My mind is blank. Black. Like the heaviest curtain has come down, blocking out any light or thought or image.
"Caught her." I roll the words around on my tongue. "I don't . . . I don't understand."
Penelope gazes back at me. "I think you do."
The air expels from my lungs.
"Are you . . . are you saying he hurt her? That he . . . beat her? Sarah?"
"Yes."
I'm not an idiot. I studied engineering at university and was bored by it. I have a deep breadth of understanding of history and art and military strategy and science. I know words--big and little. I understand their meaning when they're strung together. When they're used to imply, to deduce, to insinuate.
But this . . . this doesn't make any sense. I can't process it.
Or maybe I just don't want to.
"But . . . how?"
How could anyone hurt sweet, darling Sarah? My Sarah. She's everything that is kind and good and funny and beautiful and amazing in this world. Why would anyone want to cause her pain? How is that even possible?
Penelope sniffles. "Usually with his fists. Sometimes with the belt. If she fell, he would kick--"
"Stop." Nausea twists and knots my stomach, folding me over. "Fucking Christ, stop."
Because the curtain is lifted and the images that spill out from Penelope's words are sickening and vivid. My thoughts are cut off when I think of something else. Something I didn't put together until this moment.
"She limps," I tell Penelope in a voice colored by ash. "It's barely perceptible, but I noticed. When she's tired, she limps."
"That was the final straw for Mother. He broke Sarah's leg. They were right outside the door of the room I was in when it happened. It was so loud--the snap of it." Penny squeezes her eyes closed. "God, I can still hear it."
I broke my arm once. Fell the wrong way during a rugby match. It hurt like a bitch. And I know just what she means about the sound--it's distinct. Once you hear it, you'll never forget.
"He wouldn't let us leave, wouldn't let Mother take Sarah to the hospital. For three days he kept us in one of the upstairs rooms." Penelope shudders as she breathes and cries softly. "Sarah was in so much pain. And then, Joseph, the driver--he had only been with us a few months--he helped us escape when our father fell asleep. I remember he swept in and scooped Sarah up in his arms and told us, 'Down the back steps, the car is waiting--hurry now.' And the most terrifying moment was when the three of us were loaded into the back and Joseph had to run around to get to the driver's seat. We were so close . . . I kept watching the door, waiting for my father to burst through and kill us."
Penelope's face has lost all color now. She rubs at her eyes and cheeks with weary hands. "But he didn't. Joseph drove us to the hospital and they set Sarah's leg, but it never healed the way it should have. Auntie Gertrude took us in, had her lawyers arrange the divorce, and they managed to convince our father that if he ever came near us again, details of his actions and photos of Sarah's bruises would be made public. He was in Switzerland the last I heard, and I hope every day that an avalanche falls on him."
My chest feels like it's filled with concrete. And I want to cry. I haven't wept since I was ten years old, but I could now. For her. For the fucking injustice of it. I want to fall to my knees and shout at the sky. I want to curse God to his face.
I want to slash and burn and maim and kill.
And it's that last thought that finally gives me the focus I so desperately need. I take a few deep breaths then stand up and put my hand on Penelope's shoulder, squeezing. "Thank you for telling me."
She gifts me with a shadow of a smile. But as I step toward the door, she clasps my hand in her chilly grip. "Henry. You can't . . . you need to leave my sister alone. You can't toy with her. I know she seems strong and in some ways she is, but inside . . . she's so fragile. Sarah is genuine and good and . . . not like us."
Penelope Von Titebottum and I are cut from the same selfish cloth. Wild. Needy. We know how the game is played, how to turn all heads our way. We thrive on it--the attention, the adoration of others. I mean--look at this fucking show I've jumped into.
Without a care in the world.
Without a thought for my country or my responsibilities or even a second of concern for the feelings of the women who've signed up for it. The whole point is to get them to fall in love with me--to think they have a chance at living royally fucking ever after, while the whole world watches.
All because I wanted a distraction.
And if a few hearts are shattered in the process? That's just too damn bad. Because this is who we are.
What did my brother tell me once?
We can't change who we are.
"No." I tell Sarah's sister. "She's not at all like us."
My hands shake as I walk down to the great hall--to the Fantastic Wall of Death.
The mace is the first thing to come down. The rusty spiked ball and chain. I give it a test swing.
That'll do.
Next is my grandmother's namesake--the battle-axe. It comes with a sling so it can be strapped across the back, and the blade is still razor sharp.
Then it's the jewel-handled sword. It's heavier than you'd expect. I thrust forward and imagine running it through a stomach, then watching patiently as the acids leak out from the wound into the body cavity, eventually eating away at the vital organs. It's a slow, ghastly way to die.
Perfect.
After carefully selecting four additional harbingers of death, I clink and clank my way up the steps to the third floor. When I walk into the room, Sarah is awake, sitting on the sofa. She's changed into nightclothes and a soft white robe, and her voice is thick with sleep. "I woke up and you weren't here."
Her eyes drift over my arms and chest, laden with weaponry. "What are you doing?"
"I'm leaving."
Her brows pinch. "Where . . . where are you going?"
When I speak, I barely recognize my own voice.
"I'm going to find your father, and then I'm going to kill him. Badly. I thought it'd be rude not to ask if you'd like to come along and watch."
SHE GIVES ME THAT LOOK. I'm familiar with it now. It tugs at the flesh of my heart.
It's a small smile, a pitying shake of her head as if to say, silly, silly boy.
"Henry, you can't kill my father."
"Oh, I can." My voice is low and dark and viciously certain. "Believe me, I can."
She reaches out and takes my hand.
"Penny told you."
My chin jerks, nodding.
I replay every interaction Sarah and I have had, noting every sin and overstep. Did I ever frighten her? Was I ever too rough? I think about the night I broke her book, the things I said, and I want to hit my own fucking head with the mace.
"I should have been more careful with you."
She looks up, eyes round and innocent. "You are careful with me."
She takes the sword from my hand and sets it aside. She slips the strap that holds the battle-axe on the back of my shoulder and lays it on the table. One by one she disarms me, and I let her. Then she leads me to the sofa by the hand and sits down.
"I don't think about my father anymore, Henry."
"But that's not true. Every time you slip away, it's because of him."
She licks her bottom lip, and her forehead furrows as she thinks over what she wants to say.
"When you hate someone, they're a part of your life; they get to take up space in your thoughts, every day. They claim your focus and, in a way, they have control over you. What happened to me, happened; no one can change it now." Her voice grows stronger then, more determined. "But he doesn't get to have anything else. Not a second more of my time or my energy or my thoughts. My life is mine, Henry . . . and it's a good life."
She looks down at our hands, clasped together.
"So you see, if you kill him for me, it will all be dredged up again. I've put him behind me. And I'd like him to stay there."
> I bring her hand to my mouth, kissing the back, forcing myself to be gentle, because the rage still lurches and swirls inside me like lava.
"It's not fair."
Sarah smiles then and it's sad.
"You had a mother and father who loved you more than anything else in the whole world. And they were taken away too soon. Life isn't fair, Henry. Not for any of us."
No. Not fucking good enough.
I hold her face in my hands. "It should be for you."
I lean down and kiss her forehead. Then I stand up.
"And if I can't make it fair, then I'll make it even. An eye for an eye. See how he likes it when I break his fucking--"
Sarah stands up and presses her lips against mine. It's so unexpected, I freeze. But then, as her mouth moves over mine, I begin to thaw. Her mouth is so soft, so very sweet. The kiss is almost chaste--at least it's the most chaste I've ever had. Unpracticed.
And yet, it still manages to make my heart pound against my ribs like an animal in a cage.
"What are you doing?" I whisper, when she pulls back just a little.
"I'm distracting you." She looks up at me uncertainly. From behind those ridiculously prim little glasses with those big, dark eyes that could bring me to my knees. "Is it working?"
My tongue traces my lower lip--tasting her.
And craving more.
"I'm not sure. Keep trying--I'll let you know."
She smiles quick and relieved . . . and then she reaches back up, wraps her arms about my neck, and kisses me.
Her two lips envelop my lower one, then the upper, all eager, pleasing sweetness. And it's good--I don't think any kiss has ever felt so good. I could do this for days.
My hands find Sarah's lower back and I pull her in close, tight against me. Then, gently, I open my mouth and she mirrors my movement, opening for me. And it's like my blood has turned to gasoline, and the touch of our tongues is the spark.
I delve deeper, harder--more demanding--taking the lead, but she meets me every step of the way. I cup her head in my hands, holding her still while I plunge and devour. A beautiful moan seeps from her lips and I devour that too. I can't catch my breath and my heart does its best to break through my ribs.
But then I squeeze my eyes tight, and stop . . . panting against Sarah's neck.
"Sarah, maybe we shouldn't. Maybe we should just--"
"I'm sick of being afraid, Henry. And I'm so tired of being alive . . . but not really living. I want this; I've wanted it for a long time. I want . . . you." It's only then that hesitation dims her eyes. "Do you want me too?"
I grip her arms. "More than I've wanted anything or anyone in my entire life."
Sarah takes my hands in hers, lifts them and presses my palms to her breasts. They're soft and full and absolutely perfect.
"Show me."
Beneath her robe, her bedclothes are paper thin. I trace my thumbs across her nipples, feeling them harden and peak. I want to suck on them until she's mindless. I want to lick every inch of her skin and watch her flush with desire. I want to feel her fingers squeeze my arse and her nails rake my back.
There's so much I know--deviant, filthy, lovely moves. And I want to teach her every damn one.
I wrap my arms around Sarah and lift her right off her feet. With a groan, my mouth is back to hers. Her small hands cup my jaw as I carry her toward the bed. I stop against a wall on the way, knocking a frame sideways, lifting her leg in one hand and wrapping it around my hip so I can thrust against her.
Her head tilts and her back arches, and she writhes beautifully against me.
And it's the damnedest thing. Here I am, pressed up against Sarah's softness, hard as stone and hot as fire, but the thought that floods my mind is . . . my brother.
Nicholas.
I didn't understand before, not really. How he stood up there that day and upended both our lives. How he changed everything . . . gave in . . . gave it all up.
But now . . . now it makes sense.
Because I would give up a crown for her. I would give up my name, my title--I would trade my country, forfeit my birthright, lie, kill, cheat, and steal, for this.
For her.
A chuckle rumbles in my throat at my own cluelessness. How stupid I was.
But now I know. And nothing will ever be the same.
Sarah draws back when she feels me laugh. "What is it? Am I doing something wrong?"
I caress her face and brush back her hair.
"No, you're perfect. It's all so fucking perfect."
Nicholas was right. I'll have to tell him one day soon that he was right.
Love is stronger.
When I get us to the bed, we fall upon it, rolling and thrusting and insane. My hands are everywhere. Pushing up her top, pulling at her pants, kissing her warm skin the moment it's revealed. Sarah gasps and pulls at my clothes too, beautiful and wild, not a trace of shy innocence in sight. She lifts her arms and her shirt is gone.
And her breasts. Oh, perfect, pale, full breasts, with dark pink nipples that beg for attention. I'm happy to oblige. I kiss my way around the gorgeous globes, nibbling and sucking, and Sarah's hands bury in my hair, yanking in the best, neediest way.
When I close my lips over one nipple, she gasps--high-pitched and loud--then it tapers off to a long whimper. I flick my tongue, suckling hard until her hips are lifting, seeking friction. It's crazy and fast, desperate and rough . . . but we can't seem to slow down.
Sarah pushes on my shoulder, rolling us over so she's on top, straddling me. She moves on instinct, perfectly positioned on my cock, rolling her hips. She lifts my shirt off, her hands roaming and her lips kissing across my chest. She licks the groove in the center of my abdomen, over and over again--she really seems to like that part. Her hair falls all around my torso, tickling like silk feathers.
And I want to take my time, I want to know every freckle on her skin . . . but first I have to make her come. The desire is like a runaway train, unstoppable and raging.
I roll us back over so that Sarah's beneath me. Then I lift up onto my knees and enjoy the sight of her on her back, knees open, lust and yearning making her eyes shimmer. Holding her gaze, I deliberately unbutton my trousers. Her eyes drop as I yank them off without leaving the bed, but I keep my black briefs on.
Too much temptation if they were off and as hot as she is, I don't think she's ready to take things quite that far. She reaches for me, pressing her hand on the thick, hard outline of my cock beneath the fabric, and my eyes roll back in my head.
I push against her hand, hips thrusting, because it feels so fucking divine.
Then I'm skimming her sleeping pants down her shapely legs and throwing them over my shoulder. And Sarah lies beneath me, in a simple pair of white cotton knickers . . . and nothing else. Her chest rising and falling, her lips swollen from my rough kisses, her breasts high, nipples tight.
Without taking my eyes from hers, I move on top of her, spreading her legs wider, looking deep into her eyes, gazing at her beautiful face. I line my cock up against her, right against her clit, and I can feel how hot and wet she is, even through the cotton.
And then I thrust slow and long.
"Henry," she whimpers from deep in her throat. "Henry."
And nothing has ever sounded sweeter.
I pull my hips back and thrust again.
She whimpers and her head lolls to the side.
"Like this?" I rasp.
Sarah's head bounces in a jerky nod and her hands knead my arms. She lifts her hips up to meet mine and then I'm bending, pressing her into the bed. Kissing her rough and wild, claiming her plump mouth as surely as she fucking owns me.
"Henry, Henry, Henry," she chants against my lips, in time with the movement of my cock against her. The pressure is perfect, the pleasure racing up my spine and down my legs, settling in my pelvis and tightening balls.
Sarah screams when she comes, scratching and wild and beautiful. With an arched back she raises her hips and
stiffens--everything tight and clenching. I pump harder and then I'm with her, coming in a hot, pulsing stream that makes my mind go white with bliss.
And after, we kiss and touch and giggle--both of us a sweaty, sticky mess and too damn happy to move.
Later, after I've gotten a cloth from the bathroom and cleaned both of us up, I lie on my back with Sarah cuddled against me.
"We should talk."
She turns on her side to face me, even while her eyes scrunch closed.
"Talking isn't my strong suit."
I trace the bridge of her nose with the tip of my finger.
"That's not true. You're getting better at it."
My instinct tells me that with Sarah, simple and direct is the best way to go.
"I like you," I whisper, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose, her chin, her smooth brow. "I like you so much."
She cups my jaw, caresses my neck and shoulder.
"I like you too. So much."
I've had sex with hundreds of women, some whom I actually cared for . . . but this right here, is one of the most intimate moments of my life.
"I want to take you out. Take you everywhere. I want to show you everything. Now that I know what's underneath your clothes," I run my hand up her stomach, kneading her breast, and she moans sweetly, "you can wear all the black you want and I won't tease you a bit."
She smiles and I feel invincible.
"I like it when you tease me."
I nibble on her lip, her chin. "Have you ever seen the library at the palace?"
"No."
"You'll love it. Two floors, more books than you could read in three lifetimes. And I want you to meet my grandmother."
"All right, Henry."
"I want to buy you things. Everything."
I want to drape her in jewels and silks . . . and crowns.
"I don't need things," she says softly, eyes beautiful and dark.
I pull her closer, my hard, demanding cock pressed against her pelvis.
"Which makes me want to buy them for you even more."
Sarah wraps her arms around my neck, toying with my hair. And before she speaks it, I feel the word--the world--trying to rise up between us, wedge us apart.
"But . . ."
But the show--this damned show that I don't even care about--that I never did. But the crew that fills the castle at this very moment and the contracts I've signed. But the other women--including her own sister--who I'm still expected to entertain and engage for the next two weeks.