He bites down on the word, but I hear it echoing unsaid off every wall in the hallway anyway, ricocheting like a bullet off every stone before embedding itself deep in the flesh of my chest wall.
Us.
Avoiding us.
“I’m not being purposefully hurtful,” I say, tears filling my eyes again. My voice is a thin concession, a wavering white flag on a blood-stained battlefield. “I guess I thought removing myself from emotional entanglements was safer. I never considered pulling away might do just as much damage in the long run. I didn’t see it as… as selfish, or hurtful, or cruel.”
“Yeah, that much is pretty fucking obvious,” he snaps.
“Carter, I—” I start, but he’s already turning away from me.
“You know what? I’m tired. I’m going to crash in my old suite, assuming that’s okay with you. If not, I’ll call a car service and head back to Hightower.”
“No,” I say instantly. “Stay. Of course you should stay.”
“Only for tonight. I want to be here when Chloe wakes up. But don’t worry — I don’t plan to make a habit of it.” His shoulders are stiff with tension. “Goodnight, Your Majesty.”
I watch him stalk to his door in silence. My heart is in my throat, effectively blocking all the words I want to call out to him. By the time I manage to clear it, he’s already slammed his door shut and flipped the lock with finality.
“Good morning, Carter,” I murmur to myself as I walk to my bedroom, mellow beams of a pale pink sunrise a harsh contrast to the gloom inside my heart and mind.
I’m sorry.
I’m so, so sorry.
I wish you’d let me tell you.
And most of all…
I wish telling you would change a damn thing.
Chapter Six
I sleep dreamlesslyfor the first time in months. I tell myself it has nothing to do with the man tangled in sheets on the other side of my bedroom wall. Just the knowledge that he’s there, one suite away, is surely not enough to negate my nightmares. That would be absurd.
Wouldn’t it?
The weak sun shining through my glass terrace doors tells me it’s late afternoon; I’ve slept most of the day away. After a quick shower, I yank on an old pair of ripped skinny jeans and a thin sage green sweater, stuffing my feet into sheepskin slippers to avoid the chilly stone floors. Even with the heat on full blast, the palace is colder than an icebox.
I don’t bother with makeup or blow-drying my hair; I’m far too eager to check on Chloe. On my way to her suite, I pass Carter’s door on stocking-feet, wondering if he’s still asleep inside. If things were more normal between us, I’d poke my head in and take a look. But as they currently stand — somewhere betweencomplicatedandclusterfuck— I don’t dare disturb him.
With Chloe, I have no such qualms about invading personal space. I turn the knob slowly, trying not to make excessive noise as I swing open her door and glance inside. Sure enough, she’s still unconscious; a tuft of red hair sticks up between two pillows, a body-shaped lump is splayed diagonally across the mattress. I can hear the rhythmic sound of her light snores, assuring me she’s still alive and well.
Relieved, I close the door behind me and head down the hallway, in the general direction of the castle kitchens. My stomach is rumbling with hunger — such an unfamiliar sensation, I hardly recognize it. I can’t remember the last time I had an actual appetite; the last time eating felt like a joyful culinary experience instead of a chore to be trudged through for pure sustenance.
Patricia, the palace chef, will be thrilled by this development. Her talents have gone to utter waste over the past few months.
I’m cutting through the throne room, my mind spinning with thoughts of blueberry pancake stacks and warm raspberry scones, when my eyes snag on a corridor to my left. It’s one I haven’t dared walk down in quite some time. My feet move of their own accord, turning from the path that will take me to kitchens toward the one that leads to the South Wing.
The King’s Wing, as the servants are fond of calling it.
This is the only part of the castle I didn’t visit during my many months of insomniac exploration. When Linus died so suddenly, something about coming here felt wrong. Like I was trespassing on his personal space, even though he was no longer alive to give a damn.
I don’t allow myself to question why it seems like less of a violation today; I simply turn and start walking. I take my time — my feet unhurried as they move over the ancient flagstones, my eyes scanning from the narrow, medieval-style window slots to the ornate wall sconces.
Rounding a bend, I pause when an impressive set of wooden doors comes into view: my father’s study. Just the sight of the heavy brass knocker is enough to steal my breath. My stomach twists in tandem with my hand as I grasp the lion-headed door knob and push inward.
It looks just the same as I remember it. That shouldn’t be a surprise — no one’s been in here. I gave strict orders the maids weren’t even allowed to clean, lest they disturb anything my father left behind.