Dirty Halo (The Forbidden Royals Trilogy Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  But I don’t.

  I can’t.

  “This…” Haltingly, I force myself to say the words — words that feel so incredibly wrong. “This was a mistake.”

  He pushes to his feet and starts toward me, eyes flashing. “Emilia—”

  “No, Carter.” My head shakes. “We can’t.”

  He stops short, jaw locked tight, and growls, “We already did.”

  “And it was a mistake! We should… we should just… forget it ever happened.”

  His face flattens in an instant, turning to the mask of indifference I’m oh so familiar with. The heat in his eyes morphs into frost.

  “You could honestly do that?” he asks in a subzero whisper. “You could forget? Just like that?”

  I avert my eyes, so ashamed of myself I can’t even look at him.

  “I have to.”

  My voice breaks. There’s a sob gathering at the back of my throat and I’m not sure how much longer I can contain it. Not waiting for him to respond, I turn and run down the path, my torn skirt flapping around my legs. It’s not till I’m back in my bedroom with the door locked that I realize I’m still wearing his suit jacket. Without taking it off, I curl into a ball of misery on my bed and cry myself to sleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Every little girl dreams of living in a castle.

  Even me.

  Perhaps especially me, given my particular family history.

  But now that I actually live in one, I wish I could go back and tell my five-year-old self to dream about something better. Not to waste her wishes on a cold, stone keep full of winding corridors and drafty bed chambers.

  Then again, my perception could be slightly skewed, given the fact that I am, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner here at the lovely Waterford Palace. True, my prison cell is a massive suite done up in peaches-and-cream silks and ornate gold fixtures, with a terrace that overlooks the courtyard… But a cage is still a cage, even if it comes with a king-sized bed, high speed internet, a soaking tub, and a perpetually stocked mini-fridge.

  The whole Lancaster clan moved here from the Lockwood Estate the day of the press conference — the same day I stood in front of the world, smiling like an idiot, and declared myself royalty.

  All hail Her Royal Highness Emilia Victoria Lancaster, Crown Princess of Germania.

  Surrounding me on all sides during this painful interlude was my beloved family: Linus, the father I’ve always dreamed of; Octavia, the loving stepmother who instantly embraced me as her own; and my wonderful siblings, with whom I’ve bonded so quickly, you’d think we shared actual blood ties.

  Oh! Wait.

  No.

  That’s total bullshit.

  Apparently, the press is fond of bullshit, though, because that’s the story they’ve been reporting for the past two weeks. I swear to God, if I read one more glowing portfolio about the Lancaster family and my newfound place in it, I’m going to tear my own hair out by the roots.

  That would certainly get their attention.

  I wish I could say things have calmed down, but I’d be lying. The interview requests are nonstop — Simms is still fielding at least twenty a day — and the paparazzi are so out of control, I’ve been confined to the palace until further notice. For my own protection, of course.

  Cue eye rolling.

  The press merely provides Linus with the perfect excuse to keep me locked away until his coronation next week. Preparations are in full swing; there must be fifty staff here at any given time, working to get the castle ready for the official crowning ceremony as well as the formal ball that will take place immediately afterward.

  With the exception of the brief press conference, the coronation will mark my first official public appearance. I’ll be on full display, mingling with actual members of the aristocracy, stumbling my way through the steps of the traditional Germanian waltz, and generally just trying not to make a complete ass of myself. To say the thought gives me heart palpitations would be an understatement.

  According to Chloe, my worry is unnecessary. In her mind, the only thing that truly matters is my outfit.

  I’m telling you, E — you could call the Prime Minister a cabbage-brained cuckold and go on to rule peacefully for fifty years. But if you show up in a puce gown with last season’s shoes… they’ll never let you live it down.

  Thus, the royal dressmakers have been here practically every day to take measurements. I endeavor to keep still as they hold up different fabric swatches against my skin tone, then do my best not to trip as they try out shoe options from a vast array of high heels — as if anyone is even going to see my feet under the mammoth ballgown they’re designing.

  I don’t have the heart to tell them that no matter how hard they try to make me look the part of a perfect princess, I’ll never be able to maintain the illusion for an entire evening. Putting a shiny paint job on a rust-bucket only fools people from afar. One glance under the hood, there’s no hiding the truth.

  Chloe assures me she’ll stay by my side for the entire event to help me navigate the crowds. I think this has less to do with selflessness than it does the long list of eligible bachelors who will be in attendance, all hoping for a piece of Emilia-flavored pie — her words, not mine. Princes, barons, dukes, and earls from several neighboring monarchies are flying in for the elegant affair. Apparently, I’m a hot commodity now that I’m to inherit control of one of Europe’s most prosperous countries.

  Because nothing screams romance like a man who cares more about the crown sitting on your head than the thoughts occurring inside it.

  When I remarked on this potential partner flaw, Chloe just shrugged and told me there was no point squandering my good years being single and celibate, so I might as well enjoy the princess perks while they last. A fair point… though the thought of pursuing anything remotely romantic right now is a hard pill to swallow.

  Maybe I’d be more inclined to date if not for the slight complication who happens to reside in the suite directly beside mine and goes by the name of Carter. I shoot a glance toward our shared wall, sighing deeply.

  He hasn’t been here in days, from the sound of it — or, lack of sound, I should say. He also hasn’t spoken to me since our night in the garden. Not a word, even on the rare occasions we pass each other in the halls of the North Wing or find ourselves in the same room. It’s no accident, either. He’s actively avoiding my presence.

  Last week, while exploring the library — by far the coolest room in the entire castle, with soaring ceilings and so many books it would take two lifetimes to read them all — I came around a corner and found him sprawled in an elegant wingback chair, reading a copy of Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ by one of the roaring fireplaces. For a moment, I just stood there looking at him — the flickering light of the flames dancing on his face, the lock of dark hair falling over his furrowed brow, the elegant lines of his tall frame.

  I must’ve made some small sound — half gasp, half sigh — because he looked up and spotted me hovering there between the shelves, clutching a first edition of ‘Rebecca’ by Daphne Du Maurier tight against my chest. Without so much as a hello, he snapped his book shut, stood, and strode out of the library.

  He did not look back.

  That night, the pages of my book were blotchy with falling teardrops.

  I’m not completely naive: I did realize, after what happened between us, that things would be strained. But I thought with enough time, the ache inside me would fade; that I’d stop waking in the night, heart pounding from the fragmented images inside my dreams.

  My hands in his hair, his tongue in my mouth… My dress ripped to shreds, his hardness resting right between my thighs…

  When I’m awake, I can shut out the memories… but my unconscious mind follows no such practices of self-preservation. Each night is a fresh reminder, unearthing the passion I’m so desperate to bury.

  His touch haunts me. I long for it with a need that terrifi
es me, crave it like a junkie thoroughly addicted after just one fix, no matter how many times I tell myself to let him go.

  It never should’ve happened.

  And it never will again.

  That night in the garden, I was a certifiable mess — a fraying nerve of pain that needed an outlet. Carter became that outlet. He absorbed my damage like a steel drum containing a detonation. He traced my skin with his hands and soothed all my jagged edges. And I let him.

  Not just let him…

  Eagerly encouraged.

  Actively participated.

  I try not to let myself think too hard about the fact that his room has been empty for the past three days. That some other girl out there is probably actively participating with him at this exact moment.

  Whoever Carter Thorne spends his time with is none of my business.

  He is not mine.

  He will never be mine.

  With a sigh, I pick up the touch-screen tablet that controls all the settings in my suite, from lighting to housekeeping requests to thermostat to speaker volume. I adjust the temperature, bumping the heat up by a few degrees. There’s an undeniable chill in the air that hints at the coming winter. October is slipping away already, the ever-shortening days punctuated by breezy afternoons that kick up leaves into colorful vortexes. On warmer days, I sit out on my terrace watching them spin around the courtyard, but today I’m bundled in an ultra soft cashmere sweater with the doors and windows shut tight.

  I press another button and the strains of a familiar song begin to drift though my overhead speakers: Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Lorde. It’s become somewhat of a personal anthem, these past two weeks — bolstering me even in my darkest moments, when the castle walls start closing in around me.

  Welcome to your life, there’s no turning back…

  I close my textbook with a bang and stretch my arms overhead with a low groan. Four straight hours of psychopharmacology definitely warrants a study break. My eyes are tired, but it feels good to be focused on real lessons again. Learning something that actually matters instead of the proper curtsey height or the steps to some tedious waltz.

  Sorry Lady Morrell.

  She still drops by each day, putting her best efforts into making me a proper princess. I force a smile on my face and go through the motions, but I think we both know my heart is no longer in it. Any incentive I had to please Linus with my progress went away the minute I learned that he’d already sealed my fate. Stolen my future. Seized even the illusion of free will from my grasp without an ounce of remorse.

  It’s strange — you do not fully appreciate the freedom of choice until it is snatched away from you like breath from your lungs after a sharp fall. You take your future for granted as you do the presence of stars in the sky up above you each night. All those endless possibilities stretching out into infinity, each brighter than the last.

  But when the clouds pull in and the galaxies fade from the view of your faulty mortal eyes... you find yourself alone in the prison of your own darkness, inconsequentially trapped by a circumstance far beyond your own conception.

  A captive in moonless haze.

  A shackled girl in a shining crown.

  Recognizing the pessimistic spiral of my own thoughts, I force myself to leave my bedroom and seek out a distraction. Namely: Chloe. After an hour-long search that includes her private suite, the kitchens, the stables, the throne room, and the library, I finally locate her in the least likely location of all — inside the glass greenhouse at the center of the courtyard, sitting cross-legged on the slate floor amongst the many flowering pots, an electric yellow bong resting in her hands.

  “Yo,” she says when I walk in, her voice scratchy from smoke.

  I plunk myself down beside her. “What are you doing in the greenhouse? It took me forever to find you.”

  She shrugs. “No one ever comes out here — especially not Octavia. She’d never risk getting dirt on her perfect designer wardrobe.”

  I look pointedly at the Louboutin boots on Chloe’s feet, their cherry red soles on full display.

  “Yeah, I know. Pot, meet kettle.” She smirks. “But I don’t mind getting a little dirty. That’s the difference.”

  She takes a big hit from the bong before extending it my way.

  I shake my head. “Can’t. I have more studying to do later.”

  “You’ve spent the past two weeks with your head buried in those books.” She squints at me curiously. “Almost like you’re trying to avoid something.”

  “What!? No, I’m not.” My heart pumps harder. “I’m just trying to catch up on everything I’ve missed these past few weeks. Thankfully, my professors were very understanding when I contacted them about make-up assignments.”

  Chloe snorts. “Um, obviously. They’re not going to give a failing grade to their bloody Princess. You could probably blow off the rest of your semester and still graduate with honors.”

  “That’s not the point.” I sigh tiredly. “I actually like psychology. I like learning. I like reading case studies and going over treatment options. And if my diploma says magna cum laude, I want it there because I earned it. Fair and square, not because of some nepotistic obligation or backwards show of patriotism.”

  “Nerd.”

  “Yes. I am. Unapologetically.”

  “Not to be harsh, but I still don’t see why you’re bothering. You’ll be a bit busy running a country — I doubt you’ll find much occasion to use your degree. ” She pauses. “Unless it’s to confirm Octavia’s narcissistic personality disorder, but I’m not sure we really need a bonafide doctor’s diagnosis for that.”

  I laugh, but it’s unconvincing. I know Chloe is right: I’ll never practice psychology. I’ll never help anyone. I’ll never have any career at all, except the one that comes with a crown attached.

  I will become the tiara-wearing airhead I once mocked.

  “I guess part of me is just too stubborn to let it go, when I’m so close to finishing.” I sigh. “If I do… it feels like I’m conceding to Linus. Like he’s broken me completely.”

  She raises her bong in solidarity. “Stick it to the man, sister.”

  My laugh is genuine this time. “Plus, there’s the fact that without my studies, I’d be bored out of my skull. There’s not much else to do around here.”

  “That I will agree with. No amount of drugs can make this place more fun.”

  “At least you get to leave.”

  “With a full contingent of body guards,” she grumbles.

  “I’d take the whole damn King’s Guard if it meant a few hours outside this castle.”

  She bumps her shoulder into mine. “It won’t be this way forever. After the coronation, the press will simmer down. The story will fade from the headlines. And eventually, investigators will discover who started the fire, and these insane security protocols will ease up. You’ll be free to live a normal life. Well… as close to normal as life for a Lancaster ever gets.”

  I glance over my shoulder, toward the East Wing. Or… the eyesore that used to be the East Wing. It’s gone, now; reduced to a pile of blackened ash, the larger pieces of debris already cleared away by a work crew in the night.

  “What if they never find out who did it?” I whisper, throat tight.

  “They will. They have to.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the public demands justice for King Leopold and Queen Abigail. They would never stand for this kind of treachery going unpunished. Especially not with Henry’s life still hanging in the balance.”

  “Any word on his condition?”

  “No improvement.” She takes another bong hit. “I tried to visit him at the hospital yesterday, but they wouldn’t let me in.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s in a sterile room because of his burns.” She shakes her head. “The risk of infection is so high, the doctors say any exposure to outside germs could be fatal, at this point. He’s too weak to fight. I think we
all know… he’s fading more and more each day. It won’t be long, now.”

  “Dammit.” My heart lurches. “You know, it’s strange: he’s my cousin and I’ve never even met him. Now, he might be dying… and I’ll probably never get the chance.”

  “You’d like him. Everyone does.” She pauses for a long moment. “I actually bumped into Alden at the hospital. Just sitting in the waiting room, staring off into space. He looked like he’d been there all day.”

  “He and Henry were pretty close, right?”

  “Best friends. Damn near inseparable, especially after Henry and Ava’s engagement. He’s taking this really hard. Much harder than that selfish sister of his. She doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck about her fiancé dying.”

  “Then why the engagement?”

  She looks at me like I’m an utter idiot. “Ava Sterling would marry a limp-dicked old bullfrog for the chance to be queen someday.”

  “Ah.”

  I always forget most people actually want to be royal. To them, being one of the Lancasters is a dream to aspire to… not a nightmare to avoid at all costs.

  Chloe clears her throat. “Anyway, Alden actually asked me about you.”

  My brows go up. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Wanted to know how you were coping with all this craziness. I told him to swing by the castle and ask you himself.”

  “Chloe.”

  “What?” She smiles innocently.

  “Please don’t try to play matchmaker.”

  “I’m doing no such thing.”

  I stare at her doubtfully.

  “Honestly! My intentions are pure.” She grimaces. “He’s lonely and sad, you’re lonely and sad… This way you can be lonely and sad together.”

  “Uh huh. No other reasons?”

  “Nope.” Her lips twitch. “Though you must admit… the man isn’t exactly a chore to look at…”

  “Ugh! I knew this was a set up!”