Page 75 of Thrones We Steal

This is news to me, but I school my features into indifference. “Good riddance,” I say and adjust my suitcase to look more like a reasonable human packed it.

“I don’t understand why you’re so determined to hate him.”

The irony of this statement is not lost on me, but I am in no state to set Beatrice to rights about my actual feelings for Henry. “Because he’s a lying, scheming, manipulative bastard. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself, and he thrives on inflicting as much hurt as possible.” I tug the zipper a little more violently than necessary.

“There’s more to him than that.”

“You are so blinded when it comes to Henry that he could chew your heart up, spit it out, and you’d thank him for it.”

I sense rather than see her bristle at this inference. “You make it sound like I can’t think for myself.”

“That’s not what I meant. Only that Henry is good at this. He has years of experience toying with women.”

“Most of those women are only looking for a fling. Hardly anyone would actually want to be married to a prince.”

“Regardless, Henry isn’t capable of being in a normal relationship.”

“He’s never tried.”

“He would destroy you, Bea.”

“I’m stronger than you think! You still look at me like I’m a little girl who can’t take care of myself. It hurts that you think I’m so weak that I could be broken by the only guy I’ve ever loved. Why can’t you trust that I know what I’m doing? Why are you so convinced he will break my heart?”

“Because he broke mine!”

The room grows thick with silence as we stare at each other. Bea’s mismatched eyes widen slightly, and the blue one turns the color of the sea during a storm.

Slapping her would have led to less shock than this admission.

“Are you satisfied?” I ask. “I fell for it, every bloody bit of his beautiful charade. I love him. Like head-over-heels, sell-my-soul kind of love. And it’s slowly sucking the life from me.” I grasp the handle of the suitcase and yank it off the bed. “I can’t hate him, no matter how hard I try. I have to get out of here.”

A knock at the door interrupts any comment Bea might be about to make. I open it to find Maisie on the other side, “backup brain” in hand.

“Good morning,” she says and scoots into the room. “Glad to see you feeling better today.”

Better might be a stretch, but I don’t correct her.

She doesn’t leave me time anyway. “I know it’s a bit early for our morning meeting, but I just got the news, and I knew you’d want to hear right away.” She stops for a dramatic pause. “Your petition for increased security at the ports has just passed through Parliament. It must have been marked high importance, or else there’s no way they could have rushed it through so quickly. It turns out—”

I don’t listen to the rest of her thoughts on the matter because the significance of this is staggering. I was expecting another year or two of working on this petition before making any headway on it. There’s no doubt in my mind that my sudden rise in status is responsible for the priority of the request.

Maisie’s play-by-play on the Parliament session comes to a halt when Bea joins us in the sitting room. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know you had company. We can have our meeting as soon as you’re done.” The door closes behind her before I can say anything else.

“I’m actually leaving,” Bea says. “I just came to ask if you’ve seen Dad’s watch. I couldn’t find it in any of my boxes after the move, and Mum hasn’t seen it either.”

“Yeah, I think I know where it is.” The ornate wooden box in my sitting room contains mementos of our father that I haven’t had a chance to go through yet. Sure enough, the heavy wristwatch is among them. I hand it to her, but my eyes stay on the picture of our dad at eighteen with his squad. He’s in danger of exploding with pride in the photo. Pride to serve his country, no matter the cost to himself.

What would he think of me now, on the verge of deserting my country, fleeing just because my heart was broken? After his death I used to comfort myself with the thought that our loved ones can see what we’re doing from heaven, and I’d think about him watching me over my shoulder, murmuring words of encouragement when I took a difficult test at school or bit my tongue to keep from saying something nasty.

Now the thought fills me with shame.

I let the lid of the box drop shut, obliterating the image of his pride. I look up to find Bea still in the room, looking at me like she knows me from somewhere but can’t remember my name. I can’t handle her censure any more than his, and I move toward my phone charger and start winding it up.

“What are you doing?” she says.

“Currently, I’m packing my charger. Girl will still need her phone in America.”

She walks over to me and places both hands on my shoulders. The genetic gods probably snicker to themselves every time my younger sister dwarfs my five foot five frame. I’m not short, but Bea is willowy and graceful. And right now, she is determined. “You can’t leave.”

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