Page 80 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy
She’d rather die!
Bris shook her head, barely aware of what she was doing, she was so sickened. “He was your… friend.”
Her father’s eyes hardened at the memory. “And if I let him live, neither you nor your brother would be alive today. I watched my own brother dragged to his execution, his wholefamily hunted down like animals, even your—your mother…” his voice choked on emotion that she rarely saw, but now the darkness spread across his face, a despair so potent she could feel it in her own soul. “She bled out, and I couldn’t stay with her, couldn’t save her; I was so desperate to carry you and your brother away to safety, that I couldn’t tell her how much I loved her! Just left her like a dying dog! This whole country bled because of one man’s betrayal, so you can blame me for hating his son all you like! You can say it wasn’t right, but you didn’t know the suffering I did. Achilles might’ve been just a boy when I took him in… as a hostage—perhaps that’s a better description for it, but you can be sure that I’d never let his father find his spawn again without facing me for his sins.”
She could scarcely take this all in! This tidal wave of pain, this overwhelming rage consuming her own father making him drown in this dirty flood of hate—Oh! The sorrow she never thought she’d feel for him, for Achilles too, even for herself, made it so she could hardly breathe, hardly move.
“I’m not sorry for hating that—that… grasping leech,” her father’s voice broke through her turbulent emotions, his words dripping with venom. “That boy turned out exactly like Peleus—crawling in the shadows, spreading disease. If you ever win my trust, I’ll tell you—I’ll tell you every last disgusting detail of what he’s done, every plot, every dirty, bloodthirsty crime he’s committed. You’ll hate him as much as I do and welcome the Earl into your arms. I promise you that!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Somehow,Brisfoundherselfmeeting back up with Achilles under her father’s watchful gaze, eating her dinner in a nightmarish fog. Course after course appeared before her. She moved her fork mechanically over the delicate fish soaked in lemon sauce, her hands trembling so badly she was amazed the silverware didn’t break the china.
Their security detail watched them distantly. Conversation flowed around her—Gena’s forced chatter about her students, Achilles’s muttered responses, her father’s smooth political observations over the clink of crystal glasses. But all she could hear was the echo of his confession:“I’m not sorry for hating that—that grasping leech…. You’ll hate him as much as I do and welcome the Earl into your arms…”
Would his need for revenge cause him to tear her from the man she loved and give her to a worm if she didn’t follow in his footsteps?
She felt Achilles’s dark eyes on her throughout the meal, searching, questioning. How much of that concern was real? How much was he faking? Did he even love her? And could she even blame him for seeking refuge with the Myrdons after his childhood? Every time their gazes met, she had to look away before the tears she’d been holding back finally spilled over. The cross felt like a lead weight in her lap, hidden under the table in a deadly secret.
Maybe it would be better if those whispered phone calls to Charisse meant something. Maybe it would be easier to be married to a man she despised than one she loved more than she’d ever dreamed possible, all while knowing she was about to betray him in the cruelest way possible.
He would’ve betrayed you too!
Beneath the table, she gripped the chain so tightly it cut into her palm, the physical pain a welcome distraction from the agony in her chest.
When Achilles reached for her hand under the table, his fingers sliding over the chain she held, she nearly broke down completely. His touch was so gentle, so loving. If even a tiny portion of that was real, she was about to destroy everything beautiful between them. He leaned over her. “Let’s end thisdinner,” he whispered into her ear. “Make any excuse, I’ll run with it.”
Did he think he was saving her from their torturous meal or was he thinking about escaping himself? Either way, the night was only going to get worse. She turned to her father. “I regret that I must turn in early. I have a headache.”
“Yes, yes, get some rest!” he excused them with a smug grin.
Achilles bid her father goodnight with barely concealed distaste, his sharp gaze moving between Bris and the stiff patriarch. No doubt he guessed something had happened during their private meeting, but would he ever guess the fire now burning through her ears? She still didn’t know what was a lie or what was real, or if any of that mattered anymore.
He hugged his sister with one arm, glancing over at the steely-eyed bodyguard that shadowed her closer than a lover’s embrace. She studied the security man for herself, taking him in for perhaps the first time—he was tall, dark, handsome, and angry, definitely angry—that must fuel the “fight” she saw simmering through his steady gaze. What kind of orders had her father given the bodyguard relating to her normally cheery sister-in-law if Achilles got out of line?
“I’ll have your head if you let anything happen to my sister,” Achilles told him.
The nod was arrogant and self-assured. Knowing what she did, Bris didn’t trust it at all.
Returning to their bedroom felt like seeking sanctuary and locking themselves into a prison all at once. The golden walls closed in on her as she moved through her evening routine like a sleepwalker—removing her jewelry with mechanical precision, brushing her teeth while staring at her hollow-eyed reflection in the mirror. When she lifted the silver cross to put over her head instead, her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped it.
“Hey, let me get that.” Achilles’s fingers brushed past her neck, feather-light and warm as he helped her with the clasp one-handed. The help was all that she needed to get the necklace on, but he wasn’t through with her yet. He cupped her chin with shocking tenderness. She turned to meet his worried eyes, seeing her own pain reflected there. “Are you okay?” he asked. “What happened between you and your father?”
The question she’d been dreading. Her throat seemed to close up completely, words dying before they could form. How could she possibly explain?‘I have to spy on you or lose you forever? Oh, and by the way, my father murdered yours, but the guy deserved it, so…’
Turning away, she picked up a brush and tried to move it through the snarls of her hair. Her hand shook on the handle and the bristles got stuck in the thick chestnut curls. She couldn’t even brush her hair!
“Come here, Prissy.” Before she knew it, he was leading her to the cushioned window seat that overlooked the moonlit gardens, settling her in front of him in a move both playful and considerate, and it made her heart ache.
Stealing the hairbrush in her hand, he began working it through her hair with his good hand, silent with deep concentration, each stroke soothing and steady. His fingers grazed her neck, sending a shiver of warmth down her spine. The man was fire—a cozy one on a wintry night made for fuzzy socks and hot chocolate, and for now, it felt nice to give in to his cute flirtations. The touch of his skin against hers was beginning to feel as natural as her own.
“I think I’m going to have to take out Gena’s security guard,” he murmured against her ear, momentarily distracting her with the startling declaration. “He’s really good at watching over her… too good. I’m not sure I like it. What kind of name is Dominique anyway? Sounds like a fancy French perfume.”
A small laugh escaped her lips. Some things never changed. Trust Achilles to turn into his sister’s guard dog even while the world crumbled around them.
He pressed a kiss against the back of her head, and the sweetness made her eyes burn with unshed tears. This love felt so real, was it because she’d wanted something like this so bad? She cleared her throat. “I never gave you a wedding gift,” she whispered.
“Wait?” The brush hesitated over her hair. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
