“I know what you’re planning,” Enzo says. “La Famigliarequires you to be married to inherit the throne. Is it really going to be her?”
Those words fall to the floor like billiard balls, heavy and hard, and they stop my heart right in its tracks. A cold flush, descending from my head on down my body, has me nearly shivering. I grit my teeth to keep them from clacking.
So it’s true. The small part of me that was hoping he was only storing the wedding dress in his bedroomfor a friend, dies. He really does have a fiancée.
Royal sighs, and turns away from Enzo, staring into a crackling fireplace.
“There is no one else,” he says. “I can have nobody else.” He leans on the mantel. There sits another collection of photos in intricate, polished silver frames. His gaze lingers on one in particular, and my heart stutters its way through a series of painful beats.
Of course. The beautiful woman in the photo. Who else would belong at Royal’s side?
A sour taste blooms on my tongue. I’m an idiot. A plaything. Something to keep him occupied while he brooded over his impending marriage to Sophia Loren.
And the way he said it.I can have nobody else.He doesn’t want anyone but her.
Time for me to go. I tiptoe down the hall to find the kitchen, and the side room with my coat. Forget charging my phone and calling a ride. I’ve got to get out of here before Royal finds me.
I push my feet into the boots and open the door. The wind lashes me across the face, tugging at my curls and promising a frosty walk. Maybe I can get to a bus stop before I freeze to death. But nothing will warm the frozen place inside of me, the iced-over blood sluggish in my veins.
Tears bite at my lashes, welling up in my eyes. The snow crackles under my feet, the top layer frosty-frozen, and the underneath powdery and slippery.
The driveway hasn’t been plowed since the snowfall, but I shove my hands in my pockets. I’ll make it out of here on my own two feet, with the battered and tattered threads of my pride wrapped around me like a cape. I’mnothis plaything. And he can’t toy with me, not anymore.
I stride forward and, not twenty feet out, my foot hits something under the snow. I go down flailing, face-planting in the cold fluff. Snow stings my eyes, and frosts my hair. I lie there for a moment, wishing I was anywhere else. Nobody in the history of the world has ever been as pathetic as I am.
“Principessa?” That smoothed over, melted-chocolate voice finds me, and before I can roll on my side to give him a wavering middle-finger, Royal’s arms are around me.
He picks me up, pulling me out of the snow like I weigh as little as a snowball. I’m too soggy and cold to protest. Much.
“What d-do you th-think you’re d-doing?” I try to sound snippy, but my teeth are chattering.
“What did I tell you about that coat?” he murmurs back. He curls me to his chest and despite myself, I melt into him. “I see you found some clothes. You look good,” he gives a softtsk, “but it’s too cold for you to be out like this.”
He strides back the way I came, the snow crunching under his shoes.
My hands ball up into fists, but they lie uselessly in my lap, his arms pinning mine against me so I can’t do anything but be carried, like a helpless kitten.
“I’m n-not g-going b-back,” I say.
“No?” Royal’s chest rumbles with an amused growl, and he carries me up the steps and back into the house. He sets me down in the grand entrance and closes the door. I feel about two feet tall.
“What were you thinking, going out with so few layers on?” He fusses over me, stripping the coat from me despite my struggles. “You could catch a chill. I should turn you over my knee.” He takes my hands between his and rubs them, like he did in the SUV. The memory smacks me so hard, I can’t catch my breath. “If you wanted to go for a walk with me, you only had to ask.”
“I wasn’t—I was running away, from you, you and your fiancée,” I spit out.
Royal cocks an eyebrow at my words.
“Fiancée?” he repeats, like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“I heard you talking to Enzo. He said you needed to marry.”
“Ah, yes.” Royal straightens, looking down at me from his regal height.
“And I found a closet full of clothes—” I reach for my anger and it’s right there. I point a finger at his chest. “Right there in your bedroom. Women’s clothes.Herclothes. I can’t believe you would?—”
“Did they fit you?” he interrupts.
“What?” I falter, my finger wilting.
