Page 52 of Twelve Nights In The Prince's Bed

She’d never wanted her own mother so badly as she did now.

As night fell, Poppy, a captive to her apartment, knew one thing that would make her feel better. A go-to she always employed whenever life got on top of her.

Poppy was a runner, and she needed now to pound the pavement, to feel strong and powerful and in charge ofsomethingin her life. She changed into workout gear, switched off the lights to the house then peered out. Paparazzi hadn’t been there for days. She pulled the door shut, nodded at one of her neighbours without stopping to speak and then ran, hard and fast, until her legs burned and her breath hurt, and she was so sore and tired that it was almost impossible to think.

Running was her salvation, but she suspected she’d have to basically circumnavigate the globe before she felt anything remotely like herself again.

He stared at the photo as though it had magic abilities. As though if he looked long and hard enough he could actually understand if it had legitimately been taken only the day before, or if this was a trick by the tabloids, designed to drive clicks and make sales. Maybe this was an old photo of Poppy? Because why would she still be here, in Stomland, when she’d told him she was leaving earlier? Why would she be a ten-minute drive away when he’d been torturing himself imagining the miles between himself and her? Why would she be alone in her apartment when she could have been in his bed at the palace, or, better yet, his bed here?

Why, why, why?

Cursing, he grabbed his keys, and without stopping to think through the wisdom of this, or to consider that maybe she’d lied because she needed space, space he shouldn’t invade, he ran out of his front door and into the car that was always waiting for him.

‘Take me to Poppy’s,’ he barked as a flash ignited through his window and he ground his teeth.

To hell with the press; he didn’t care. All he cared about in that moment was seeing Poppy and getting some answers. No, that wasn’t completely true. He cared, almost more than that, about kissing her until she agreed not to leave. This became his sole objective.

Poppy read Eleanor’s text just a moment before a knock sounded at her door.

I thought you were leaving!?

She didn’t have a chance to write back though. Moving through her home, phone in hand, she paused at the door, peeked through the hole and then pressed her back to the door in a complete fear response.

Adrastos!

Oh, no!

Oh, yes! Her body rejoiced, yearned to throw open the door and wrap her arms around him, but her mind, her sore, battered heart, knew that seeing him again would be a disaster.

‘Damn it, Poppy, I can see the shadow of your feet beneath the door. I canhearyou. Open the door before someone comes and takes a damned photo.’

Well, there he made a pretty decent point.

But there was no time to strengthen herself, no time to build a wall of defence around her fragile self. She opened the door and Adrastos breezed in then slammed it shut behind himself.

And then he stood.

And he stared.

And he stood, so still it was as if he’d turned to stone, and he stared, for so long Poppy felt as though he must see deep inside her, past her flesh and blood and bones and tissue and right into her soul.

She tried to move. She wanted to. But her feet were as stone-like as his body, so she also stood, and stared and ached, and needed, and longed for the way she’d been able to reach out and touch him whenever she’d wanted, for a few brief days. But it had left a lifetime of memories and she knew she’d nevernotwant to reach out to him.

‘You’re still here.’

She opened her mouth, belatedly remembering Ellie’s text, too. ‘How did you know?’

‘Is that really what matters?’

‘It’s just, Ellie...she messaged me too...’

‘There’s a photo of you running. The papers said it was taken last night, but I didn’t believe it. After all, you told me you’d been asked to start your new job early. You told me you were leaving. I thought you’d left.’

It wasn’t like Adrastos to babble, and he wasn’t exactly babbling, but nor was he speaking with any conciseness.

‘You said you were leaving.’

Her heart felt as though it had been speared by a thousand arrows. ‘I am leaving,’ she responded quietly, then expelled a soft breath. ‘On the sixth, as planned.’

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