Snap out of it,my common sense snarls.Fantasizing about him won’t fix anything.
But barring Carter Thorne from my brain is proving more difficult than ever. Since he woke me from my nightmare last night, I haven’t been able to get him out of my head. After a month of careful distance, having him that close, seeing those eyes, smelling his skin… It hit me like a jolt of pure adrenaline, awakening a need inside me I thought long buried.
Like it or not, that night in the greenhouse…
He claimed me.
Body and soul.
Stroke after stroke.
Thrust after thrust.
I ache for him with every atom in my anatomy, and the sensation is only growing stronger the longer I deny myself. Like a drug addict in ever-worsening withdrawal, I crave my fix with a singleminded intensity that scares me as much as it thrills me. It’s such a foreign sensation, I hardly recognize it.
I’ve never been an adrenaline junkie. Never found a thrill in living on the edge. Before I became Crown Princess Emilia, I was just your average girl next door. A solid student. A hard worker. A reliable friend.
Financially responsible.
Good head on her shoulders.
I’ve never taken unnecessary risks. Never chased the bad boys who made my pulse speed faster or done reckless things for the sake of some bragging rights.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived my life in black and white — following clear and simple margins, attacking my problems with methodical precision. I rehearse every important speech in my bathroom mirror. I make rational pro-con lists. I trust my head over my heart.
I like science.
I like math.
I like concrete answers and predictable outcomes.
I’m simply not a girl who lets lusty thoughts cloud her levelheadedness. In fact, Idespisethose girls.
And yet…
Here I am. An emotional tangle of desire and desperation, all over a man I can never even have.
I know it’s not sane or healthy or rational.
Still, I can’t stop. I can’t shut it off.
I can’t shut him out.
Turning off the rainfall shower-head, I step out onto the heated marble floor and grab a towel from the rack. The Lancaster crest — a double-headed lion — is embroidered into the plush white cotton with thick gold thread. I scowl at it as I dry my dripping limbs.
Curse this legacy.
Curse the blood running in my veins.
Curse the crown they thrust onto my head, without ever asking if I wanted it.
Everything was so much simpler when I was Emilia Lennox, the studious psychology intern with lavender hair and a pathetically uncomplicated love life.
Oh, if I could only go back…