Another sob rattles in my throat. “What do you want me to do, Carter? How can I make this right? Please enlighten me, because I’m at a loss. Give me the solution. Do you have one? Or are you too busy blaming me for this whole fucked up scenario to actually consider where I’m coming from?”
We’re both glaring, now, our gazes tangled together in a firestorm of rage and hate and love and lust and need and resentment and longing and pain. A molten-hot medley that’s liable to incinerate us both on this bitterly cold night.
“Tell me what to say, and I’ll say it,” I whimper, my voice a pathetic shell of itself. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
“Then answer one question. Honestly.”
I nod, unable to speak.
He takes a half-step closer, but is careful not to touch me. His eyes, though — I feel them everywhere, on every part of me.
“Do you want to be with me, Emilia?”
“It’s not that simple and you know it…”
“It is, though. Do you want to be with me? Yes or no? If it’s yes… we’ll figure it out. We’ll find a way through. Together.”
The words are there, on the tip of my tongue, blocking my airway.
Do I want to be with you?
Of course I want to be with you. You’re all I think about, you’re all I hope for in this life. You occupy my heart and my mind like no one else.
Do I want to be with you?
You ask that question like it is, somehow, a question at all. As though we are not already intrinsically linked, irrevocably tied together in my soul. Not question, but fact.
Do I want to be with you?
Does the sea want to break upon the shore? Do the mountains want to brush against the sky?
I could no more easily separate my heart from yours than I could divide the very earth into halves, flung in opposite directions across the universe.
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” I say instead, feeling hollow.
“Of course it fucking matters!” he roars, looking like he wants to shake me senseless. “It matters more than anything, Emilia. And if you want to be with me… if there’s any way for us to be together… I will find it. Even if it destroys me, I will find it.”
That’s the exact problem, though. Isn’t it?
Love isn’t supposed to destroy you.
If it does… How can it be love?
He stands there, waiting for my answer.
I stand there, breaking — breaking into pieces. Being torn to shreds by conflicting desires. They tear at me with razor-sharp claws, and I cannot even lift my hands to defend myself.
“You said you’d give me an answer.” His eyes are ruthless, holding mine without reprieve. “Tell me the damn truth, Emilia. Tell me you want to fight for us. Otherwise… I’m walking away.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe him so desperately, I’m almost able to overlook reality for a moment. Almost able to convince myself that our being together will end in anything but heartbreak and misery for the both of us.
Almost.
The truth is, we are strapped to a rollercoaster on a predetermined track. There is no diverting our course, no changing our destination. The only option that might spare us the wreckage of that ride is getting off altogether and going our separate ways.
Perhaps, if I didn’t care about him so much, I wouldn’t care about the endgame. I’d take the ride and let it wreck me, just to experience that momentary thrill of being with him. I’d hurt myself a million times over, for a chance to stay by his side for a little while.
But I refuse to bring Carter down with me.
Across the narrow space remaining between us, I look at him.
Really look at him.
Beneath the arrogant exterior, beneath the cocky asshole he shows the world… Carter Thorne possesses a heart capable of deep love. He doesn’t let anyone see it. Hell, he may not even realize himself, yet. But I can see it, clear as day. Just as I can see how much pain this is causing him already. How much pain I’m causing him.
We can’t keep going round and round in circles. Hating each other one minute, devouring each other the next. I cannot fall back into his arms and give him my body while withholding everything else. Not now that there are real feelings involved. Not when we are predestined to fail.
It’s cruel — not just to his heart, but to mine as well. And I won’t do it anymore. I care about him too much. I care about him enough to cut him off completely.
His words linger in the air like a specter.
Do you want to be with me?
Closing my eyes so I don’t have to see the look on his face, I make my voice as steady as possible before I say the words I know I’ll never be able to take back.
“No, Carter. I don’t want to be with you. I don’t want to fight for us. I don’t think we’re worth fighting for.”
Turning my back on him, I walk off the turret and disappear into the dark stairwell before he can see the tears welling in my eyes. I nearly break my neck descending down the uneven spiral steps to the castle in pitch blackness, but I don’t stop.
Who gives a shit about a few broken bones when the heart inside your chest has shattered into irreparable pieces?
Chapter Twelve
“Are you okay?” Chloe asks me for the fifth time.
I rub my temples. “I’d be better if you’d stop asking me that.”
“I’m only asking because you look like… well, you look like shit warmed over, if I’m being honest. And I figure you want me to be honest today of all days, since you’re about to go on a very public date with the entire country watching your every move in about an hour.”
“Thanks. That’s really helpful, Chloe.”
“I do what I can.”
I want to tell her there’s a good reason for my dreadful appearance. I want to confide in her that the puffy, tear-swollen eyes and black circles are fully justified. I want to point out that she’s lucky I was able to drag myself out of bed at all, after the night I had — which consisted of more sobbing into my pillow than actual sleep.
But, obviously, I can’t do that. Not without telling her who I was sobbing over.
Don’t think about him, I tell myself sternly. Otherwise, you’ll cry again, and she’ll know for sure something is wrong.
Chloe grabs the zippered garment bag off my bed. “Is this what Lady Morose sent over for you to wear?”
“You mean Morrell.”
“Do I, though?” She grins. “Let’s see the goods…”
With a deft tug, she unzips the bag and exposes the long, black turtleneck dress.
“Ahhhh! My eyes!” Chloe dramatically hurls the frock into a corner, then falls to her knees, pressing her palms over her face. “Kill it! Kill it with fire!”
I snort. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of wearing that.”
“Good, because it’s so boxy you could fit three Emilia’s inside and still have room for desert.” Chloe rolls her eyes. “I thought Lady Morose wanted a royal wedding? Doesn’t she know the best way to ensnare an eligible Germanian bachelor is with a tasteful yet sensual amount of side-boob?”
“I wasn’t aware side-boob could be tasteful.”
“Did I say tasteful?” Her head tilts in contemplation. “Maybe I meant trashy… Either way, the effect on men is the same.”
I push to my feet and head for my expansive walk-in closet. “Come on. I need you to help me pick out something to wear. Preferably with a neckline somewhere between the buttoned-up turtleneck and scandalous side-boob extremes which have been presented thus far.”
Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock on my door — Galizia coming to collect me for my date, no doubt.
“Come in!” I call, giving myself one final glance in the mirror. The combo of a tailored white blazer and black fitted slacks appears classic, but the heeled over-the-knee suede boots and plentiful silver jewelry Chloe’s accessorized me with keeps the outfit from looking too stodgy.
&n
bsp; “Just the right amount of cleavage,” my stepsister concurs, staring at my boobs in an evaluative manner. “Right Gali— Oh! You aren’t Galizia.”
I turn to see what she means and feel my eyes widen a shade. There’s a guard standing in my doorway, but he is most definitely not Galizia. Tall and muscular, he’s got a thick head of chestnut brown hair and gunmetal grey eyes. I’ve seen him on duty around the castle once or twice, but we’ve never spoken.
“Um. Hi,” I say rather dumbly. “Who are you and why are you in my room?”
Spine snapping straight, he salutes me formally. “First Lieutenant Emmett Riggs, Your Highness.”
Chloe whistles wolfishly.
“At ease, soldier,” I say, ignoring her antics. “Is there something I can I help you with?”
“I’m actually hoping I can help you, Princess.”
My brows lift. “Oh?”
He nods. His grey eyes are steady on mine. “I’m wondering, if you’re still looking for willing candidates, you’ll consider taking me on full-time.”
My brows lift even higher. Whatever I was expecting him to say… it was not that.
“For your Princess Guard,” he clarifies.
“Yes, we figured she wouldn’t be taking you on as a full-time sex slave,” Chloe drawls.
“Chloe!” I scold, but Riggs is grinning.
“So… is that a yes?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Did Bane put you up to this?”
He looks genuinely offended by the question. I can tell from the way his lip curls when I mention the commander’s name that he’s most definitely not a fan of the man.
“No, Your Highness. I came here on my own. I should’ve come before, when you first asked for help. Honestly, I’ve been kicking myself since that day.”
“Why?”
He looks confused. “Why what?”
“Why do you want to leave the King’s Guard and work for me? Don’t you see it as a demotion, of sorts?”
“Just the opposite.” He shrugs lightly. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Of course.”
“Seems to me, sooner or later, this Princess Guard is going to become the Queen’s Guard. Which means, if I wait long enough… I’ve just bought myself a free promotion. Pretty smart, if I do say so myself.”
I can’t help smiling at his logic. He’s not exactly wrong. Plus, there’s something extremely likable about him. A relaxed energy that puts me instantly at ease. He reminds me a bit of Owen, actually.
My smile falters at the thought.
Owen.
Every time my best friend crosses my mind, I’m hit with a wave of acute pain, straight to the heart. I haven’t spoken to him in weeks — not since he called to warn me about a possible threat at my coronation.
And how very right he turned out to be…
I’m starting to worry about him. All the calls I’ve placed to his old number have gone unanswered. His royal pardon is sitting uselessly in my desk drawer, mocking me.
What was the point of going head to head with Octavia to get him a pardon if he can’t even be bothered to use the damn thing?
Then again, if he keeps up his recent extracurricular activities with the anti-Lancaster faction… he may truly need it, eventually. I remind myself over and over that he hasn’t actually become an anti-monarchist… that he only joined their ranks to find information about any nefarious plans… that he’s only doing this to protect me… but knowing something and believing it are different beasts. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get the image of him in that black bandana out of my head.
Death to the monarchy!
Chloe clears her throat, bringing me back to the present. I refocus on Riggs.
“I’ll have to make sure it’s all right with Galizia first,” I tell him flatly. “But assuming she’s okay working with you, I’ll give you a shot. On a provisional basis.”
“Oh.” He winces. “That might pose a problem.”
“Why?” I ask, confused. “Does Galizia have a problem with you?”
“Not exactly.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Elaborate.”
A quick, almost bashful grin spreads across his face. “See, the thing about Galizia is… She’s in love with me. Madly, deeply, head-over-heels in love.”
Chloe and I glance at each other, skeptical. Picturing my stoic bodyguard head-over-heels for anyone is, frankly, rather hard to fathom.
“And… is Galizia aware of this fact?” I ask.
“Not yet.” Riggs sounds unconcerned by this. “But she will be. Eventually. If she ever notices I’m alive.”
Chloe snorts. “Yeah. Good luck with that, dude.”
As if she’s heard us calling her name, Galizia chooses this exact moment to walk into my chambers. Her light blue eyes go wide as saucers when she spots Riggs.
“Emmett!” she gasps, a blush staining her cheeks. “I mean Riggs. Lieutenant Riggs. Err… First Lieutenant. Sir.” Her blush intensifies and she offers a quick salute, since he’s technically her superior.
Plot twist… Riggs might actually be onto something, here…
Chloe and I trade another glance. She looks like she’s swallowing a laugh; personally, I’m so shocked to see Galizia flustered to the point that she’s tripping over her words, I can barely keep my jaw off the floor.
Galizia and Riggs continue to stare at each other — her, tense and rigid; him, fully relaxed and grinning. Looking at the two of them together, it’s clear there are feelings on both sides of this equation. It now makes perfect sense that Riggs is so willing to join my private security detail… and his motives have nothing to do with serving the crown or advancing his career.
“What are you doing here?” Galizia asks him point blank.
He opens his mouth to answer, but I beat him to it.
“I just hired him,” I blurt, trying not to smile. “He’ll be the second member of my official Princess Guard. Isn’t that great?”
“What?!” Galizia hisses. “Your Highness that’s— I don’t think— why would you—” She clamps her lips together, sucks a deep breath through her nose, and composes herself. “If you feel that’s best, I will support your decision, Princess.”
“See, Your Highness?” Riggs says cheerfully. “She’s totally fine with it. One big happy family.”
Galizia shoots eye-daggers at him.
Chloe giggles. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun.”
Laughing for the first time all day, I can’t help but agree.
An hour later, all traces of laughter are long gone.
I’m bored out of my ever-loving mind.
Sir Edgar Klingerton, the esteemed earl from Lund who Simms and Lady Morrell thought might steal my heart, is moderately tall, generically handsome, and…
That’s it.
That’s where his good qualities stop.
It’s not that he’s mean-spirited or bad-tempered. He’s simply… excruciatingly dull. In all honesty, I’ve had more fulfilling conversations at the dentist office during an exam, with a mouthful of metal tools compressing my tongue.
So far, we’ve discussed the weather — mild for late November! — our favorite rugby teams — mortal enemies on and off the field — and our favorite brand of cookie — Moxie’s for both of us. We’ve walked along the embankment at an intimate yet appropriate distance, just as Lady Morrell advised. We even stopped for a photo op at a particularly idyllic bend in the river, where we fed some bread to a family of ducks and smiled wide enough to convince the cameras that we’re hitting it off splendidly.
When my heels sink into the mud at one point, Edgar is a perfect gentleman — offering his hand to help me up the grassy embankment, back onto the boardwalk. I smile at all the right times and say all the right things. I bid him goodbye with a warm smile and promises to contact him again in the future.
It’s not until I’m back in the limo, safe behind the tinted glass, heading back to the palace, that I allow the fake smile to
drop off my face and the heavy tears to pour down my cheeks.
I’ve just gotten the first glimpse of my future.
And it looks decidedly bleak.
The next week passes in a blur of press engagements and highly publicized dates.
I attend a charity fundraiser on the arm of the utterly forgettably Baron of Zareb, whose hobbies include chess matches and running marathons. It is not a love connection, to say the least.
I spend a snowy morning reading books to children at a local pre-school. I sip tea with the dull-as-dirt Prime Minister’s wife at her solarium in Frenberg. I tour our Museum of Natural History with a group of visiting foreign dignitaries — before kicking off my stilettos to race through the dinosaur exhibit with their children. (Which, for the record, is the most entertaining moment of my entire week.)
Naturally, the press has a field day.
BAREFOOT HEIR! PRINCESS EMILIA DITCHES DESIGNER HEELS AT DIPLOMAT SUMMIT
I thought Simms was going to have a coronary when he saw that particular headline plastered above a picture of me racing around like a lunatic, a fleet of seven-year-olds hot on my heels. That is, until he gauged the reaction from the public.
It seems the so-called commoners don’t share in his disapproval of my heathen-like behavior. In fact… they kind of love it. Every day, when I step out of the Rolls Royce limo on yet another royal errand, the waiting crowd is a little larger. And a lot louder.
I used to smile cautiously and stroll past them without stopping, uncomfortable being the center of so much attention. But it’s gotten easier with time and practice.
Today, as I exit the Rosebud Learning Center, the small charity where I’ve spent the morning chatting with teachers and support staff about their newly awarded royal grant, I pause to greet those gathered along the sidewalk.
Look! It’s Emilia!
Oh my god, it’s her!
Princess Emilia! Over here!
Torrid Throne Page 12