Page 54 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy
The pattern was emerging—something bad would happen, like the Island of Scheria, he’d blame himself entirely and then slap on his own prison sentence. Old habits died hard. He’d spent all his childhood under her father’s severe thumb, feeling his displeasure every time he broke yet another rule, somereal, some imagined. Now he’d turned that strict discipline on himself, living in constant turmoil.
And he wouldn't let her help him. All she could do was pour her energy into finding new purpose beyond the shallow charity galas and political assemblies she was forced to attend. Over the past week, she'd quietly begun liquidating accessible assets—her Manhattan apartment had sold within days for twelve million, her cryptocurrency portfolio converted to cash almost instantly for forty-five million, and several pieces from her modern jewelry collection were headed to auction.
She had no idea what her next move would be, but between the assets she controlled and Achille’s contribution, they’d been able to donate… a drop in an ocean of need. The crumbling Thessaly Bridge alone had consumed thirty-five million, with desperate requests for hospital equipment, road repairs, and school renovations pouring in daily—it was hard not to get discouraged!
Moving to the tall windows, Bris was drawn by the sound of rain drumming relentlessly against the glass. Outside, the storm showed no mercy—sheets of water cascaded down the ancient palace walls, turning the manicured gardens into rushing rivers of mud. Through the darkness, she could see lights from the village below flickering precariously along the swollen aqueduct that wound through the hillside.
Nestor promised that these swollen waters wouldn’t rise beyond the stone banks. Even still, flood season was terrifying. She’d be relieved when these storms passed and her new friends in the village were safe from danger. Earlier tonight, they’d attended another political dinner where they’d played the perfect royal couple—it was all she could do to hide her worry for her people, juggling her duty to charm ambassadors and deflect pointed questions about the failed kidnapping attempt.
Had it only been a week since that had happened? It hadn’t been enough time to heal completely—her elbow throbbed witheach movement, and the bruises on her ribs from that brute’s punch had deepened to an ugly purple-black. She wasn’t about to let Achilles discover that, however. For a few blessed hours tonight, she’d felt like they were true partners.
Edging open the bathroom door, she noticed him sprawled across their massive bed, still wearing his crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled-up and black trousers from dinner. His bow tie lay discarded on the floor, and several buttons were undone at his collar, revealing the strong column of his throat. He was texting on his cracked phone, his brow furrowed in concentration.
She wanted to laugh and tease him about not replacing the screen, but something caught her eye instead. The ring he’d used for their wedding vows rested on the marble bedside table—the first time she’d seen it off his finger.
His dark eyes snapped to her. Pain, always pain behind that gaze. And still, he watched her differently now—was she different? She felt different. The dangerous griffin he’d become still prowled around her, but now it sent her emotions spiraling into confusion rather than annoyance.
He held his hand out to her.
And she came to him, moving carefully to avoid jarring her tender ribs, feeling as vulnerable as an abandoned kitten finally coming home. He pulled her against him. Her hands got caught between them as he hugged her, gently, carefully so as not to hurt her bruised ribs. Even so, she felt his strength behind that embrace—strange how a man like him could transform from savage violence to tender protection in an instant.
Her hands found the warm expanse of his back as she allowed herself to surrender to his embrace. Something was shifting between them, something she’d never imagined possible when he’d abandoned her at the charity ball to talk to Charisse.
Could it be feeling—real feeling between them?
Glancing around his arm at the cracked screen of his phone, she caught a glimpse of text:“They’re not saying who’s behind them.”
The assassins again. The threat never truly left—it lurked behind every word Achilles spoke, behind his soulful touches. They were never completely alone.
She saw his reply before he could hide it:“Not good enough—don’t let them get away with it. I want more information.”
How far would he go for answers? She didn’t want to know. The screen dimmed to black, erasing the ominous words.
He moved back, his eyes finding hers, and she tried to change the subject, pressing her forehead against his muscular shoulder like she hadn’t seen anything. “Are you ever going to fix that phone?” she whispered against the warm cotton of his shirt.
His only answer was the steady rise and fall of his chest. He reached up to cradle the back of her neck with his palm, his thumb tracing gentle circles. “How are you feeling?”
He knew how to get straight to the point. “Better.”Kind of.“I still feel so stupid about the attack…” she admitted, “but better.”
“You’re not stupid.” His hands ran to her face, where he stroked her cheek with his fingertips. “And you’re not to blame. You saw children in need and wanted to help them. That makes you exactly the kind of queen this country needs.”
Big brother was back in his voice, yet the way he watched her burned with something else entirely. Her eyes locked with his turbulent ones, and he managed to steal all her breath with that one smoldering look.
His breathing, meanwhile, had turned heavier, more ragged.
The moment felt almost identical to when he’d kissed her before. She stilled, uncertain whether surrendering to this electric attraction was wise when Achilles always seemed so full of regret afterward. Her reservations were rapidly dissolving in his warmth and the security she felt in his arms. Fighting againstthe attraction she felt for her husband with everything in her, Bris broke their gaze. “Sorry! I’m dripping all over your shirt!” She started to pull away.
He swallowed hard, then laughed when the towel toppled from her head and ran against his stubbled jaw. “Hey, let me help with that.” He unwound the towel from her wet hair, letting the dark strands cascade over her neck and tangle through his fingers.
“That’s not exactly helping,” she said with a breathless smile.
He played with the damp curls, his eyes mesmerized. “Your hair is so much curlier when it’s wet.”
He wasn’t making this easy, was he? Forcing a laugh, she tapped his arm to release her and rolled to her side of the bed, arranging pillows behind her back while reaching for the nail polish on the side table. She unscrewed the bright pink cap, filling the air with chemical fumes.
He made a face at the sharp scent but moved closer to watch her ritual with obvious fascination. Confused by his continued attention, she lifted a shoulder in casual dismissal. “The new textbooks arrived at the school today.”
“Did they?” His voice caressed her with a sultry warmth that made her stomach flutter.
