How much must he hate me, to force me to cry on his beautifully sculpted chest? Am I to have no shreds of pride left intact? No matter how much I want to pull away, I can’t. Not for a long time. My tears mix with the blood stains on my face, my neck, and my shirt, and stain the collar of his polo. The image of my blood, or my twin’s, dripping down onto his shirt because of my tears pulls me out of my temporary despair. I fist my hands in the fabric of his shirt and drag in deep breaths.
I finally stop crying and wipe my face.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say.
Roman’s face shutters. “I protect and serve, now and always.”
He has always been my most devoted guard. I shouldn’t be so hard on him. “I know today was embarrassing for you,” I say. “I’m sorry for that, and for breaking down in front of you just now.”
Roman leaps to his feet. “You were real out there, Judica, for three seconds. You let your guard down. You looked at Chancery like a person, you eased up. I thought maybe—”
I was real? I want to shred something. “I eased up?”
“Yes, you could have killed her, more than once, but you didn’t. You let her win out there. I thought. . .” Roman spins around and stares at the wall, hands clenched, back muscles straining.
“You thought I had, what? Completely changed in every single way?” I stand up. “And that made you hopeful. Does everyone despise me that much?” But I want to ask whether he despises me that much. I know Edam does, but Roman has been my closest friend for a decade. If he hates me, too, I don’t know what that even means.
“You know I don’t despise you,” Roman says. But he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t meet my eye.
“Are you disappointed?” I ask. “That you’re head of the guard for the Heir, still?”
Roman flips around to face me so quickly that I stumble back, bumping into the bed and nearly sitting back down. “Nothing about you ever disappoints me. How can you not know that?”
I lift one eyebrow. “I know you support me. You always have, and I appreciate it. I don’t tell you that often enough.”
“You’ve literally never told me that.”
I lift my chin. “Well, I’m telling you now. Thank you for always being there for me.”
“I don’t want to be here as your guard.” Roman makes a choking sound.
My heart skips a beat. “You’re quitting? Why? Because I lost?” He just said he’ll always support me.
He shakes his head, his jaw working. “You’re probably the most gifted strategist I’ve ever met. Half the time I don’t even understand what you’re saying until I’ve spent some time analyzing it. You’re three steps ahead of everyone else, and you show no mercy. How can you be so obtuse about this?”
“About what?”
“I’m in love with you, Judica. I’ve loved you for years and years. I’m not quitting. I’ll never quit, but it’s time you know, because I’m sick of watching you flirting with Edam, or Havel, or Xander or anyone else.”
I knew Roman wanted to be my Consort. I knew he wanted to rule. Of course he did. They all do. I even knew he respected me, and he’s always been unfailingly loyal. But no one loves me, not really. I’m cruel, merciless, and intense. Edam fled the second he saw an opening.
I don’t even blame him.
No one wants to kiss a copperhead. No one dreams of snuggling up next to a tiger.
“You have nothing to say?” Roman asks.
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
“I expected that, but it still hurts more than I thought it would.” He swallows and nods at me. “Well, don’t let me keep you any longer, your highness. I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
I walk to my bathroom after he closes the door like a robot. I toss my bloody rags into a pile and shower all the blood and gore away, watching the red water circle the drain and then disappear. I wish sometimes that my doubt, my anger, and my sorrow could be washed away so easily.
Every time I close my eyes, Roman’s face swims in front of mine. His golden eyes sad, his heart in his face, plain to read.
I’m lying to myself. I’ve known Roman was in love with me for a very long time. And maybe for a while I thought. . . Maybe. . . But he’s never been a real option. Not for me.
Because I’m a better strategist. I’m a better fighter. I destroy him in linguistics. He doesn’t bring enough to the table to be my Consort, and he never will. Thinking about it makes it hard to breathe, but it doesn’t change the facts, not in the slightest.
I wipe away another round of unwelcome tears and dress quickly. I can’t cower in my room. I’m not sure what I should be doing, but something. Anything but hiding.
A tap at the door sends my heart hammering up to my throat. I breathe in and out once, then twice. I can’t let him know that his declaration had any impact on me at all. Once I’m in control again, I say, “Come in.”
When Angel steps through the doorway with a tray, I’m strangely deflated. I didn’t want to see Roman. I can never be with him, and now that he said what he said, well, some space is a good idea. Even so, I’m not so deluded I can’t admit to myself that I’m disappointed.
I wanted to see him again. I want to see him all the time.
“I’m assuming you’re starving, Your Highness,” Angel says.
She doesn’t typically bring food herself. “You’re a delivery girl now?”
Angel ducks her head. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. After today, but really, after the last week and a half.”
Things have been strange between Angel and I since her release, but I had to know whether she killed Mother. I doubt she’ll ever forgive me for my threats or how hard I pressed, but she understands. If anyone understands, it’s her. I don’t regret any of it, though. I never regret the awful things I do to protect the family. Alamecha is what really matters, and it’s more than one person.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You need to eat. With all that regeneration your body has done, you must be famished.”
I can’t quite stop myself from frowning. She’s basically shoving my face in how many hits Chancery landed on me, but I think she means well. And the smell coming from the tray she brought is heavenly. Angel was chef for the most powerful person on earth for centuries for a reason. The lady can cook.
“Tikka Masala, naan, watermelon, and a brown butter raspberry tart,” I say. “All my favorite foods. What did I do to deserve this?”
Angel sets the tray down on my desk. “You’ve been dear to me since you were born.” Her eyes soften. “And your mother.” She shakes her head. “I wanted to show you that I harbor no ill feelings toward you for suspecting me, but I would never have harmed a hair on your mother’s head. I’ve lived to serve Alamecha my entire life, and your mother was the embodiment of the family. You’re her miniature, you know.”
I do. “Thank you.”
“She would be very proud of your actions today, and those of Chancery. She loved you both, and you made a hard decision, but I believe it was the right one.”
My nostrils flare, but I manage to hold my heart rate steady and show no other expression on my face. “I appreciate your support.” Now get out of my room.
When she leaves, I don’t slam the door. I’m actually relieved to have successfully navigated the first of the gloating well wishers. She won’t be the last. Chancery really might be more diabolical than I give her credit for. She’s punished me far more effectively with this ‘spare my life’ nonsense than killing me ever would have.
I sink into my desk chair and breathe in the aromas I love most. I remember the first time Mother served Tikka Masala, warm and savory, with a tangy aftertaste of yogurt. I absolutely will not cry twice in one day. I shovel in a large bite of food to stave off the crying jag threatening to rip through me. The flavors burst over my tongue, triggering memories of dinner with Mother I didn’t even realize I’d been blocking.
I’m still furious that she left
me.
I inhale the food until all that’s left is the brown butter tart. The crust is a combination of chewy and crunchy that I’ve tried several times to recreate without success. It’s still warm enough that when I dump the vanilla gelato over the top, it begins to melt. The combination is so amazing that I don’t taste the difference until my last bite.
There’s a faintly metallic aftertaste.
I try to leap to my feet, but my body isn’t working right. My arms feel heavy, so heavy. My eyes won’t focus. “Roman,” I try to yell. The word emerges as more of a croak than a shout. I wrap thick fingers around the edge of the table and force myself upright.
But then my traitorous knees buckle and I collapse on the floor. My eyes won’t focus on anything, and all I can see is the tufts of my rug. I wonder if the floor in front of her is the last thing Mother saw, too. A pang of fear for Chancery surprises me, but if someone has taken out both me and Mother, she’s next.
As the world goes black, I think of Mother’s face. Wherever we go after we die, I hope Mother’s there, waiting for me. I close my dry, achy eyes, ready to find out.
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Acknowledgments
I would be remiss if I didn’t thank my agent. We parted paths, but she helped me to clean up the mess that was the rough draft of this story. And the many editors who rejected it merely firmed my resolve.
Even the publishing houses who almost bought it helped strengthen my story.
But the biggest thank you must be split, as always, between an amazing mother and a superlative spouse. Those two behemoths of support cannot ever be thanked enough. Truly, from the bottom of my heart.
My editor, Peter, is amazing. My cover artist, Christian, has outdone himself. And Alyssa (Plehn) Packard! Your face would launch a thousand ships, and I hope it launches this book into the stratosphere. Thanks for sharing it.
And Linsey, my AMAZING photographer. THANK YOU. To Esther, for being the consummate cheerleader, many thanks. And to my children for being so patient while I stared at a computer screen, I am so appreciative.
But my final thank you is for my readers. You guys are the REASON I keep writing. Your reviews, your comments, your notes to me, your recommendations to others, they make this entire thing worth it. They keep me going when my confidence or my energy are flagging. THANK YOU. Now and forever, thank you.
About the Author
Bridget loves her husband (every day) and all five of her kids (most days). She’s a lawyer, but does as little legal work as possible. She has two goofy horses and spends too much time riding and not enough time writing. She makes cookies waaaaay too often and believes they should be their own food group. In a (possibly misguided) attempt at balancing the scales, she kickboxes daily.
So if you don’t like her books, her kids, or her cookies, maybe don’t tell her in person.
Also by Bridget E. Baker
My (debut) YA Post Apocalyptic Series:
Marked: Sins of Our Ancestors Book One
Suppressed: Sins of Our Ancestors Book Two
Redeemed: Sins of Our Ancestors Book Three
The first four in my Almost a Billionaire (clean) romance series:
Finding Faith: Almost a Billionaire Book One
Finding Cupid: Almost a Billionaire Book Two
Finding Spring: Almost a Billionaire Book Three
Finding Liberty: Almost a Billionaire Book Four
My (stand alone) YA romantic suspense:
Already Gone
Yes, you caught me. I overuse parentheses. (Whoops.)
Displaced (The Birthright Series Book 1) Page 43