorne sets off fireworks in my nerve endings, from the top of my head to the space between my thighs.
I never want it to stop.
Never want him to stop.
He shifts closer, cupping my face with his hands. I gasp when I feel his hard length throbbing against my thigh through the wet fabric of his pants. When my hand reaches down between our bodies to stroke his cock, he gasps too.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his mouth moving to my neck. I feel the scrape of his teeth against my jugular vein and nearly come undone at the sensation. “God, Emilia, I’m sorry. I just meant to kiss you, just once, some chase fucking peck of comfort, and now…”
“Shhh,” I breathe. My fingers find the bottom hem of his shirt and tug it up over his head. He helps me, flinging it aside with impatience. It hits the tile with a splat, but I barely hear it. All my focus is absorbed by the sight of Carter’s magnificent bare chest. His abdominal muscles ripple beneath the rainfall. There are beads of water on the dark line of hair leading down into his pants. I have the strangest urge to lean forward and lick them from his skin.