Page 19 of Keep Her from Them

That lack of service couldn’t be right. “You’re expected to take care of yourself the rest of the time? How is that fair?”

“It’s my lonely reality. Why should I expect the princess treatment just because of an accident of birth? If I want it, I have to earn it.” Alex stood, her bare feet on the polished floor. She picked up her heels by their straps and moved into my space.

Two soulful brown eyes peered up. “However things work in your regular job, it’s different here. But just know I’m more than grateful for the assistance. Goodnight.”

Like I was in some kind of dream, the princess pushed up on her toes and put her hand to my chest, gifting me the lace mask. She kissed my cheek.

Then she turned and disappeared, off to join her boyfriend in her bed.

Chapter 8

Alexandra

Inside my suite of rooms, I locked the door and tossed my shoes to a corner then entered my bedroom. A shirt flew through the air, thrown by Dori. I caught it, a favourite one I usually wore to bed. He smirked at me then rifled through his sports bag, extracting a pack of pills. He popped one and drained a bottle of water.

I wrinkled my nose. “What is that?”

“Something to knock me out. Can’t sleep without the meds, won’t function tomorrow without rinsing out my kidneys.”

I entered the bathroom and stripped my clothes then slipped the long t-shirt over my head. For a moment, I studied myself in the mirror. Life had come full circle. The shirt was Raphael’s, given to me on that fateful night we were photographed together.

I swallowed down a pang of emotion, maybe for the loss of the girl I’d been, or for some kind of regret for the evening. There was something in Raphael’s manner that always made me feel…judged. It made me want to rebel against him, and that childish reaction allowed me to enable Dori. What a mess.

Methodically, I removed my make-up.

Images from the evening kept on coming in a fierce bombardment. The art gallery. The cutting words. Dori launching into a fight. Raphael rescuing me. The memory of his warmth almost batted away the icier ones, but not enough.

Back in my bedroom, Dori had already passed out face down on my big bed. I took a second to check he was still breathing then left him and entered the bedroom next door. I kept the lamps off.

Faint light from the windows gleamed over an easel which held a half-finished painting. Another portrait. On a table next to it, my paint-spattered tray held tubes and brushes.

Fuck my stupid dreams.

I marched to it and snatched the canvas free. Raising it, I cracked it down over my knee, splintering the frame, then repeating it on the other side. When it was broken beyond repair, I shoved the whole thing into the bin.

It did nothing for my upset, but at least I wouldn’t have to look at my failure again tomorrow.

Atoe poked my side, rousing me from a heavy sleep.

“What?” I opened an eye.

Dori held out a mug, which I assumed was coffee, and a packet of paracetamol.

“Drink me, eat me, then choose between the bad news or the badder news.”

I struggled up, my head pounding in the worst way. Last night, I’d left the shutters of my bedroom closed, but strong daylight pierced them in streams, telling me it was late in the day. I accepted two pills and washed them down with a swig of Dori’s drink.

“Badder isn’t a word. And I don’t want either. But tell me anyway.”

“Despite my best efforts, a picture was sold.”

I groaned and dropped my head back to the padded headboard. “I don’t know if that’s bad more than just expected. What’s the rest?”

There was an interesting pause. I blinked my eyes open to find Dori giving me a quizzical look.

“The picture is of your overprotective bodyguard half carrying you from the club.”

“Let me guess the headlines. I was too drunk to stand? Pulled from a fight?”

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