Page 126 of Thrones We Steal

He nods as he polishes off a second donut. “I know.” He glances at his watch. “We have about two hours before your plane is scheduled to leave.”

My blood runs cold, and my fingers become icicles in my lap. “What are you talking about?”

Instead of answering, he walks into the bathroom, and I hear the tap turn on. When he doesn’t come back, I follow him. He’s standing with his hands on the vanity, leaning on his extended arms and staring at the marble floor.

I move closer and place my hand on his back. It’s warm and strong, and I want nothing more than to sink into it, but he tenses at my touch and closes his eyes.

“Please talk to me.” I drop my hand. “What’s going on?”

He sighs. “I’m sorry.” He finally meets my eyes in the mirror. “For everything.”

“You’re sorry for everything,” I repeat in a monotone. “Even yesterday? Last night?”

“No.” He pushes off from the counter and rubs his eyes. “I don’t know.”

I make an incredulous sound. “Wow. Okay.” I blink rapidly and forbid tears to form. “How soon are you coming home? Because I can wait. That would give us time to talk about this, and then we can fly home together.”

His mouth is a grim, hard line when he turns to face me. “I’m not coming home, C.”

Whatever expression I was wearing, I feel it falling as my face melts into a blank stare. “What are you talking about?”

“You heard me. You’re going. I’m staying.”

“No.” I shake my head. “You’re not doing this to me again. I’m staying with you.”

“You have a country to run.”

“Exactly. And I want you at my side.”

“That’s impossible.”

“No, you’re the one who’s being impossible. You can’t tell me you don’t feel anything for me.”

“Celia, for the love of god, can you please not make this any harder?” He props his hand against the wall. Frustration radiates off his body.

I stalk closer, into his personal space. “Tell me it meant nothing and I’ll go.” I wait, but he says nothing. “Tell me.” He glowers. “You can’t because we both know this is bigger than the two of us. You feel it too. I know you do.” I trace his jawline with my finger.

He shivers and pushes past me into the bedroom. I follow on his heels, ready to burst. He grabs my discarded clothes from the floor and begins shoving them into my bag on the bed. I yank his arm away from the suitcase, desperate for him to stop and look me in the eye.

He spins around, grabs my arms and pushes me up against the wall, his face inches from mine. He’s finally meeting my eyes, and I see my own pain reflected in them. We stay like that for what feels like an eternity. When he finally releases me, I suck in my breath like a drowning person on solid ground again.

Hands on his hips, he stares out the window, his back to me. I ache to slide my hands around him and bury my face in the soft folds on his T-shirt, but I know he’ll only push me away.

“Henry. Please.” It’s a plea, a sob, a prayer.

He slowly turns to face me. He’s regained his composure, and his face is now an expressionless mask. “You need to finish packing.” His voice is cold and impersonal, a robot.

I glance at the suitcase with its contents spilling out onto the bed. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing is going on, Celia. I don’t do relationships. You know this.”

I do know this, but like the world’s biggest idiot, I thought it was different with me. “You are such an ass!” I scream and pound his chest with my fists. “Some day you’ll meet someone and you’ll give her everything! Everything you promised me will be hers!”

He removes my hands like I’m a nuisance to be disposed of. “I didn’t promise you anything.”

A shaky sob spills past my lips. He’s right. He didn’t. I’m the one who read too much into the actions of a world-renown playboy. “But you knew how I felt! You implied the feeling was mutual.”

“I happen to be a really good actor.”

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