Sordid Empire

by Julie Johnson

  He answers with a thrust of his hips, groaning as he drives inside me, the force of it nearly toppling the shelf at my back. More books tumble to the floor as he begins to move, a breakneck pace that matches the thunder of my heartbeat — so hard, so fast, so deep I think I might break in two beneath his hands.

  Clinging for dear life, I score my nails into his shoulders as he brings us both toward the breaking point, one stroke at a time.

  Yes.

  God.

  Yes.

  A throbbing pressure is building within me — an inescapable current, threatening to carry me away. My half-lidded eyes hold Carter’s, never breaking contact. His jaw is locked tight, every vein in his neck distended with desire as he fucks me harder than he ever has before.

  Like he knows it will be the last time.

  His breaths have grown labored, his pupils dilated with desire. I can see he’s close to coming; as close as I am. We are one being, one entity, moving in perfect sync.

  “You’re mine,” he growls through clenched teeth. “No matter who you marry, no matter what happens when you leave this room, no matter if we never see each other again.” He drives even deeper, each thrust underscoring his words. “You. Are. Mine.”

  My moan is a scream — of despair, of desire. Of pleasure and pain.

  “Say it.”

  “I’m yours,” I choke out breathlessly.

  “Forever.”

  “Forever.”

  With that, we both climax — his head buried in the crook of my neck as he spills into me, my face arching up to the ceiling as my mind blanks in a shower of sparks.

  My love.

  I am yours.

  Then.

  Now.

  Always.

  …even when I’m his.

  We make love twice more on the plush carpet in front of the fireplace — fast, furious, fully aware we are rapidly running out of time. I think we both know this is our last chance to be together; an unexpected parting gift we must commit to memory. I burn the details of our stolen moment into my mind like a brand, savoring every infinitesimal facet.

  The weight of him between my hips.

  The scratch of his stubble on my cheek.

  The brush of his lips on my neck.

  The callus of his fingertips on my skin.

  For one hour, we put aside all the things that make being together impossible. Our names, our roles, our pasts, our futures. Carter and Emilia cease to exist, as does the world outside this library. It’s as though we’ve stepped into some alternate dimension. A daydream.

  Unfortunately, even the sweetest dreams do not last long. We both know…

  It’s time to wake up, now.

  When the fire begins to die in the hearth, I stare at Carter in the low light of the glowing embers as my fingers trail absent paths across his bare chest. He gazes back at me, the pain of our impending goodbye already plain to see in his eyes.

  “Don’t say it,” I whisper. “Please.”

  “All right. I won’t.”

  But I hear it anyway — in the hitch of his breath, in the catch in his voice, in the throb of his pulse.

  Determined not to cry, I reach out and trace the profile of his face. Just once — from his hairline, down the proud incline of his nose, over his lips, across his chin, along his jawline.

  He is my favorite work of art.

  A masterpiece.

  I could stare at him for the rest of my life, if I were given the luxury.

  When I’m done, I force myself to pull back. Numbly, I climb to my feet, collect my discarded clothes, and pull them on. Carter doesn’t move from his spot on the carpet, but I feel the weight of his eyes on me, drinking in my every move as I prepare to walk out of his life again.

  For one last time.

  We are always leaving one another.

  Always bidding each other goodbye.

  Always ripping out our own hearts for just one more touch, one more kiss, one more moment.

  I manage to keep the tears at bay the entire time I’m dressing. Even when I take my last look at him; I don’t want his last memory of me to be tearstained and sobbing.

  Only when I turn my back to him and begin to walk away do my eyes begin to sting.

  “Emilia.”

  At the sound of my name, I stop walking but do not allow myself to look back.

  “I love you.”

  His words are a lance to the heart, spearing through me. I grab the shelf beside me for support, feeling suddenly weak. And I find, in the face of his confession, I am not strong enough after all; the tears leak out, spilling down my cheeks as I repeat the words back to him.

  “I love you, too.”

  Pain cuts through me like a knife. I run blindly for the door, though I know he isn’t chasing me. Not this time.

  We both know it’s finally over.

  Eyes a blur of tears, I hit the driveway and stumble toward the Maybach, where Chloe and Galizia are waiting. And as we leave Hightower behind, I feel as though I’ve left a part of my very self along with it.

  I suppose I got what I came for.

  Closure.

  So why does my heart still hurt so damn much?

  Chloe holds me the whole way home, petting my hair as I cry in her arms. She doesn’t ask what happened. She doesn’t need to. The grief of my broken sobs tells her plainly enough what transpired between me and her brother.

  It takes almost an hour to get back to the castle. By the time we arrive, darkness has fallen in full. I’m ready for bed; ready to put the tumultuous events of this day behind me.

  We turn onto the front drive, only to find the way blocked. I sit up when the Maybach jolts to a stop, eyes widening as I take in the sight. Hundreds of Germanians fill the street, standing vigil outside the castle gates.

  “What the hell?” I whisper.

  Galizia puts the car swiftly in reverse, but it’s too late. The crowd has already spotted us. A great cheer goes up, filling the air as they chant my name in unison.

  All hail Queen Emilia!

  All hail Queen Emilia!

  All hail Queen Emilia!

  Baffled, I look over at Chloe… only to find her staring down at her phone, scrolling through recent headlines with wide eyes.

  “What is it?”

  She glances back at me, her lips twisting in a wry smile. “The referendum.”

  My stomach flips. “Are the final votes in?”

  She nods.

  I’m too afraid to ask. I stare at her, waiting for the news to fall like the blade of a guillotine.

  “E…” Chloe grabs my hand. “It passed.”

  My world drops out from under me. I’m struggling to process what I’m hearing. “It passed? You mean… we actually won?””

  Chloe is beaming. “We won. We freaking won!”

  “We won,” I echo, hardly believing the words.

  “From this day onward, Germanian women are eligible to run for Parliament. For Prime Minister.” Chloe pumps her fist in victory. “Suck on that, House of Lords! Your domain is about to get a long-overdue estrogen infusion!”

  Outside, in the distance, the cheers chase us down the driveway as Galizia maneuvers the Maybach to the private back gate.

  All hail Queen Emilia!

  All hail Queen Emilia!

  It is surreal, hearing them chant my title.

  “E…” Chloe whispers, squeezing my hand harder. “You did this. Do you hear me?” She looks to the window, where the crowd is growing smaller in the distance. “Do you hear them?”

  All hail Queen Emilia!

  All hail Queen Emilia!

  “I hear them,” I murmur.

  “They’re saying the vote passed in a landslide. It wasn’t even close. The opposition was blown right out of the water.”

  I shrug. “I guess Simms was right — you can’t always predict what people are going to do when they get inside a voting booth.”

  “Lancaster Lioness Roars Her Way To Parliamentary Refor
m,” Chloe reads from her cellphone screen, scrolling headlines rapidly. “Emilia the Liberator: How Germania’s Young Queen is Shaping A Feminist Future.” Chloe glances at me. “Dude. You are officially such a badass. ”

  Despite my tear-swollen eyes and kiss-swollen mouth, despite the ache of loss radiating from the left side of my chest… I feel my face break into an irrepressible smile.

  We won.

  We actually won.

  Even if I accomplish nothing else during my reign… Even if Ludwig forces me off my throne… Even if I’ve had to sacrifice everything to get here… My family, my future, my love…

  I did this.

  I did this.

  And I’m damn proud.

  The chants are growing fainter as we speed toward the back gate, but I can still hear them.

  All hail Queen Emilia!

  All hail Queen Emilia!

  For the first time, it doesn’t feel like a mistake — an honor given to me by accident or a mantle thrust upon me without consent. It feels like something I’m starting to earn, in my own right. A merit I am beginning to deserve.

  Chapter Sixteen

  OFFICIAL PRESS RELEASE

  WATERFORD PALACE

  * * *

  On this day, the Fifteenth of April in the Year of Our Lord Two-Thousand and Twenty

  * * *

  HER ROYAL MAJESTY EMILIA VICTORIA LANCASTER OF GERMANIA AND LORD ALDEN NOTTINGHAM STERLING OF WESTGATE ARE ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED

  * * *

  Her Royal Highness the Reigning Queen of Germania is delighted to announce her engagement to the honorable Alden Sterling, heir to Westgate.

  Their forthcoming union was officially made public this afternoon, at an intimate engagement party at Waterford Palace. Attendees included Germania’s ranking aristocrats, family members, and friends close to the royal couple.

  The wedding ceremony will take place this August at Windsor Abbey in Vasgaard, with a formal ball to follow at Waterford Palace.

  I stare down at the press release, feeling curiously numb. Sliding the paper back to Simms across the gleaming wood of the conference room table, I rise to my feet in a fluid movement. The pale blue skirt of my engagement dress swishes around my knees.

  “It’s suitable. You can send it out.”

  Simms clears his throat. “Your Majesty…”

  “Yes?”

  He blinks at me, his double chin quivering with each short breath. “It’s just…”

  I sigh impatiently. “What is it, Simms? Guests will be arriving shortly for the engagement announcement. I need to go greet them with Alden in the Great Hall.”

  “I know, My Queen. My sincerest apologies. It’s only…”

  “Simms. Spit it out, already.”

  “Are you quite certain you want to go through with this? With the announcement? And… with the engagement?”

  I press my eyes closed. I can’t believe what I’m hearing — from Simms, of all people.

  “A little late for cold feet, isn’t it?” I ask wryly, waving my left hand at him. The massive sapphire engagement ring sitting on my fourth finger glitters in the early morning light. It’s quite heavy — its physical heft a perfect match for the weight I feel inside my heart whenever I allow myself to dwell on the upcoming wedding.

  “Perhaps it isn’t my place to say anything, but I feel it is my duty as your advisor to let you know it’s not too late to change your mind about this match, Your Majesty.”

  “Change my mind?” A scoff of utter disbelief pops from my mouth. “Aren’t you the one who’s been pushing me into this for the past few weeks?”

  “Well, yes—”

  “Aren’t you the one who briefs me daily on the delightful Ludwig von Strauss and his ever-growing band of supporters? You know, the ones calling for me to abdicate my throne — quite loudly, I might add?”

  “Yes, I suppose I have done so, but—”

  “And aren’t you the one who has repeatedly assured me that, despite my canonized status amongst the common people as Emilia the Liberator, there are still plenty of members of the nobility plotting against me at this very moment? None so much as my former stepmother and prospective in-laws?”

  Simms clasps his hands together. “Your Majesty, I do realize I have been the foremost champion of this union. But, over the past few weeks, I would be remiss if I said I have not noticed a marked change in your demeanor…” His eyes avoid mine, examining the tabletop with determination. “You have been withdrawn. Quiet. Pale. Quite unlike your normal self. Lady Morrell has remarked on it, as has your sister. Even your guards have expressed concern.”

  “What is it you want from me?” I ask tiredly. “Should I be skipping down the halls, whistling a merry tune? Perhaps doing cartwheels? Jumping for joy at the prospect of a loveless marriage to a man whose entire family loathes me?”

  “No, that’s not—”

  “Should I do what the nobility so clearly wants? Abdicate my crown? Allow Octavia Thorne to run the throne by proxy?” A sarcastic edge stains my words. “Surely, that will lead Germania to time of peace, prosperity, and equality.”

  “No, Your Majesty, that’s not what anyone wants. You are our true sovereign. To remove you from the throne would be to remove the beating heart from our country.”

  “Then why question the engagement? Why sabotage our well-planned political strategy at the last moment?”

  Simms swallows nervously, looking a bit flushed. “I apologize if I have overstepped. I merely thought someone should say something or… Or give you the opportunity, at the very least, to change your mind.”

  “I’m not sure whether that’s condescending or comforting, but I appreciate the sentiment, Simms.”

  “Your Majesty… I do support your marriage to Alden Sterling. I believe it is the right move for you — politically, fiscally, and socially. I did not intend to cast doubt on this alliance; merely to shed light on its finality.”

  “For once in your life, just speak plainly, Simms.”

  “Very well.” His worried gaze finds mine. “Once this press release goes out, there will be no taking it back. There can be no breaking a royal engagement. To do so would destroy your public image. So… you must be certain, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this is what you want.”

  I stare at him for a long beat. Weighing his words. Allowing their mass to solidify and settle inside my heart, adding to the burden that’s been building there for the past two weeks, since the day the referendum passed. Since the day Ludwig crept from the shadows and started his campaign against me, with Octavia pulling his puppet strings from behind the scenes. Since the day I left Hightower — and my dreams for a different future with a different man — behind.

  For good.

  You must be certain.

  Beyond a shadow of a doubt.

  This is what you want.

  “Simms.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “Send out the press release.”

  Without another word, I leave the room.

  I have a fiancé to track down. Guests to greet. An engagement to announce. And no time to look back at all the things that might’ve been.

  “Your Majesty, Lord Sterling — warmest wishes to you both for your coming marriage.”

  “Thank you,” Alden says, shaking the hand of a pompous man whose title I can’t for the life of me remember. “We so appreciate your support.”

  I smile stiffly as the man bows and finally moves along, already bracing for the next well-wisher.

  We’ve been greeting people for nearly three hours — a never-ending parade of nobility who’ve come to the castle to pay their respects at our engagement announcement. A fleet of official palace photographers click their shutters as we stand on the dais, our feet slowly going numb as hundreds of Germanians murmur congratulations and express their happiness.

  A royal wedding, how exciting!

  And soon after… a royal baby!

  I lock my knees to keep upright and bea
m like it’s the happiest day of my life. Periodically, Alden glances over at me with concern, seeming to sense my unease, but he says nothing. He is too busy greeting his future subjects to question the mental state of his future wife.

  Wife.

  What an odd word.

  I can’t say I ever thought I’d be married at twenty-one. Then again, I never thought I’d be a queen at twenty-one. Or an orphan at twenty-one. Or, according to Chloe, the most-followed social media user in the entire free world at twenty-one.

  Life takes strange turns; all you can do is hold on tight and hope not to crash. To cope with your circumstances the best way possible.

  For me, that means what it has for so many royals who’ve come before: a strategic alliance, forged through the bonds of an arranged marriage.

  I look over at my husband-to-be — his chiseled, almost delicate features. His trim waist. His clean-shaven jawline.

  He looks dashing in his custom-tailored suit. His tie is pale blue, a perfect match for my dress. His platinum locks are parted with extra care, not a strand out of place. He looks every inch the future royal.

  The future king.

  Sensing my gaze, he glances at me with a soft smile. It’s the same look he wore when we finalized our marriage agreement one week ago, under the careful supervision of Simms, Lady Morrell, and two legal advisors.

  Calm.

  Comforting.

  Composed.

  “How are you holding up over there, my dear?”

  I shrug. “As well as can be expected.”

  He takes one of my hands in his, his skin soft and warm. I hear camera shutters click as he interlaces our fingers.

  How tender.

  How sweet.

  How authentic.

  “Only another hour or so,” he assures me in a low voice. “Then it will be over. For today, at least.”

  I sigh.

  We both know it will never be over. For the rest of our lives, this will be our reality. Posing for the press. Shaking hands. Smiling wide.

  The perfect royal couple.

  I extract my hand from Alden’s as another couple steps up onto the platform to congratulate us, a greeting poised on my lips.