Not sure which is the better option.
“Yes, the truth. I don’t like liars, and I’m not a sixteen-year-old girl, so I don’t like secrets,” I snap back, and his lips tip up on one side along with a cocked brow.
“Okay... Now I’m imagining teenage you in a little plaid skirt and knee-high socks, with a white shirt tied at the waist. Maybe your hair in braids.” He whistles, and my last shred of sanity snaps. “My brother is a lucky man.”
“Atticus, you douche, I’m not Brittney Spears, and no one else actually dresses like that.”
“Don’t ruin this for me.” He closes his eyes and hums.
It’s creepy.
“You better not be picturing me in that stupid outfit,” I groan and consider throwing something at him. Can I do that? Toss a sugar cube at a prince? “Could you just get to the point, please.”
“Ohh... And bossy too.” He cracks an eye open, then winks. “That’s even hotter.”
The ass.
“Atticus . . .”
“Fine,” he pouts, actually pouts, and somehow manages to make the expression look manly.
I’d almost say sexy, but compared to Rhys, I’m not sure I’ll ever find another man truly sexy again. Flipping fantastic. He’s ruined me for other men.
“When I saw you and Rhys together at Seven Swords, it was the first time I’d seen my brother look truly happy and relaxed since the day our mother died. It was the old Rhys. The real one. The Rhys he’s supposed to be. Deserves to be. And even with everything that’s happened since the king’s death, when he’s had every right to have broken from the weight thrust on him, he hasn’t. I’m not saying he would have without you, but I’m saying you made it better for him. You,queen bee, are good for him. He chose you?—”
“He didn’t choose me,” I whisper, needing to push back. To protect myself from believing it. “A few too many drinks and a bad game of darts chose me.”
My words are quiet.
Careful.
Meant for self-preservation.
Even if Atticus doesn’t seem impressed. He seems determined to prove a point as he lifts my hand up to his eyesand studies my ring finger dramatically. I’m coming to expect most of what he does to be done dramatically.
“You’re wearing our mother’s ring, Bellamy.” His voice takes on a more serious tone, one I haven’t heard from him until now. “I promise you my brother knew exactly what he was doing when he slidthatring on your finger. He choseyou,even ifyouchoose to live in denial. So do us all a favor and try not to fuck it all up.”
My eyes bug out of my head with his harsh words, but either Atticus doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care.
“The meeting with the high council is going to be a shit show. Expect yelling and the occasional tantrum. You’re dealing with a group of pissed-off, blue-blooded wankers, and they’re all used to getting their way. Most of them think my brother is too young to run this country, but they have no choice but to follow him simply because there is no other option. They’re not going to be happy he did this without consulting them. He’s setting a standard that he won’t be controlled, and these men live to control something. Definitely some mummy issues.”
The psych classes I had in undergrad flash through my mind. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what that?—”
Atticus puts a hand up with a smile and presses a finger against my lips. “Just go with the flow. Joss should be here soon.”
“I can’t go running to her every time I have to get dressed.” I look down at my black yoga pants and t-shirt. This is my go-to outfit when I’m at my home in Kroydon Hills, but looking at it through Atticus’s eyes, I can see his concern.
Maybe I should reconsider my stance.
The dining room doors open, and one of the butlers I haven’t met yet walks in. “Lady Joselyn Armstrong is here for you, sir.”
I’m not sure I’m ever going to get used to this.
Joss walks in and thanks the butler. “Please take my bags up to Miss Wilder’s dressing room. We’ll be up in a moment, andwe’re going to need a fruit and cheese tray as well as mimosas, please.”
She walks over and air-kisses Atticus’s cheeks, then waits for the doors to close again before she curtsies to me.
“Stop that,” I snap, but she doesn’t look bothered in the least. Her eyes drag over my clothes, and her nose scrunches.
