“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!”
“Oh, come on, E — you’re stubborn, but you’re not blind. Alden looks like… well, like one of the archangels fell off the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and wandered north.”
I roll my eyes. “So?”
“So, weren’t you just complaining about being bored out of your mind? This is what I’d call… a creative solution to that problem. In my experience, there’s nothing like a toe-curling orgasm to change your whole outlook.” Her eyes narrow. “Unless there’s some reason you can’t go out with him. Something you’re not telling me.”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip.
Dammit.
The last thing I want to do is hang out with Alden. Between Carter avoiding me like the plague and Owen stalking me via apologetic voicemail messages, the men in my life are already far too complicated. I certainly don’t need to add more testosterone to that equation. But I’m not sure how to make Chloe understand that without revealing other details I’d rather keep to myself.
“Look, I’m sure he’s very nice,” I hedge. “If he happens to swing by in a few weeks, maybe I can make time to see him, but—”
“Great! He’s coming over tonight at six.”
I gasp. “Chloe!”
“What?”
“Tell me you’re joking!”
“I could, but that would be a lie.”
“You’re a monster, you know that?!”
She’s totally unperturbed, smiling as she flips her thumb against her lighter and watches it flame to life. “Did I mention it’s five thirty right now?”
“WHAT?!
“Yeah. Do you plan to wear that on your date?”
Date?!
In a sudden panic, I glance down at myself.
There’s a coffee stain on my cashmere sweater and the loose-fitting pair of boyfriend jeans I’m wearing look like something I found in the reject pile of a thrift shop. There are frumpy sheepskin slippers on my feet. Not an ounce of makeup on my face. Hair piled atop my head in a messy bun. Bright blue manicure— sorry, Lady Morrell, I’m a rebel — chipping off most of my nails.
Basically, I look homeless.
“I hate you,” I hiss at Chloe, scampering to my feet and taking off like a bullet.
“Go get ‘em, tiger!” she calls after me. I can hear her laughing like a damn hyena even as I barrel out of the greenhouse and head straight for my suite.
Chapter Seventeen
“Wow,” I breathe, turning in a slow circle.
“Told you.” Alden’s smile is small but genuine. “Nothing beats this view.”
He’s right. I lean forward on the turret, brush a windswept curl out of my face, and squint my eyes toward the horizon. From up here, the Alps look so close I could practically reach out and touch them. All of Vasgaard is spread out in the valley beneath us, a colorful carpet of red slate roofs and smoking chimneys. The Nelle River snakes along like a brown garden snake, its many bends and stone bridges a striking sight from this vantage.
When Alden showed up at my bedroom door a half hour ago and volunteered to show me his favorite spot in the castle, I must admit I was skeptical. I assumed he’d bring me to the Great Hall, with its vaulted ceilings and gold-gilded throne… or the armory, to fawn over the impressive collection of medieval weaponry… or the stables, to butter me up with the help of a few glossy-eyed horses.
Instead, he led me down the hall to a massive wall tapestry bearing the double-headed Lancaster lion crest. Pulling an ornate key from his pocket, he pushed the thick fabric aside and proceeded to unlock a narrow door I never knew existed.
Trust me, he said, holding out his hand. It’s worth it.
Wide-eyed, I placed my hand in his strong, warm grip, then followed him down a dim, cobwebbed hallway. We passed through another door into a pitch-black spiral stairwell, its stone steps worn smooth over hundreds of years. Up, up up we climbed, only the light of Alden’s cellphone to illuminate the ascent, until we reached top of the tallest turret of Waterford Palace.
To be honest, I’d begun to doubt anything would possibly be worth the burning in my thighs after three hundred steps… but as soon as we scampered through the thick wooden door into the small round spire, I forgot about my sore muscles altogether.
The view is, quite simply, incredible.
“I didn’t even know people could come up here,” I say, awed. “I thought it was sealed off years ago.”
“Not sealed, per se. Just… discouraged from public use. It’s not on the sanctioned castle tour, that’s for sure. ”
I move to the other side of the tower, eyes fixed on distant skies. “Will they throw us in the dungeons for trespassing, then?”
He laughs. “You? Certainly not. You’re the princess. Technically, you own this turret. Me, on the other hand…”
“Don’t worry. I’ll use my vast authority to spring you loose.”
“How very benevolent of you, Your Royal Highness.” Teasing me, he bows low at the waist, wrist flourishing in a well-practiced gesture. It’s so smoothly done, I can’t help smiling. Genuinely smiling. For the first time in weeks.
I’m stunned to find I’m actually enjoying myself. It’s so good to be out of my room, standing on top of the world with a handsome man who isn’t at all complicated, who doesn’t make my mind spin with torturous thoughts or my heart race with treacherous feelings. I lean into the wind, letting it clear out my head. Hoping it might erase a set of blue, blue, blue eyes from the deepest vaults of my memory.
After a few minutes, a thought occurs to me. I turn to ask, “How did you get a key?”
And how do I get one for myself?
“It’s not mine, it’s Henry’s. We come up here all the time… I mean, came up here all the time. It was—” he breaks off mid-sentence, all light extinguished from his expression in the space of a few seconds .
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I know the two of you are close.”
His hazel eyes flash with thoughts I can’t decipher. “We are. It’s been… quite difficult.”
“It’s not the same, but… I lost my mom very suddenly two years ago. I didn’t get to say goodbye because, even that last day, I didn’t think it was real. It couldn’t be real. She simply couldn’t be dying.” I swallow the lump building in my throat. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I understand how hard it can be — what you’re going through, right now. And I realize we don’t know each other very well but, if you ever need someone to talk to…” I gesture around. “My turret is always open.”
His smile returns. He takes a few steps toward me, hazel eyes never shifting away from mine. “Thank you, Emilia. I will definitely take you up on that offer. Soon.”
He reaches out his hand for mine. After a moment’s hesitation, I place my palm against his. My heart flutters slightly as he laces our fingers together. And it feels… unquestionably nice.
Not like my heart might explode inside my chest from trying to contain all my emotions at once. Not like I’m at risk for having a stroke from the sheer strain of standing in his space. Not like my lungs aren’t working properly because I keep forgetting to breathe around him.
Simple.
Easy.
Uncomplicated.
“Shall we descend?” he asks. Up close, his eyes have flecks of green and gold. They’re stunning.
So why do I keep wishing they were blue?
I nod and smile brightly. “Sure. Let’s go.”
Alden is a picture-perfect gentleman as he walks me back to my room in the North Wing. We keep the conversation light, discussing the upcoming coronation. A flurry of activity unfolds around us as we pass through the Great Hall, where at least a dozen housekeepers are dusting chandeliers and polishing floors.
“There hasn’t been a ball here for a long time,” Alden murmurs
as we cross through an archway into the throne room. It reminds me of a church, full of stained glass and somber air. “Not since King Leopold and Queen Abigail threw a party to celebrate Henry’s birth.”
“You must’ve been very young.”
“Little more than a baby.” His grin is quick. “I don’t remember much. Ava wasn’t even born yet. Neither were you, come to think of it.”
“Is that typical? To have so few balls?”
“King Leopold wasn’t a fan of excess or debauchery.” His eyes grow sad again. “Not like his son. Henry loved a good party. If he’d been crowned… his coronation would’ve been a celebration the likes of which Germania has never seen.”
I’m quiet as we ascend the grand staircase up to the second floor, at a loss for what to say. Whenever he speaks of Henry, I feel like a total imposter — an unwanted changeling, swapped out for the rightful heir.
Alden seems to realize we’ve waded into uncomfortable waters, because he suddenly squeezes my hand and brightens his tone. “See those suits of armor?”
I glance at the row of medieval-looking hollow knights that line the hallway.
“Funny story…” He chuckles. “Once, maybe five years back, after a few too many rounds of Germanian ginger mules, we were all stumbling around the castle…”
By the time we round the corner toward my suite, he’s got me laughing uproariously as he tells me about the time he, Chloe, Carter, and Henry got drunk, put on antique suits of armor, and ran through the halls at midnight, their battle cries waking up everyone in the entire castle.
“Then, Chloe fell over and couldn’t get back up. The armor was so heavy, it took all three of us to stand her upright again.”
I throw back my head and laugh. “Oh my god, please tell me there is photographic evidence.”
Alden shakes his head, grinning. “Afraid not. Can you imagine if that ever leaked to the press? We would’ve been lambasted.”
“I’d imagine Simms did some lambasting of his own, when he found out.”
He laughs. “How right you are.”
We’ve reached my door, but I hesitate in the hallway. “Alden… thank you.”
“For what?” he asks, squeezing my hand.
“Taking my mind off things for a while.” I shrug. “I haven’t laughed this much in a long time.”
“That’s a crime.” He steps closer, perfect teeth flashing. There’s not a single hair out of place on his perfectly parted platinum head. “You have a wonderful laugh, Emilia.”
He’s not quite six feet tall, so when he leans his face down toward mine, the distance isn’t all that far. I feel my mouth go dry, watching him come closer.
Is he going to kiss me?
Am I going to let him?
My questions never get answers — there’s a bang from our left, loud enough to make me jump out of my skin. Alden and I both spin our heads to look and find the source of the sound standing in the doorway of his suite, hand still on the knob, glaring darkly in our direction.
Carter.
Just the sight of him is enough to make my heart pound a mad tattoo — even with him glaring at me like he wants to ring my neck. I’m not sure what expression is on my face, but whatever he sees when he takes in the sight of me and Alden makes his lip curl with disdain.
“Carter,” Alden says in a light tone, but I notice how tense his shoulders are. “Good to see you, mate.”
Carter’s eyes cut to Alden, then drop down to where our hands are still interlaced. A muscle jumps in his cheek.
“Alden. What are you doing here… mate?”
The words are friendly — the voice he says them in are considerably less so. I pull my hand out of Alden’s grip with a tug that makes his brows lift.
“Just getting to know our princess a bit better.” Alden crosses his arms over his chest. “Seems she’s been sorely neglected, these past few weeks.”
I think Carter’s head might actually explode, when he hears that. His eyes narrow to cerulean pinpricks. He’s careful not to look at me.
“Is that so?”
I swallow nervously as Alden shifts his body weight forward. “She’s your new sister — you should really take better care of her.”
“Looks like you’re handling things just fine, from where I’m standing.”
I wish the floor would swallow me up.
I wish a meteor would strike the castle.
I wish Chloe would come around the corner.
Literally anything to get me out of this conversation.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” Alden says conversationally.
Carter doesn’t respond except to shrug.
Alden’s brows quirk. “What have you been up to?”
“Oh, just busy making up for lost time.” His tone is lethally soft — thunder rumbling, the first hint of an impending storm. “After a week of isolation at the Lockwood Estate, where the hottest prospect was Patricia, the fifty-year-old cook, I had a lot of…” He pauses. “…pent up energy…” A smirk. “I needed to blow off. Thankfully, the three Swedish models I met last night were more than happy to oblige.”
I flinch.
Alden laughs, as if he understands only too well. “Ah. I’m sure the women of Vasgaard are relieved to have you fully operational once again.”
“Mmm.” Carter’s eyes flicker to mine and hold. “Maybe I’ll bring the models to the coronation. See if I can make Octavia blow a gasket.”
“You have a death wish, mate.”
“Maybe I do.” He’s still looking at me, that intense gaze holding me captive more effectively than chains. I’m locked onto him in turn — pulse pounding, barely breathing. Wishing like mad that the feeling spreading through my veins resembled anything close to the indifference projected on my face.
Would it bother you, little sister? his eyes seem to ask. Seeing me with someone else?
Before I can do something stupid, like break down in tears, I rip my gaze away and turn to face Alden. My voice is so falsely bright, I barely recognize it as my own.
“This was so much fun, but I really should be getting back to work — that essay on social cognition isn’t going to write itself. Thanks again for the distraction, Alden. I’ll see you in a few days, at the coronation.”
“Oh—” His brows lift, startled by my brusque departure. “Save me a dance, Princess?”
“Of course. Though I can’t promise I won’t step on your toes.”
Before he can say more, I pop up onto my tiptoes, deposit a quick kiss on his cheek, and turn to slip inside my room without once looking back at the man standing down the hall, watching me with laser-like focus. It’s probably rude to close my door in Alden’s face after he’s been so kind to me, but I don’t really have a choice — not unless I want a witness to the emotional breakdown I’m about to have.
Shaking with rage and humiliation and, yes, a heady dose of unquenched yearning, I sink down to the floor, hands pressed over my face to contain my tears. They leak out through my fingers anyway, hot and furious as they streak down my cheeks.
This is insane, I scold myself, even as a sob rattles my chest. You just had a perfect first date with a perfect man… and here you are, emotionally crippled by a two second interaction with your asshole stepbrother?
Forget about Carter Thorne.
You only want him because you know you can’t have him.
But even my lies aren’t enough to comfort me. Because, deep down, I know I wanted him long before I became aware we’d be sharing a household and a father figure and a bedroom wall. Just as I know I’ll keep wanting him, despite all the very valid reasons I shouldn’t, until time eventually steals away my memories.
It’s late.
Beneath the covers in my darkened bedroom, I do my best to drift off to sleep but my mind refuses to power down, no matter how long I press my cry-swollen eyes closed. It doesn’t help that I can hear Carter moving on the other side of the wall: the low refrains of his music, his f
ootsteps on the hardwood, the rush of water as he takes a shower. I try not to picture him under the torrent, his chiseled body glistening, steam fogging up the glass…
I fail.
Miserably.
Rolling over for the twentieth time, I punch my pillow into a more comfortable shape. Its ironic — I hated it when he was gone, but I think I like it even less now that he’s back, one inconsequential wall dividing my bed from his.
I wonder if he can hear me, too.
If he heard my tears.
If he felt my grief.
If I’m driving him as crazy as he is me.
The wall goes silent and I know he’s finally turned in for the night. It’s impossible not to think of him lying there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, mere feet from me.
Is he thinking of me lying here, my legs tangled in the sheets, my thoughts tangled up in him? Or does he fantasize instead about his exploits with the three Swedish models he was so quick to throw in my face?
The low chime of my overhead speakers connecting to a new bluetooth device makes me sit straight up in bed, eyebrows arched to my hairline. A second later, my confusion compounds when music starts to drift into the dark room — a haunting, melancholic melody.
What the hell?
The song itself isn’t strange; I instantly recognize its familiar strains from an old playlist. What’s odd is the fact that I’m not the one playing it.
Utterly perplexed, I grab my tablet off the nightstand. The screen is dark, no songs queued. Same with my cellphone. It’s not until the lyrics start and my mind registers the song title — Don’t You Cry For Me by Cobi — that the pieces finally click into place. I know exactly what’s happening.
It’s Carter.
He’s doing this.
He’s playing me a song.
Somehow, he’s synced his phone to my speakers. I’m not entirely sure how, but as the words wash over me — oh, don’t you cry for me — I’m far more concerned with another question.
Why?
Why would he do this?
To comfort me? To torture me?
To let me know he heard my tears through the wall and felt…
Dirty Halo Page 17