“Where are we going?” she asks for the third time. She barely gets her words out without laughing.
This is her version ofare we there yet,and I’ve heard it every five minutes on the dot.
“You’ll see soon enough.”
“You keep saying that,” she says.
“Because you keep asking. Patience, babe. It’s a virtue.” I smirk.
She shoots me a look, and I grin as I reach for her hand. The diamond on her finger catches the afternoon light, and I kiss her knuckles as I drive. This is happiness. This is what I’ve always wanted.
We crest a hill, and the lavender fields stretch out below us in rolling waves of purple that seem to go on forever. The scent fills the cab. It’s sweet and calming. Addison makes a sound beside me, and her grip on my hand tightens.
“So”—she licks her lips—“you plan to tell me where we’re going?”
“Hmm.”
I nod forward at the estate that rises at the end of a long drive. It has honey-colored stone and ivy climbing the eastern wall. This castleis smaller in scale than the others, but more beautiful in its simplicity. It has eight bedrooms, a library, a study, and an incredible kitchen that I designed myself. The gardens lead down to a private lake. This was built for my great-grandfather as a retreat from court life, and it’s been sitting empty for years. That ends today.
I come to a stop in the circular drive, and I move around to Addison’s side.
She gets out and stares up at it with her mouth slightly parted. “What is this place?”
“Château Lavande.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Our home.”
She blinks several times. “Ourwhat?”
“Every royal is given an estate when they get engaged. Somewhere to live before they inherit the throne.” I gesture at the stone wall and the gardens spilling over with late summer blooms. “This is ours.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “Wait. You’re telling me you inherited a freakin’ castle?”
I burst out laughing. “There’s not a moat or anything, no drawbridge, but yeah.”
She stands there, smiling widely for a long moment, absorbing the house and grounds. Then she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me. “I can’t believe this.”
“Believe it, babe.” I take her hand. “Come on. I want to show you inside.”
The front doors are heavy oak and solid under my palm as I push them open. They swing into a foyer with a vaulted ceiling and a staircase that curves up to the second floor. Our footsteps echo on the marble as we walk through the entryway and into the main living area.
Addison stops in the doorway.
The room is large and bright, with French doors that open into the gardens and a fireplace built from local stone. Above the mantel, in the place of honor, hangs our painting—The Treason Portrait. It makes me grin. Our faces stare back at us from the canvas.
“I painted us into existence,” she says.
I can’t explain the soft expression on her face. It’s love, adoration, obsession, want, need. Everything.
“Yes, you fucking did,” I mutter, admiring her brushwork.
She crosses the room, moving closer, and her sandals tap on the hardwood. Addison stops in front of the fireplace.
“I begged the palace for it,” I admit.
“And they gave it to you?”
“It’s here, isn’t it?” I ask.
She chuckles. “That’s not the same as having permission.”
