Page 73 of Bloody Royals

We were hosting a charity event, something my publicist planned in an effort to improve my public image. Elementary students were getting a grand tour of the castle led by Christine. Now wasn’t the best time to ask her what was wrong, but the more I watched her, the more worried I grew. Leo followed her like a shadow, but it didn’t escape me how he looked at her with longing, his puppy dog eyes trailing her every move. Something happened between the two of them, and I was going to get to the bottom of it.

If he made a move toward my future wife, if he made her cry, I would end his life.

“Lady Christine! What’s your favorite room in the castle?” one of the kids asked.

She opened and closed her mouth, a glossy look crossing her expression. I could see the pain in the way her lips pressed into a thin line and her entire body went rigid. That was the fucking problem. Everything about this place was a trigger.

She shook her head and cleared her throat. “Probably the gardens,” she said with a forced smile.

A little girl pulled her thumb from her mouth and gawked at her. “You’re so pretty. I like your princess dress.”

Christine looked down at her gown and tugged at the thick fabric. “Thank you. I like your sparkly shirt!”

The little girl beamed, then pouted. “It’s not as pretty as your dress.”

Christine bent down. “I’d rather be wearing pajamas,” she whispered conspiratorially.

The girl giggled. The royal publicist, Victoria, cleared her throat. “Any more questions?” the insufferable woman directing this entire publicity stunt asked. These events were getting out of hand, and it annoyed me endlessly, but I couldn’t tell her to stop. Lord Nathan needed to know that he didn’t have a chance with my girl.

A little boy spoke up. “Do you have a crown?”

The excitement in his eyes was endearing, but Christine paled. “Not yet.”

Another boy spoke up. “Does King August get King Frederick’s old crown? I heard he was buried with it.”

A shadow crossed Christine’s features, something fleeting but still sharp enough to poke the phantom heart thudding in my chest. It was pain so vibrant and damning that I wanted to burn this whole fucking castle to the ground just to ensure she never looked like that again.

“I’m not sure about his crown,” Christine murmured.

Atticus entered the ballroom, an angry look on his face. I could tell something was up, because he hadn’t bothered to straighten the tie wrapped around his neck. I could see the tips of his tattoos peeking over his wrinkled collar, and his brown hair was messy. Atticus was always put together, and seeing him disheveled thrilled me; it was nice to know I wasn’t the only person falling apart these days. I just wished that Christine wasn’t breaking, too.

He stormed over to her, but she shook her head, silently eyeing the gaggle of children surrounding her. He huffed in frustration, then stalked over to me. The moment we stood toe to toe, he seethed. “What the fuck is wrong with Christine?”

I scowled. It wasn’t his responsibility, but maybe he knew something I didn’t. I wasn’t exactly wanting to let him know something was up, though. If he thought I couldn’t make her happy, then he’d swoop in and try to do it himself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.

“She texted me last night, saying she couldn’t talk to me anymore. Did you have something to do with this?”

Well, fuck. That wasn’t what I was expecting, but it made me feel like I was ten feet tall. Maybe I made Christine come so hard the other day that she realized she didn’t need anyone else. I preened at his words, and I could feel my expression turning to a dazed look of longing. “Oh,” I whispered while licking my lips, imagining prying her creamy thighs apart and—

Atticus growled and snapped his fingers in front of my face. “What did you do to her?” he growled.

I looked at him, the corner of my mouth curled in disgust. “Nothing,” I snapped. “Maybe she just realized she wanted me. We’re getting married, Atticus. I’m sure you were a fun distraction while she sorted through her feelings, but don’t blame me because she wants to focus on her future husband. I make her happy.”

Atticus raged. Reaching forward, he grabbed my collar and yanked me toward him. The guards surrounding us tensed and closed in, but I held my hand up to stop them. “Look at her,” he growled. “Does she look happy to you?”

He tugged on my collar, forcing me to look at my girl, who was staring at us with her mouth wide open. I searched deeper than her shock, finding the same sadness that had been worrying me. She did look sad. She looked broken.

An attendant herded the children into another room, and she took a deep breath before walking over to us. I hated that Atticus was right. She looked sad. Empty. It was killing me to see her this way.

Atticus let go of me to meet her half way, and I followed after him like a fucking idiot because I wanted to hear what they had to say. “Everyone out,” I ordered. When Leo turned to leave, I shouted again. “Not you, Winthrop.”

Christine closed her eyes in frustration as everyone filed out.

“Tell me,” Atticus said, his tone like steel. “Tell me why you won’t talk to me anymore.”

Christine looked at me, which apparently was the wrong thing to do, because he grabbed her chin and forced her to look back at him.

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