Paper Princess (The Royals #1)(42)

That gets me a genuine-sounding laugh. Eyes twinkling, Brooke taps the empty stool beside her. “Sit,” she orders. “And tell Brooke all about it.”

I sit down, though I’m not entirely sure why.

“What happened at school, Ella?”

I gulp. “Nothing, really. I, ah, may have beat the crap out of someone.”

A shocked laugh flies out of her mouth. “Oh dear.”

For some inexplicable reason, I end up telling her the whole story. How Jordan was determined to humiliate and shame me. How I turned the prank around to my own advantage. How I slammed my fist into the bitch’s jaw. When I’m done, Brooke surprises me by patting my arm.

“You had every right to lose your temper,” she says firmly. “And good for you, putting that nasty girl in her place.”

I wonder if Callum would have the same oddly proud reaction if he knew what I did to Jordan, but somehow I doubt it. “I feel bad,” I admit. “I’m not usually a violent person.”

Brooke shrugs. “Sometimes a show of force is necessary, especially in this world. The Royal world. Do you think the Carrington girl is going to be the only person who gives you grief about where you come from? She won’t. Resign yourself to the fact that you now have enemies, Ella. A lot of them. The Royals are a powerful family, and you’re one of them now. That’s bound to inspire hate and jealousy in the people around you.”

I bite my lip. “I’m not a real Royal. Not by blood.”

“No, but you’re an O’Halloran by blood.” She smiles. “Trust me, that’s equally enticing. Your father was a very rich man. Callum is a very rich man. Ergo, you’re a very rich girl.” Brooke takes a delicate sip of her wine. “Get used to the gossip, darling. Get used to walking into a room and having everyone in it whisper that you don’t belong. Get used to it, but don’t let those whispers defeat you. Strike back when they strike you. Don’t be weak.”

She’s like a war chief delivering a speech before battle, and I’m not sure if I agree with her advice or not. But I can’t deny I feel a bit better about rearranging Jordan’s smug face today.

We hear the front doors open, and a moment later Callum strides into the kitchen. He’s wearing a tailored suit and looks frazzled.

“Don’t say it,” he orders before Brooke can even speak. Then his tone goes softer. “I’m sorry I’m late. The board decided to call a meeting just as I was on my way out the door. But let me just get dressed and then Durand will take us to the airfield. Hi, Ella. How was school?”

“Great,” I lie, hopping off the stool. I avoid Brooke’s amused eyes. “Have fun at dinner. I’ve got homework to finish.”

I dart out of the kitchen before Callum realizes I didn’t go to the football game like he wanted.

I head back to my princess room and spend the next two hours tackling boring math equations, and it’s a little past eleven when my door swings open and Easton strides inside without knocking.

I jump in surprise. “Why the hell didn’t you knock?”

“We’re family. Family doesn’t knock.” His dark hair is wet as if he’s showered recently, and he’s wearing sweats, a tight T-shirt, and a surly expression. In his right hand is a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

“What do you want?” I demand.

“You weren’t at the game.”

“So?”

“Reed told you to be there.”

“So?” I say again.

Easton frowns. He takes a step toward me. “So you have to keep up appearances. Dad wants you involved in shit. He’ll stay off our backs as long as you play along.”

“I don’t like games. You and your brothers don’t want to be around me. I don’t want be around you. Why pretend otherwise?”

“Naah, you want to be around us.” He moves even closer and brings his mouth to my ear. His breath brushes my neck, but I don’t smell alcohol on it. I don’t think he’s dipped into the bottle yet. “And maybe I want to be around you.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why are you in my room, Easton?”

“Because I’m bored and you’re the only one home.” He flops down on my bed and lies back on his elbows, the whiskey bottle tucked at his side.

“Valerie said there’s a post-game party. You could’ve gone to that.”

Grimacing, he lifts his shirt, revealing a nasty looking bruise on his side. “I took a beating on the field. Don’t feel like going out.”

Suspicion rolls through me. “Where’s Reed?”

“At the party. Twins, too.” He shrugs. “Like I said, it’s just you and me.”

“I’m about to go to bed.”

His eyes linger on my bare legs, and I know he also doesn’t miss the way my threadbare shirt clings to my chest. Rather than comment, he slides up the bed and rests his head on my pillows.

I grit my teeth as he grabs the remote from the side table, flicks on the TV, and changes it to ESPN.

“Get out,” I order. “I want to go to sleep.”

“It’s too early for bedtime. Stop being a little bitch and sit down.” Surprisingly, there’s no malice in his tone. Just humor.

But I’m still suspicious. I sit down as far away from him as possible without falling off the mattress.