Page 72 of Princess of Pride
Maybe this has finished him off for good. The kiss on the cliff wasn’t charged by desire. Anger and control drove him to act that way. The need to assert dominance, which he achieved.
I have to stop offering myself up to him in those moments. Talk about sending mixed signals.
I shower for longer than I intended, staying under the hot water until my skin resembles a prune.
Lorna has towels and a robe ready for me. I just cleaned myself, and yet, I feel dirtier than ever. The dirt is on the inside though and can’t be washed away.
What would my family have been like had I not been born? Better? Worse? The same?
This secret—this truth—explains why I always felt like I didn’t belong. Some part of me knew I was different. A hybrid from cross pollination like a bergamot orange. We have those in the orangery at the estate. Only one tree.
Mom prefers clementines.
I sink onto the makeup chair at the vanity in the bathroom. How do you apologize for unintentionally causing so much pain in someone’s life? She could have treated me worse. Adelaide’s stepmom treated her like trash. Mine treated me like her own, knowing I was another woman’s child. A woman Dadflaunted in her face. Much like Hunt did to Pippa. In those regards, my marriage isn’t half as bad.
An ironic laugh escapes me. Really? I’m a prisoner in a castle, and this is better?
Yeah. I’m messed up.
Gentle knocking sounds on the door.
Lorna is probably worried about me. I’ve been in here a while.
“Come in.”
Lachlan enters the room, looking impeccable as always in a charcoal suit and white dress shirt. The top buttons are undone. His thick, wavy hair is swept back from his face, sexy in that perfectly controlled kind of mess. His bright eyes sweep over me with concern.
“I’m fine. I’ll make it to dinner on time. I know how to get ready quickly. I’m practiced at it.”
“Your hair.” He takes a brush from the counter and gently pulls it through the strands.
I gape for two reasons. He’s brushing my long hair, and he knows how to do it. “Where did you learn to do this?” Does he have a sister I don’t know about?
Please don’t say an ex-girlfriend.
“My mother was sick before she died.” His tone is even and quiet, his focus on my hair and the task. “She kept her hair long, and sometimes I’d brush it for her. She liked it. She said the disease and life took so much from her that she refused to let it have her hair too, even if it was more convenient to cut it off.”
Holy hell. My brain scrambles with different thoughts. He loved his mom. They were close. He brushed her freaking hair while she was sick! She was a fighter obviously, and he lost her to a disease.
“What did she have? If you don’t mind me asking?” I add sohe doesn’t think I’m prying. I can’t believe he’s telling me something so personal.
“MS.”
I don’t know much about the disease other than it affects the nerves and can cause muscles spasms and difficulty with speech and walking. A famous celebrity has it. That’s the only reason I know anything at all.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“She loved books. They were all she had in the end.” He keeps brushing my hair, the gentle rhythm lulling.
My eyes close, and I exhale a breath I might have been holding since my conversation with my sister.
“The disease didn’t kill her. She did.”
My eyes pop open. I stare at him in the reflection of the mirror. With the brush, he points at the window near the tub. “Out there on the cliff where you were. She jumped.”
Holy fuck. My eyes sting from not blinking. My mouth hangs open and my stomach coils. “She…?” I can’t say it.
“Killed herself? Yes.” The lack of emotion in his tone alarms me.
