Page 12 of Forbidden Heart

My whole body tenses. Of course they’re going to drink Champagne. This is college. Everyone drinks.

I remind myself once more that not everyone gets drunk and takes it as far as Father, but I can’t calm myself.

I look up and catch Charles watching me. Would he ever drink enough to lose control? I haven’t been afraid of his beastly size since we met, even after I caught him reading those awful fairy tales by Grimm, but the thought of him drinking makes me grow cold with worry. Would Tate, my Prince Charming, drink too? Would he stumble across the apartment in a drunken daze, the way JJ had the night we met?

“We’re not going to get drunk. Promise,” JJ calls from the kitchen, as if reading my mind. “I never meant to scare you that first night, but you know me so much better now, Roonie. You know I’d never hurt you.”

“I—” I can’t quite get the words out, so I nod.

“We’ll only have one glass each,” JJ adds resolutely. “A toast to LUV the Beat.”

“LUV the Beat?” I whisper, eyeing the bottle in his hand.

“Our a cappella group name,” Tate says. “Do you like it?”

“Say you like it,” JJ calls. “Tate came up with it.”

“We had to put our name down when we got through the audition.” Tate looks sheepish. “We’ve been so busy rehearsing, we never came up with a name. So I wrote down the first thing I could think of.”

“I like it,” I tell him honestly, but then I’m distracted by the sound of a popping cork.

JJ holds up the bottle of Champagne and splashes some of the bubbly liquid into a glass while crossing the living room. “Thank you for saving us with that audition song, Roonie,” he says, handing it out to me.

It’s not beer, but the smell is still a punch to the face. I try my hardest not to visibly gag, but I can’t, not when it makes me think of Father.

“I’m nineteen,” I sputter, without thinking. I’m not old enough to drink. Mind you... I don’t think Tate and Charles and JJ are either.

“And I’m twenty-one only on certain ID cards.” Tate grins and takes his own glass from JJ.

Charles keeps watching me, his midnight black eyes glimmering with concern. Silas watches me, too, but his gaze is cold. Terrifying in this room where there are drinks and stark reminders of Father.

“Roonie?” Charles moves to my side and takes the glass of Champagne from my shaking fingers. “Would you like me to get you something else?”

“Not all of us are snooty and prefer a snifter of brandy as we sit by the fire like old men in a Dickens novel.” Tate tells him.

Before I know it, my Prince Charming takes my hand and guides me to the couch. Then he pulls me down so I’m sitting next to him.

Charles immediately takes a seat on my other side, still holding my glass in his hand. In that deep, dark voice of his, he asks, “Are you all right, Roonie?”

“I’m going to need something stronger if I have to stare at you three all night,” Silas snaps, his gaze traveling from me to Charles to Tate and back again.

I freeze, not because of the angry look he shoots our way, but because he plans to drink something stronger. And because no one plans to stop him.

“Suit yourself.” JJ sets down the bottle of Champagne, picks up a glass of the bubbly liquid, and crosses the living room to join us.

Tate and Charles still haven’t taken a sip of their Champagne, and I tense when realization hits. The moment we all clink glasses, they’re going to drink. And they’re going to change.

I try to remind myself that they’re not Father, but it doesn’t work. My stomach lurches. My senses are overwhelmed by the phantom smells of alcohol, sweat, and grunge. Father’s voice as he yells at me. That bulging vein on his forehead when he’s so angry he’s about to strike. Swaying on his feet, his hand raised right before...

“Roonie?” JJ asks, worry lacing his tone.

“Look what we have here,” Silas calls out. “Let’s do shots.”

I look up and spot the Dark Prince. His black painted fingernails are wrapped around a huge, heavy-looking bottle filled with a deep amber liquid. The label is printed with swirling writing on it. I don’t know exactly what it is, but it’s definitely some kind of alcohol. One that calls for shots.

“You are not taking shots of my five thousand dollar brandy!” Charles shouts, making me jump.

The entire couch rocks as he gets to his feet, and I fall into Tate’s side. The Champagne glass in his hand rocks, but he manages to set it down on the coffee table without spilling anything. Then my Prince Charming wraps a protective arm around me, and I press into him as I try to stamp down the fear.