Her hand is bony and cold in mine, but there’s unanticipated strength in her grip as she returns my squeeze — hard enough to make my fingers ache. I tell myself the tears in my eyes are from that pain, not from her next words.
“Okay.Okay. I’ll try. I might not succeed, I’ll probably let you down again… But I’ll really try. I promise.”
Chapter Seven
Over the next two weeks,we carve out fragile new patterns of cohabitation at the castle. It’s bizarre to have Chloe and Carter living with me again. We’ve shared the same roof before, but things feel different this time. Theyaredifferent this time.
Chloe is sober, for one. Gone are the days of her night-owl antics — stumbling home at dawn in a sequined dress, her makeup smudged beneath dilated eyes. Now that the worst of her withdrawal symptoms have passed, most days she’s awake before I drag myself out of bed: doing yoga in the Gatehouse training center with Galizia, meditating on the floor of her suite surrounded by scented candles and ambient sounds, sipping tea in the library with Dr. Hess, the new psychologist she’s started seeing every afternoon.
Already, she’s smiling more. Eating more. Even laughing again. The circles under her eyes are fading day by day. There’s a healthy glow to her skin which, mere days ago, was wan with exhaustion. Her progress is startling in its suddenness.
I know it’s still too early to be entirely confident these lifestyle changes will stick, but I catch myself feeling cautiously optimistic. Or perhaps I’m simply more at ease having her here.Home. These gloomy castle corridors don’t feel so incredibly vast with the sound of Chloe’s laughter echoing down them.
Having my sister back in my life fills me with a remarkable sense of rightness — as though I’ve snapped fully awake after sleepwalking for months. I’ve felt more alive in the days since she returned than I did the entire span she was away. Maybe I’m the one who’s supposed to be helping her find equilibrium but, in reality, she’s doing the same for me.
Her brother is another story.
With Carter Thorne once again stalking the halls of Waterford Palace, I spend my days balanced on the edge of a dangerous fault line — acting as a pillar of strength for Chloe while my own foundation crumbles, brick by brick, beneath my feet.
I never knew it was possible to be so simultaneously drawn to and repelled by someone; to have their every nerve ending call to yours like there are magnets in their bloodstream specifically calibrated to either draw you in or shove you away, depending entirely on their mood.
Lately, that mood is decidedly dark — at least, around me. For Chloe, he puts on a mask of civility and brotherly concern. Not me, though.
I get the beast.
Stripped of any obligation to act polite, Carter does more scowling than speaking where I’m concerned. Whenever we find ourselves alone in the same room — be it the kitchen for a late-night snack or the library for a new book off the shelves or the hallway outside our adjacent suites — he shoots me the most withering of looks before pivoting on one heel and striding in the opposite direction. As though he can’t get away from me fast enough. As though my proximity is something to be avoided at all costs.
I watch him go in silent misery, paralyzed by my desperation to chase after him and the knowledge that doing so would be an unmitigated disaster.
He is not your beast to tame, Emilia. He never was.
Carter’s arctic chill is hardly warmer when other people are around to witness it. He may not physically remove himself from my presence while Chloe is in the room, but the waves of fury pouring off him are palpable — a never-ceasing tide of silent wrath. I let them wash over me without complaint, wishing his anger was enough to render my own attraction null and void. If disdain could cancel out desire, I’d have been cured of this ill-fated infatuation long ago.
I’m not sure how much longer I can endure the strange truce we’ve struck — it feels eggshell-thin, liable to crack apart at any moment. We are one conversation away from wreckage, and every day it’s getting harder and harder to shove down my words. I am choking on all the thoughts I’ve spent two weeks swallowing in his presence. I fear my windpipe will soon be so blocked, I won’t be able to breathe at all.
I almost wish he’d gone back to stay at Hightower; that Chloe hadn’t done her puppy-dog-eyes routine until he agreed to stay.Almost, but not really. Because the only thing worse than him being here, hating me, would be him not being here at all.
If this is the only version of him I can get… I’ll take it. I’ll take the beast.
I never expected Prince Charming from him, anyway.
“Hello?” A pillow sails into the side of my head with a thunk, jolting me back to reality. “Am I talking to myself here?”
“Sorry.” I shoot Chloe an apologetic look from my chair by the window. She’s sitting on her bed, painting her toenails a bright shade of aquamarine. “What were you saying?”
“I asked what you’re planning to wear tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? To open the Parliamentary session?” My nose wrinkles with distaste. “Probably an ugly pantsuit or something else suitably dignified…”
“God no.” She snorts. “Tomorrownight. To that charity auction in Frenburg — the one benefiting the victims of the Vasgaard Square bombing. All of Germanian society will be there.” Her head tilts. “Youaregoing, aren’t you?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
Truth be told, without Caulfield here to pressure me about making more public appearances, I haven’t even entertained the thought of leaving the castle. I’ve been too focused on Chloe’s recovery to contemplate much else. Tomorrow morning’s visit to Parliament is the only planned exception to my isolation.
Each month, it’s customary for the reigning monarch to open a session of government with the ceremonial oath, listen to the ministers propose and vote on different bills, and sign those that pass into official law. The practice is known asroyal assent,according to the history texts I’ve been studying and, as far as I can tell, it’s mostly a formality. A sovereign hasn’t withheld their stamp of approval on any law in over a century.
Perhaps the anti-monarchists are onto something: it seems I’m nothing but a figurehead after all. The ministers in Parliament appear to be the only ones with true power in this kingdom.