Page 68 of The Princess Trap
There was a moment of silence before Cherry picked up her half-eaten bowl of cereal, heading to the sink. But Agathe just waved one reddened hand and said, "No, leave that. I will do it. Go and find my grandson."
"But—"
"You are wrong, you know. He is often angry. But only with himself."
Cherry thought about that for a minute. And then she went to find her fiancé.
He was in his bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, revealing a slash of cool wood floors and a low bed covered in white linens. A pair of bare feet were visible, resting at its very edge. Cherry hovered at the door, peering through the gap, and caught sight of the ankles attached to those feet. And then the calves. And then the powerful, hair-sprinkled thighs.
Ruben said, "I know you're there, Cherry Pie."
She bit back a smile and pushed the door open, stepping inside. "I told you, you have to stop calling me that."
"Fine," he said. He was lying against his bed, arms folded behind his head, his broad chest still bare. His legs were bare too. He wore only tight, blue briefs, so she kept her eyes very firmly away from that area. "I'll call you Cherry Tart," he said. "I bet your dad never called you that."
"Shut up." She came towards the bed, hesitating for just a moment before sitting down on the edge.
He snorted and reached out, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Come here. What, you can't lie with me in the daylight?"
There was something in his voice, something she didn't hear often, if at all. An edge she didn't like, a sharpness that wasn't usually there. He pulled her down beside him, tucking her under his arm like she belonged there. She let her head rest against his chest and tried not to think about the marks her makeup would leave or the fact that her hair was probably tickling his face.
"Did Demi talk to you?" she asked.
He laughed. She felt the sound as much as she heard it, rumbling deep within his chest, but there was no light to it. No humour. "Yeah, she talked to me. You don't need to worry, love. I'm fine."
Carefully, she said, "What's wrong with your brother?"
He sat up slightly, propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at Cherry with confusion in his eyes.
"Why would you say that?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "What's wrong with Harald? Why would anything be wrong with Harald?"
She cocked her head. "He summons you and Demetria panics, your grandmother almost starts spilling family secrets—"
"What did she say?" he demanded, his voice sharp.
Cherry held up her hands. "Nothing. Don't be angry with her."
"I'm not," he sighed, deflating before her eyes. "Of course I'm not. I'm angry with him. I'm angry at the way he can disrupt a perfectly good fucking morning from miles away, and I'm angry at myself for letting him."
"Don't be." She bit her lip, oddly unsure of herself around this new, darker Ruben. But then she pulled herself together and decided to be brave. She reached for his hand, and he met her halfway. Their fingers twined together, his palm dwarfing hers, his skin oddly cold. "Listen," she said. "Emotions are natural. Reacting is a part of living. What I’m asking is... What is it about this guy that causes such chaos?You can't tell me there's no reason. I mean, it's not like he really has any power—"
Ruben cut her off with a snort. "You're smarter than that, Cherry. Don't think that just because this is the modern age, a man with wealth and a title and endless connections and centuries of good fucking breeding is powerless."
"Fair enough," she murmured. "But aren't you the same?"
He let go of her hand. "No. I'm not the same." For a minute he looked so bleak, his features so drawn and harsh, that she thought she'd said something terrible. But then, all at once, his face smoothed out and he gave her something approaching a smile. "Don't worry about all of this, Cherry. I'll need you to pack again. I'm sorry to keep moving you around. But the sooner we introduce you and see what else he wants, the sooner we can come home."
She tried not to think too hard about the fact that, when he saidhome, this place sprang to mind before her old flat did.
No. Not this place. Her bed, in the dark, with him in it.
"Now?" she asked. "We have to go now?”
“No. The monarch has legal power over the rest of the royal family in a lot of areas—including marriage, by the way.” He frowned, shook his head. “Not that we’re getting married. What I’m saying is, if I don’t come when he calls, there’ll be consequences. But…” He settled back onto the bed, pulling her down with him. “I don’t have to come immediately. I’m not a fucking dog.”
Funny. It sounded like he’d said those words before.
“Tomorrow,” he said finally. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
