Crown Jewels (Off-Limits Romance #1)(38)

My eyes fly around the vast space, drinking in the gorgeous oriental rug—gold, brown, and white; the dais by a row of bookshelves that bears a claw-footed tub (“for soaking, not bathing,” Liam tells me as my eyes catch his); a tall, thin dresser in one corner (“jewelry”); and an oil painting that must be almost two stories high, covering one wall almost to the ceiling. It depicts a forest, with a large deer at the center, looking directly out of the painting.

“Just for soaking,” I laugh, waving at the tub. “Holy hell, whose room is this?”

He smiles tightly. “The queen’s.”





SIXTEEN Liam





Mistakes are worse when you see them as you make them.

I know I shouldn’t let her stay…but I can’t send her off. I lead her to the crimson room—my mother’s room—because I’m incapable of any other action. I was born in that room, on a night with a full moon, the quarters lit by only candles, so I’m told. As the stories go, it was an easy birth, so my parents had no reservations about adding to the family later with my little sister.

I show Lucy the spacious bathroom and the refrigerator inside one of the bookshelves. I even pull the covers down for her, sporting a smile I hope she’ll find charming.

Then I’m gone. Not to my room—I know I can’t sleep—but to the rooftop gardens and the labyrinth.

The moon is full tonight. Its pearly light shines against my skin. My breath makes small, pale clouds in the black night.

You’re an imposter, my conscience screams. You’re lying to her.

I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter. She’ll be here and gone, another fuck, because that’s all I can allow right now. Until everything plays out, I can’t get close to someone new. It wouldn’t be right.

You shouldn’t let her stay at all, a small voice whispers.

I think about her hair. The way it felt. The way it smelled that night. I think about her silk-smooth skin. Her mouth. How fucking good I know already it will feel to just get lost in her, in Lucille Rhodes.

She’ll never know. She’ll never know how much I’m holding back. I won’t put her in danger.

Just a few days.

I crouch down beside the tall, stone wall and pull my flask out of my pocket.





*





Lucy





I’m tired, but I can’t sleep.

I know I have to tell him…soon. I can’t just stay here, in this gorgeous suite, right across the hall from sexy-as-hell Prince Liam, pretending we’re just friends or—worse—fuck buddies.

For the first few hours after the door shuts, I occupy myself with showering, texting Amelia and my family, and finally reading TMZ. I’m so mentally exhausted, I can’t bring myself to summon much feeling over the Lucy Rhodes stories, except some vague gratitude the mothereffers at TMZ pulled the images down.

I sit in one of the window seats, Grey perched beside me in a tiny, sleeping ball, and braid strands of my own hair as the moon climbs in the sky. The cool breeze ripples through the giant fir tree outside my window. In the distance, I see a tiny sheen of sparkle: ocean water.

At one point, I hear footsteps in the hall. Heat rushes through me as I think about Liam opening my door. Disappointment chills me when he doesn’t.

I think about how I’d want to be told the secret I’m keeping if I were a guy. Away from the castle, maybe. I don’t know what kind of security they have in place here, but if there are cameras—and I’m sure there are, at least in some spots—there’s probably someone employed to watch and listen to them.

I rub lotion on my legs and tell myself that in the morning, after breakfast, I’ll suggest we take a walk. I’ll tell him then.

I pull up TMZ again and stare down at a picture they still have up. It’s one of Bryce, relaxing on a chair beside a pool. His family’s pool, in the Hamptons. He’s shirtless, his arms looking toned and lean in the glow of the sunlight, his light blond hair whipped by a summer breeze.

I remember that bathing suit. The navy blue one. I think I might have even picked it out. I remember a conversation he and I had back in the day about designer clothes. How necessary they were. I remember stressing out a time or two about the color of my nail-polish. It, too, needed to be designer. The show’s producers were always saying something. What was it? I rub my temple. “It’s a fairy tale.” That’s what they used to like to say.

“They want a fairy tale. Give them a fairy tale!” I smirk as I remember this one particular producer. “You can’t buy anything at Target anymore, Lucy! Don’t even drive by,” she told me.

I look around the huge, dark room. There’s a fireplace, filled with white candles. I look at the canopy over the round bed, at the slats of glass up in the ceiling. Painted glass, it looks like. Stained glass. I can’t say for sure because it’s so dark now, but I think there’s stained glass in the ceiling.

I walk over to one of the ornate dressers and run my hand over its shiny wood. There’s a hand mirror atop it. It looks silver—or maybe platinum. I realize it’s glittering because it’s encrusted with diamonds.

I look at my face in the mirror.

Not a queen’s face.

My reflection blurs, and I can feel his hands around my wrists. I can hear his words. The things he said that night…