Page 12 of Thrones We Steal

“Okay, fine. I had my suspicions when you didn’t jab your stiletto into my eye. But what was I supposed to do? Bea practically begged me to come tonight.”

“Because she thinks she’s in love with you!”

“She’s not in love with me.”

Part of me is relieved to hear his nonchalance. But when I talked to Bea a few hours ago, she was as far from nonchalant as one can get. How can he brush aside her feelings so casually, like they’re of no consequence?

Because this is Henry we’re talking about.

“That doesn’t mean your intentions are anything but despicable,” I say.

“I didn’t realize you were so well acquainted with my intentions.”

“The entire world is aware of your reputation. I won’t stand by while you tear my sister’s heart to pieces.”

“I told you we’re just friends. She asked me to come tonight, and I felt bad saying no.”

“We all know how hard it is for you to say no.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not quite as desperate as you think.”

“What makes you think I’ll believe anything you say?”

He runs his fingers through his hair, tousling it into a roguish heap. “We used to be friends.”

“Yeah, well, we’re not anymore, are we?”

“Celia.”

I ignore the pain in his voice. “Stay away from her. Or I will kill you. With my stiletto.”

“You can’t protect her forever, C.”

I know that. But it doesn’t mean I won’t try.

5

“Lone Warrior” - Mindshift

I wait until most of the guests, including Beck, have gone home before slipping away to the library. One can only handle so much small talk before their brain cells start to deteriorate. Mine are on the verge of total extinction.

I didn’t get a chance to talk to Lord Rosenbaum, and he and his wife left early. But the party has given me an idea for a blog post, one on dinner customs evolving over time. I’ve been running Wesbourne in Time for four years as a pet project. The income that trickles in through the few sidebar ads helps cover the cost of keeping the site up.

The library is my favorite room in the house, for more reasons than the floor-to-ceiling walls of books. It’s where my father spent the most time when he was alive. If I stand close enough to the half-empty box of cigars on the mantelpiece, I can still grasp a whiff of his scent, that combination of mosses and tobacco I would recognize anywhere.

A fire burns low in the grate, hardly necessary with spring in full swing, but it lends a cozy atmosphere to the room. A clap of thunder shakes the window panes. I sit at the giant roll top desk that used to be my father’s but has become my own workspace. More blog posts, fundraiser expense sheets, and board meeting agendas have been drafted here than I can count.

The clock says it’s just after eleven. That gives me a solid three hours to research for the blog post. I’m excited to jump in, but before I can do more than wake my sleeping computer, a familiar ping comes from the other side of the room.

It’s my phone but I can’t remember where I set it down. It’s not on my desk anywhere. I debate ignoring it, but I’m afraid it’s Beck texting good night. I find the practice a little cheesy, but he thinks it’s important, so I go along with it. I finally locate it on the fireplace mantle.

It’s not from Beck. It’s from Maisie, along with a bunch of others sent during the party.

Have you read it yet?

I’m not going to let you forget, remember?

Are you ignoring me?

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