Page 40 of Twelve Nights In The Prince's Bed

Poppy’s eyes widened and her cheeks flushed with that telltale crimson, showing embarrassment. It was so innocent and adorable. He balled the hand by his side into a fist, a way of holding his control.

‘I meant,’ she murmured softly, ‘why do you avoid complications in your personal life?’

The question shouldn’t have surprised him. He’d opened the door to it, by mentioning his usual prerequisite for relationships. But he floundered for words, strangely uncertain as to how to respond. Ordinarily, he’d have given some dismissive response, a non-answer, but with Poppy, the truth hummed and zipped through his veins, fairly bursting to be spoken.

He stood up, hoping that physical space might squash that instinct, but Poppy stood too, moving to his side, one hand on his shoulder, the blanket dropping a bit, revealing the delicate blue cardigan she’d worn at dinner. His hand had brushed her back as they’d taken their seats and he’d felt how soft the wool was, even as he’d fantasised about removing it later, because her skin was so much softer and he yearned to touch her, to feel her.

‘You think that’s unusual?’ He volleyed back a question to buy some time.

She considered that. He really liked how thoughtful Poppy was. She didn’t just blurt out whatever occurred to her, but rather took time to form her thoughts and express them well. Her inner lawyer, or perhaps what had drawn her to study law in the first place?

‘Your whole life is unusual,’ she said slowly. ‘The way you were raised, the expectations on you since birth—’

‘Not quite since birth,’ he said with a shake of his head, then wished he hadn’t interrupted, because his response gave far too much away. The darkness inside Adrastos that he preferred to keep all to himself.

‘Since birth.’ Poppy was firm. ‘The expectations changed, after Nicholas died,’ she murmured, ‘but you were still raised with very clear ideas about who and what you needed to be.’

‘Was I?’ She was right, and he couldn’t say how he felt about that, only that hefelta lot.

‘Of course. As a young boy, an adolescent, you were Nicholas’s spare, a backup. No one thought you’d ever be called upon to rule, and, as such, you were required to mute yourself, as much as possible, to allow Nicholas to excel.’

He made a grunting noise. ‘Is this your interpretation, or has my sister been filling your head with this nonsense?’

Poppy’s eyes held his for a long time, before flitting away, focussing on the moon across the wild woods. ‘I don’t think I’m wrong,’ she said, eventually. ‘Except you’re not someone who is easy to mute.’ The smile that touched her lips did funny things to Adrastos’s gut.

‘It must have been hard for Nicholas, to grow up in your shadow, despite the fact he was the older brother.’

‘Poppy—’ Loyalty, and his ever-present survivor guilt, had Adrastos’s stomach churning. ‘Can we save the psychoanalysing for another time? Say, never?’

Her smile was wistful now. ‘Is it why you avoid relationships, Adrastos? Is it because you felt hurt by your parents? By them always wanting you to be different? Or is it something else?’

‘Why does there have to be a reason?’ He was pushed into a corner and lashed out rather than look at the horror-show reality she presented him with. ‘Can it not simply be that I like sex?’ His voice was far too loud. She flinched a little, but held her ground, and he fought hard to bring himself back under control. ‘I like sex,’ he repeated, and Poppy’s eyes widened, so only an idiot would fail to realise that he was hurting her, and only a heartless bastard wouldn’t care, but Adrastos was certainly, in that moment, the latter.

‘I sleep with women because I enjoy it. Lots of women. And one day, if Eleanor fails to marry and produce happy little heirs to placate the palace, then I will do my inherited duty and marry someone suitable and set about impregnating her. Is that what you want to hear, Poppy?’ His gaze narrowed. ‘Unless, of course, you happened to conceive my child on our first night together, in which case, we might as well make everyone happy and just get married.’

She gasped, took a step back, and he could see he’d gone way too far, that he’d lashed out intentionally to hurt her and, instead, he’d said things that were cruel and unnecessary.

‘I’m on the pill,’ she reminded him. ‘So you can relax. Neither of us has to go through with a marriage that we’d both hate.’

He scowled, glad to hear her describe it that way, glad to hear her say that, because they would both hate to be married. So why did it feel as if all the gravity in the world had changed and was now pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe, difficult to see straight?

‘Wonderful.’ He grunted, his mood darkening by the minute.

‘And with that,’ she said, quiet dignity dripping from the icy words, ‘I’m off to bed.’

He expelled an angry sigh rather than answer her, and a moment later, Adrastos was on his own, just as he liked to be, just as he always would be, if he had his way.

Poppy slept poorly. Worse than poorly, she barely slept at all. The entire night was spent clinging to her side of the bed, trying to keep her wits about her, out of a fear that her body might forget she was cross with Adrastos and her hand would stray to his side, would touch him, would pull him to her, would beg him silently to make love to her, to kiss her and tell her everything was okay.

But she didn’t, and nor did Adrastos. At some point around dawn, she felt him move, the weight of the mattress changing as he pushed up and then strode towards the door of the bedroom. Poppy squeezed her eyes shut, feigning sleep. Evidently, Adrastos had no interest in continuing their conversation from last night; he slipped from the room without a word.

Good, Poppy thought to herself, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling.

She had a lot to think about.

Their conversation last night had given her no shortage of mulling points, including his insistence that this was normal. He’d experienced this sort of thing before. Poppy wasn’t special.

She rolled onto her other side and now she allowed her hand the liberties she couldn’t take in the night, reaching out and running her fingertips over his still-warm pillow, feeling the indent, as a sting in the backs of her eyes threatened tears. But Poppy wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t. To cry would be to acknowledge something far too dangerous to herself: it would be to admit how much she cared about Adrastos.

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