Off-Limits Box Set

by Ella James

  I hear him chuckle. “Maybe. Men have been avenging beautiful women for millennia.”

  I can’t find anything to say to that. My throat is tight and full. I rub my lips together.

  “Let me know if you need anything, Lucy. I can be there in eight hours. I can have you here in that same time.”

  My stomach flutters at his words, at the sincerity behind them. It makes me feel unmasked. Exposed somehow.

  “You don’t need to feel responsible for this.” I chew my lip and squeeze my eyes shut.

  “I’m glad I did what I did. It’s mine to be responsible for.”

  Again, I don’t know how to feel or what to think. The way he acts—like he’s…invested. Like he cares. It’s hard for me to comprehend. It’s overwhelming. Nice. But it makes me want to keep my distance.

  Silence fills the line.

  “Lucy?” he murmurs.

  “Yeah?”

  “Would you like to come to Gael?”

  “Why?” I choke.

  “Why not?”

  My eyes shut. “It’s across the ocean?”

  Compared to my high, shaky voice, his sounds extra low when he asks, “Are you afraid of flying?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Are you afraid of me?” I think I hear a smile in his voice.

  “Maybe.” I flip my hair off my hot neck. “I think your harem is full enough without another woman.”

  “There’s no one here but me.” There’s something strange about the way he says it. So I almost believe him. Then I imagine him with that girl atop him in the Instagram photo, rubbing his shoulders while she rocks herself against him.

  He’s nice—yes. He’s charming. Swoony, even. But he’s Prince Liam. He’s a playboy.

  “Thank you, Liam. I’m okay here, though.” For now at least. Someday soon, I’ll have to tell him my secret. But not now.

  “The offer stands. Escape and entertainment.”

  “Thank you.” My gut clenches.

  “Goodnight, Lucy.”

  “Goodnight, Liam.”

  Nine

  Liam

  The Kingdom of Gael is 4,700 square miles: a little smaller than Northern Ireland or the state of Indiana. Several million years ago, its west coast was connected to the east coast of Scotland, fitting like a puzzle piece into Linne Foirthe, the inlet of the North Sea that kisses Edinburgh.

  Lots of underwater earthquakes later, the ferry ride from Edinburgh to Clary, Gael, covers 69 nautical miles, or about the distance from Baton Rouge to New Orleans. Gael is shaped like the silhouette of a bird’s head, turned sideways. Our capital, Clary, is at the tip of the beak, pointed toward Scotland. Torr, where I live in Haugr Castle, is at the top of the bird’s head. The journey from his head to the tip of his beak takes me exactly one hour, twenty-seven minutes. More if I tell Ain to disregard discretion and drive fast.

  It wouldn’t be smart to take a vehicle outside the royal fleet. Would be too dangerous if we’re caught. Would put us at risk of being stopped by the guard—Gael’s police force. So Ain drives a black Bentley with the royal plates. Past the townships Kot, Dalr, and Vestur, over two-lane roads that cut through grassy, rock-strewn countryside and arch over sloshing tjǫrns.

  It’s windy today, even more so than usual. When the wind rips across Gael’s flatlands, it’s a force. I watch Ain pull the steering wheel against the slap of it and wish that I was driving. One of many things I dislike about being in my homeland: a prince behind the wheel would seem like sacrilege. Would start rumors about the royal finances.

  I try not to think about that as Ain drives and I sit with the tips of my shoes against the bundle underneath the front passenger’s seat.

  Ain has the radio set to classic rock, and doesn’t look back at me as he drives. I know he feels sympathy for me—maybe even pity—but he’s angry with me too. For putting the crown in jeopardy. For not stopping everything sooner.

  He’s told me more than once this can’t go on. I know he’s right. I just don’t know how to end it. There is a solution I don’t think I can pull off. Another one I’m not ready for. I wonder if he thinks I’m a coward for not being ready. The thought makes my hands sweat, makes my throat tighten. Like there’s a noose around my neck in more than metaphor.

  I let my fingertips hover over the flask in my pocket, but I don’t touch it through the fabric of my pants. Having it up against my leg: that’s enough. It has to be. I’m not drinking it in front of Ain.

  I study the black hair that curls along his nape. It’s turning silver in some places. I remember when I was a teenager, the way I envied Ain’s beard. I thought he was such a badass, but I also hated him for following me everywhere and making me look weak and sheltered. He wasn’t with me for most of the last year and a half. I enjoyed it. I think briefly of dismissing him entirely, and what that would be like, before I feel a jab of guilt.

  I lift my gaze out the window, to where buildings have started springing up out of the rocky landscape. Petrol stations, restaurants, office buildings, apartments… Clary looks a bit like Edinburgh, but cleaner and slightly less modern. Three hundred thousand people live here. My eyes follow them as they walk, bike, and wait on buses.

  Gael has a great bus system. Thinking of that makes my mind lurch forward, cataloguing what I know about the nation’s transport system, any controversies with its funding, flaws in the planning grid. I grit my teeth and shift my thoughts away.

  I shut my eyes, try to imagine the capital city of Clary as it stood two hundred years ago: nothing but a stone fortress and huts for all the farmers and the tradesmiths.

  There are mountains on the island’s north shore, and a small ridge in the northeast. But not here. Clary is situated on a high point, overlooking a vast valley. I wish I could turn back time and see the way the wind would whip through the grasses. The way the ocean would pound the rocky shore. Horses, carts, and maybe even chickens on the rocky roads.

  I inhale slowly.

  Back then, kings would kill a dissident.

  In my memory, I hear gurgling. It makes my chest and head feel hot. I hear the bastard’s words. I see Bryce’s busted face. I clench my fingers. I wish I had killed him. I think of her curled over on her side, all that soft, soft hair around her, and my fingers sifting through it. I can hear her quiet voice through the phone. And Christ, I’m hard now. Now.

  I chuckle, not a trace of humor in it.

  I see Ain’s gaze in the rear-view mirror: there, then gone.

  The buildings start to choke the road. The road widens. We cross a bridge and take a right, and wind up on an old stone road that runs along one of the city’s many veiny inlets. I can feel my back and shoulders tense. I can feel the old familiar tightness of my lungs.

  Again, Ain’s eyes. I don’t know if I love him for that, or if I hate him.

  A left down a short, one-way street, then a right into an alley. He stops where he always does, and I pick up the parcel in the floorboard. It feels soft in my hand, just a bundle wrapped in brown paper. I nod toward him and, without looking into his eyes, get out of the car and go into the gym through a dented steel door. My fingers know the password now without my eyes needing to look.

  Inside, the speakers blast techno music. Far away, down several halls, I hear the clink of weights. A pretty blonde leans against the green wall of the hallway. She smiles as I walk her way, and when I’m within close distance, her hands reach out for me. She draws me close, as if we’re good friends.

  She laughs. “Liam.”

  I nod and smile for any cameras. “Dru.”

  I hand her the package.

  “Ah. How lovely of you.”

  I nod.

  She grins. “No messages this time. Keep at it. I suppose that’s all.”

  I nod again, and keep my head held high, the way a royal should. And then I’m gone, with just a brief stop as I reach the steel door to the alley. Just one sip—no, two—of Everclear. After his esophageal cancer seven years ago, an
d the resulting radiation, Ain can’t smell it.

  I swagger back into the alley, get into the car. Again, he looks at me. It’s more than what I normally get. I wonder why he seems to care more this time. Then I close my eyes and let the road noise and the buzzing in my veins take me away.

  Ten

  Lucy

  I manage to put my troubles out of my mind the first day Amelia is here. We get a pedicure, talking more about Am’s vegan experiment than my drama while we get our legs scrubbed and our toes painted. After that, we drive into the Rocky Mountain National Forest. It’s only a few miles from the ranch, and I have a year-long pass.

  We flash my pass at the entry booth, meander through fields dotted by bighorn sheep, and wind our way up Trail Ridge Road, this super twisty strand of asphalt that goes all the way up to the really tall peaks. We roll our windows down so we can feel the air cool while Am talks about her internship at Imagine Luxe Animation Studios, a Pixar type of company that just got bought out by Disney.

  The internship is super exclusive and amazing, taking intern artists and writers—or story crafters, as they call the writers—and pairing them with a writer or artist who works fulltime at Luxe or Disney. The intern/staffer duo have to create the first fourth of an animated film to pitch to company exces. It all sounds like a dream, and I’m so proud of Am, I’m not sure what seems “off” until we’ve made it back down the mountain and are walking around Sprague Lake.

  “My partner? The artist?” Her eyes widen, then squeeze shut. “It’s Dash. Frasier.”

  Dash, the older brother of our mutual friend Lexie. Dash and Lexie lived next door to Am. Due to some things that happened the summer Lexie, Am, and I were 16, Am’s history with Dash is complicated at best.

  I can feel my jaw hit the floor. “Dash Frasier. Is your partner on the project.”

  She nods frantically, like a mime.

  I toss my head back with a low laugh before throwing my arms around her. “Amelia Frank! How dare you not tell me!”

  She shoves me, laughing. “You had a secret crush on Prince Liam.”

  “That’s different! Way different! Dash is such a bastard! Have you kicked him in the nuts yet?”

  And so the afternoon and evening are all Dash. My God, she’s in deep, poor Amelia. She doesn’t tell me in so many words, and that’s the very biggest sign.

  In a way, it’s nice to spend the rest of the day talking about Dash.

  I toast her at dinner, winking. “At least I’m not the only one with a totally effed up love life.”

  “No.” She sighs.

  “Drink more wine, babe.”

  And she does. I drive her home from the Italian restaurant, and she’s asleep within the hour. Good, I tell myself. She probably needed it. Sounds like Dash has been working her to death.

  I get a long bath, then curl up on my bed with a book on my iPhone. I don’t recall falling asleep, so I’m confused when I wake up—lamp on, my phone in hand. The screen is flashing. I squint before I notice the weird number. Then my stomach bottoms out.

  It’s Liam.

  I hesitate a moment. Then I rasp, “Hello?”

  I hear a low chuckle from him. “I should feel worse for this. For waking you up.”

  “What time is it?” I ask, smiling against my pillow despite my nerves.

  “For you—ten forty-five.”

  “Oh. Well that’s not so late. No wait, it is. It’s still pretty late for you.”

  “Early,” he corrects.

  A flash of heat sears through me. That Liam called me again. My system processes it like pure adrenaline. I sit up, feeling strangely energized and even slightly confident. “I think I’m mailing you some Ambien.”

  “Trying to get rid of me?”

  “Not yet,” I tease. “I just feel sorry for you.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for me, Lucy.” His voice is rough and soft.

  As his words spread into silence, my heart gives another little thump. “You have a pretty weird schedule, huh?”

  “Lately. Yeah.”

  “Are you a shitty sleeper? Like insomnia and stuff?”

  “I didn’t think so, but…”

  I want to pry. To ask what’s going on. But I don’t know him well enough. Despite our strange connection—my hand goes to my lower belly—I don’t know Prince Liam at all.

  “So where are you? Like, when you go home—where is your home exactly?”

  “I’m at my residence, in the city of Torr. It’s on the northern part of the island.”

  “By residence,” I grin, “do you mean castle?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think castles are awesome.”

  Liam chuckles.

  “Is it one?”

  “It is.”

  “So do you have a really big staff?”

  “That depends on what you mean by staff, Lucy.” His voice is dead-pan, causing me to giggle like an idiot.

  “No, not many right now,” he continues. “Sometimes they get off time in the summer.”

  “But when they’re there, do people work day and night, like on Downton Abbey? Is the castle really big? Is there a dungeon?”

  I hear the smile in his voice when he says, “I’ll never tell.”

  “I’ll Wiki it!”

  “We don’t have a floor plan online, Miss Rhodes. That wouldn’t be safe.”

  I snort. “I’m not exactly worried about your ability to keep yourself safe.”

  “How are you?” he asks abruptly.

  “Mmm, I’m fine.” Just pregnant. I feel a tug toward telling him, but my instincts tell me it’s too early. I want to finish the first trimester before I spill the beans. If I’m going to upend his life with baby news, it seems considerate to be sure first.

  “Is that why you called?” I blurt. “To check on me?”

  “Do you want it to be?” His words are soft, and I can’t read the tone.

  “I don’t have a want, one way or the other.”

  He makes a sound that’s slightly sigh-like. “Truth?” he asks me.

  “Truth.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “How come?”

  “Mnn.”

  “You males and your noncommittal noises.” I laugh. “You’re a brooder, aren’t you? You’re a brooding insomniac trying to pass yourself off as a partier/playboy.”

  “You don’t think I’m a playboy?” He sounds hurt, but also like he’s smiling.

  “You might be. I just don’t care about that part.” I smooth the blankets over my lap. “I want to know some things about you. The real Liam.”

  “The real Liam.” He laughs. “What sorts of things?”

  “Real people things.”

  “So now I’m not a real person? This keeps getting worse.”

  “Do you know Lucy Rhodes’ favorite kind of cereal? Favorite color? I think everybody knows about my obsession with Lucky Charms and adoration of the color red. They’ve seen me dressed up for parties, giving interviews at film premieres. But tabloid Lucy isn’t real.”

  “I see,” he says softly.

  “So where’s your favorite place? On Earth.”

  “On Earth?”

  “On Earth.”

  He makes another soft sound. “I love Africa. Kili—Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania. Egypt and Tanzania are both amazing.”

  “Is there an individual place? Like a particular spot that’s really beautiful or awesome, where you love to go?”

  He’s quiet for so long, I wonder if he fell asleep. Then I hear him shift around. “I live between the ocean and a…lake. In the lake, there’s an island. My mum used to call it Pirate Island. We would take a canoe there and bring a picnic.”

  Hearing him mention his mom makes my chest tighten. She died when he was little, but I can’t remember how. Some kind of sudden illness.

  “That sounds beautiful. What was your mother like? Did she look like you?”

  “You don’t know what she looked like?”
/>
  “No. I mean, I’ve seen pictures of her before, maybe. But I haven’t looked her or your family up any time recently. I kind of wanted to,” I confess, “after we met. But it seemed unfair.”

  “Unfair?”

  I laugh. “I don’t know why. I guess you know all about my family.”

  “Your father’s dental implant.” He chuckles.

  “Exactly.” Almost all the nuances of my family’s life have been televised these last few years.

  “There was never as much about you,” he says.

  I smile. “I wouldn’t let them.”

  “You were a mystery.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Again, the line is filled with silence as I rub a chipped spot on my nail. “Anyway, I wanted to look up stuff about your family…but I haven’t. So I don’t know as much about you. It’s more like we just met each other at a party.”

  “We did.”

  “Well, it’s more like we’re normal people.”

  “Ah. The normal ones.”

  “Are you making fun of me? And getting pseudo-philosophical?” I tease.

  “Too much?” His voice lowers. “Take off your panties, Lucy,” he says in a rough whisper.

  My heartbeat booms in my ears, even as I hear myself say, “How do you know I’m wearing any?”

  Heat blooms over my skin. My cheeks burn. I start to sweat. And more when I hear Liam let out a low groan.

  “I’m not,” I whisper.

  “Christ…”

  What am I doing?

  “Are you a boxer guy? Or briefs?”

  “Boxer-briefs.” His voice is strained, making me warm between my legs.

  “Are you going to take them off?” I ask.

  “You want me to?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “This is where you’re supposed to say ‘yes’, Lucy. Not interested?”

  “Kind of embarrassed,” I say, sounding breathy.

  “For wanting me?”

  “Is that pretty abnormal? To have a little shame?”

  “Of course.” He gives a rough laugh.

  “Do all the ladies want you, Prince Liam?”

  “Always,” he says.