Dirty Halo (The Forbidden Royals Trilogy Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  After a moment, I feel his chin come down to rest on the top of my head. After another, his arms slide cautiously around my back. He holds me like he’s out of practice — as though the simple act of an embrace is so far removed from his normal realm, he’s not sure how to proceed. I’d actually feel sorry for him, if I had a single ounce of emotion leftover to spare for anyone else.

  Absurd as it seems, for a long time we stand there in the pouring rain, arms wrapped around each other. Embracing. And it’s not rife with tension, like our interaction earlier. There’s nothing remotely erotic about it. It’s merely one human reaching out in desperate need of comfort; another grabbing hold and offering it freely.

  Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself.

  I try not to think about the scent of his skin… the sound of his breaths over the patter of the rain… the contour of his chest muscles beneath my cheek… the fact that, if I turned my face up to his, our mouths would be only a few scant inches apart…

  Let go.

  Step back.

  Move away.

  I ignore my own advice far too easily. Sucking in a sharp breath, I tilt my head backward to look up at him. His eyes meet mine instantly — blue, blue, blue, and full of questions I can’t answer. From this close, I can make out the thin rings of navy around the edge of each iris.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, wishing my voice wasn’t trembling.

  He doesn’t respond — doesn’t react at all except to lift one hand and slowly push a plastered lock of hair out of my eyes. The rain continues to fall in a steady torrent, spattering both our faces. I stare at the droplets clinging to his lashes, watch how he winks them away like tears, and ignore the part of me that longs to taste them as they race down his cheeks.

  “Carter, I… I…”

  A low sound rattles in the back of his throat as he leans in, closing a tiny fraction of the space between us. For a single instant, I think he’s going to do something utterly reckless…

  Instead, he drops his arms and pulls away.

  “We should go,” he says flatly, shoving his hands into his pockets, looking anywhere but at me. “They’ll be looking for us.”

  “Right. Of course.” I clasp my pruned fingers tightly together as I turn my back to him, heading down the path that leads back to the house as fast as my legs can carry me.

  Ten minutes ago, I would’ve rather stayed out here all night than stepped foot in that manor again. Now, the Lockwood Estate looks pretty damn good, compared to the prospect of even one more minute spent bonding with my new big brother.

  Chapter Seven

  This house is haunted.

  If not by actual dead spirits, then by the ghostlike guards and service staff who move silently down its many halls, only the vaguest creak of floorboards giving away their presence. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I can’t shake the sensation that there are eyes on me at any given moment.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  As we stand in a semi-dark hallway upstairs, I shift anxiously from foot to foot while Carter roots through a linen closet in search of towels. My legs, still aching from our ascent up that endless grand staircase, drip steadily until a small puddle forms on the hardwood beneath my feet.

  “Here.”

  It’s the first world he’s spoken to me since our walk back from the gardens. It might as well be a scream in the eerily silent house. I shiver and glance around. There are too many rooms with locked doors, too many creeping shadows, too many strangers lurking just out of sight.

  “Here,” Carter repeats impatiently, shaking the towel in his grip.

  I grab it and wrap the warm fabric around my waterlogged crop-top and skirt, which are now clinging to my curves tight enough to make a two-dollar whore experience secondhand embarrassment. Carter retrieves a towel for himself before kicking the linen closet closed. The bang of the door in its frame makes me jump about a foot in the air.

  “Relax,” he mutters, voice muffled by the towel as he pats his face dry. “By now, Octavia is riding the Ambien Express and, though Linus may be the King, the man could sleep through a damned revolution. He wouldn’t wake up until they had him strapped down to the guillotine, his head bound for the basket.”

  “Must’ve come in handy as a teenager when you snuck out at night,” I murmur, wringing water out of my hair.

  His brows go up. “Never had to sneak. The Lancasters aren’t exactly proponents of hands-on parenting, as you’ll soon find out.”

  “Oh?” My numb fingers being to tingle as circulation returns. “You assume I’m staying.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Why would I?”

  He simply stares at me.

  “I can’t just snap my fingers and become… royal.” I wince at the word. “I don’t understand a damned thing about this life.”

  “Take it from someone who grew up living it — it’s mostly boring state dinners and the occasional ribbon cutting or charity event. Smile. Wave. Keep your mouth shut.” He shrugs. “Seems to me, they aren’t looking for you to be a leader. They need someone to prop up as evidence that the Lancaster line is alive and well, someone they can use to convince the public they’re unbroken by the loss of King Leopold and Queen Abigail.” His eyes narrow on mine. “With Henry in the hospital… right now, you happen to be pretty much the only person left on the planet who can step into that role. I don’t see them letting you walk away from that. Like it or not… you’re the vital pawn in this particular game of chess.”

  “You don’t think I know that?” I scoff angrily. “You don’t think I realize that the only reason I’m standing in this hallway talking to you right now is because they literally have no other options at their disposal?” My voice jumps an octave. “Don’t look now, they’ve dragged the illegitimate love child out of the shadows! Really scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren’t they!”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “But it’s the truth.” I shake my head. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to spend your entire life wanting validation from someone, then finally get it… but for absolutely all the wrong reasons?”

  His expression turns to granite. “No. I fucking don’t.”

  Right. I suppose he wouldn’t — not with Octavia for a mother. She doesn’t exactly seem like the validating type.

  My mouth opens, then promptly closes again. There’s little point even trying to make him see things from my perspective. Lord Carter Thorne was raised in this life of excessive riches and grand responsibilities. He couldn’t possibly understand how strange it is to someone like me — an ordinary girl, thrown gracelessly into a game with rules no one’s even bothered to explain.

  I glance at the door to the room Simms had the house staff prepare for me. There’s a card-stock placard affixed inside the embedded nameplate, etched with my ridiculous new title in sloping calligraphy.

  Her Royal Highness Emilia Victoria Lancaster

  “Frankly, all of this is a moot point anyway,” I say after a long moment, looking sharply away from the door. “Because Prince Henry is going to recover. He’ll take back the crown, he’ll rule… and I’ll go back to my life.”

  “Are you really so eager to return to it?” Carter asks, staring at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t figure out. “Most girls would be over the damn moon if someone told them they got to live in a castle and wear a crown. It’s the dream, isn’t it?”

  “Not my dream.” I pull the towel off my shoulders fold it in my hands. “I have obligations back in Vasgaard. I can’t just abandon them because some outdated figurehead snaps his fingers and demands I give up my life, my internship, my spot at university. Not to mention, there are people I care about—” Owen’s face flashes in my mind and guilt floods me. He must be out of his mind with worry. “I can’t just leave him,” I finish softly, shaking my head.

  Carter’s eyes sharpen to blades, cutting into me with each pass they make over my face. “Poor little princess, can’t see he
r boyfriend because they’ve made her royal. Spare me. That’s not a real problem and you know it. You’re just looking for reasons to walk away from something that terrifies you.”

  I flinch at his callous words. “Back to being an asshole, I see.”

  “Fitting, since you’re back to being more transparent than plastic wrap.”

  I glare at him. “Why do you even give a shit about any of this? About what choices I make? About whether I stay?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Could’ve fooled me!”

  “Then you’re more deluded than I thought.”

  We glare at each other, both panting. I’m not exactly sure when this conversation escalated to an argument, but I’m suddenly flush with anger. From the looks of it, so is he. The foot of space between our faces practically shimmers with heat, the molecules bending like air around a boiling kettle.

  “If you truly feel that way,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m shocked you didn’t leave me out in the rain to freeze to death!”

  “Already have one funeral to attend this week,” he seethes, hands curling into fists at his sides. “Wasn’t in the mood to work another into my social calendar.”

  “Wow.” I twist the towel in my hands, so I have something to do besides wring his neck. “You know, I thought maybe we could be friends. I see now that was a terrible mistake.”

  “And I thought maybe you wouldn’t turn out to be as predictable and shallow as the rest of them. Guess even my instincts are wrong, occasionally.”

  “Ugh!” The towel falls to the floor, but I barely notice as I take a furious stride in his direction. “You know, of all the awful people I’ve encountered during this long, miserable day, I have to tell you — you are the worst.” My voice shakes with rage. “And, just to be clear, your competition includes a father who abandoned me at birth and the evil shrew he married afterward!”

  Carter’s eyes burn bright with anger but his tone is tightly leashed when finally he speaks again. “I think we’re about done with this failed attempt at friendship. Don’t you, sis?”

  “Oh, we’re more than done,” I snap. “We never even started!”

  “Perfect.”

  Whirling away from him, I stomp to my door and shove my way inside. I start to slam it shut, but make the mistake of glancing across the hall first. My hand stills when I catch sight of Carter standing in his own doorway, directly across from mine — white-knuckled grip on the knob, face dark with fury as he glares back at me.

  I know I should shut the door on him, cut off this venom-laced eye contact before things escalate further, but there’s a cluster of words still stuck in my throat. I can’t draw a proper breath until they’re clear.

  “You might not be capable of giving a shit about anyone except yourself, but I am. I care about people. It doesn’t make me weak for not wanting to leave them behind. ”

  His tone is so cold, it’s barely recognizable. “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  Neither of us moves. For the life of me, I can’t explain why.

  “And I never said I had a boyfriend!” I tack on angrily, for reasons I decide it’s best not to examine too closely.

  “Never asked, princess,” he fires back, equally hostile.

  “Fine!”

  “Fine.”

  My door slams shut a second before his, so hard it rattles in the frame.

  Sopping wet and spitting mad, I pace around my prison cell.

  Okay, so, it’s not a prison cell. It’s a bedroom. A beautiful bedroom, actually, done up in pale blue tones, with a massive four-poster bed, an antique armoire, and a merry fireplace. The wood has burned almost all the way down to embers, so I toss in another log and stoke the flames higher, holding my hands near the grate until I finally start to feel warm again.

  I search the room for a telephone, but find nothing. For a minute, I contemplate extending my search downstairs, but I’m so exhausted I doubt I’d make it back up that massive staircase. Plus, there’s the small fact that I couldn’t call Owen even if I managed to locate a phone: his number is stored conveniently in my cellphone contact list, not my longterm memory.

  Technology giveth, technology taketh away.

  In the adjoining bathroom, I gasp when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror over the pedestal sink. I look downright frightening — my mascara streaked into raccoon-like circles, half my lipstick chewed off, my hair a wet tangle of lavender waves. Removing the chunky black heels I never want to look at again, let alone walk in, I peel off my outfit and drop it to the tile floor with a splat. Two minutes later, I sink into the soaking tub with a moan so loud, I worry Carter can hear it clear across the hall.

  Not that I care what he thinks.

  Asshole.

  I close my eyes, slip beneath the water, and let out the scream that’s been pent up inside me for the past few hours, building like a tempest from the first moment a yellow-blazered news anchor spoke the words, “The king is dead.” A burst of bubbles shoots upward, tapering off when I run out of air. Gasping, I resurface, feeling only marginally better.

  God, I wish Owen were here.

  Not here as in sitting in this bathtub with me. Just… here. By my side.

  He’d know exactly what to say, the precise way to put a smile on my face. He’d make me laugh, even when I felt like crying. He’d be supportive and funny and unafraid to throw his arms around me in a breath-stealing bear hug. He’d put me at ease even in an impossible situation.

  Unlike certain other individuals who seem a little too fond of antagonizing me whenever the opportunity presents itself…

  I push aside images of dark hair and a smirking mouth in favor of blond waves and an easy grin.

  Some of the girls in my clinical psychology program find it strange that my best friend is a straight, single guy — who, admittedly, is rather easy on the eyes. When they ask why we aren’t dating, I usually shrug and change the subject as quickly as possible.

  He’s my best friend, I tell them, over and over. It’s just never been that way between the two of us.

  They roll their eyes and sigh at me, like I’m crazy enough to be one of our patients.

  Sure, Emilia. Whatever you say.

  Over the years, I’ve had other fleeting friendships — my freshman year dorm mates, the girls in my upper-level classes, a few internship colleagues I’ll grab casual drinks with after a shift, every so often. But none of those bonds have ventured much deeper than the superficial smalltalk stage. Honestly, they’re more like acquaintances when I compare them to Owen, who’s been privy to my every private thought and embarrassing moment for almost as far back as I can remember.

  He was there in fifth year when the school bully, Lana Pillsner, smashed my diorama into pieces right before my big presentation. He was there our final year of high school when Markus Goldstein, my date to the prom, stood me up. He was there two years ago, when Mom went into the hospital with acute pneumonia… just as he was there when she didn’t come out again, seventeen days later.

  Tears spring to my eyes when I think of Mom. She’d hate this — me, here in this house, here with these people. She disliked the monarchy almost as much as the patriarchy, and spent my formative years lecturing on the many downfalls of absolute power, concentrated wealth, and a whole other bevy of social issues I could hardly wrap my still-developing brain around.

  I can hear her melodic voice, crystal clear even after all this time.

  ‘Limitless power is far more likely to corrupt a pure heart than mend a dark one.’

  I’m pretty sure she had me reciting that along with my nursery rhymes.

  ‘Excess breeds selfishness, Emilia. When one is born with nothing, there is nothing he will not give to help another succeed; when one is born with everything, he will do everything he can to keep it for himself.’

  A tear rolls down my cheek, hitting the water’s surface with a tiny splash.

  ‘I love yo
u, pure heart.’

  Another tear falls.

  ‘Stay bold.’

  As I float, I let her words lull me into a state of such calm, I nearly fall asleep. My eyelids are heavy as anvils, but I force them open long enough to scrub away the grime of the day with a small bar of rose soap. I’m not crazy about the cloying floral scent, but it’s better than nothing.

  By the time I finish conditioning the worst of the snarls out of my hair, the water has grown cold and I’m so exhausted, I’m in danger of passing out right there in the bathtub. l flip a lever and watch the water start to swirl down the drain in a mesmerizing vortex, not moving until the last drops disappear with a low gurgle.

  Maybe tomorrow, in the harsh light of day, things won’t feel so dire.

  The lie sits heavily on my chest as I force myself to my feet. Grabbing a plush bath towel off the heated rack to my left, I wrap myself up in it like a butterfly’s cocoon. I’m sure there’s a hairdryer lurking in one of the many bathroom drawers, but I’m far too tired to bother — even knowing I’ll wake up in the morning looking like I’ve been electrocuted.

  Dropping my towel by the edge of the bed, I collapse face first on the plush feather mattress and worm my way beneath the covers with still-damp limbs. I’m asleep as soon as my eyes close, blessedly too exhausted to replay all the awful events that have unfolded today. Too wiped out even to dream about the future and the vast uncertainty it holds.

  Chapter Eight

  “So, you’re the royal bastard, huh?”

  The question jolts me out of a sound sleep. Approximately two seconds later, the weight of a body landing on my mattress bounces me several inches into the air. With a squawk of distress, my eyes spring open and I take in the sight of an unfamiliar auburn-haired girl around my age, sitting at the end of my bed. Her legs are folded up in front of her like a pretzel — legs to her chest, palms on her knees, chin on her hands…