Royals (Royals #1)(67)

Definitely don’t want to be in Seb’s care.

But I follow him down the alley and toward a heavy wooden door set into the gray stone of a building. “The Prince’s Arms,” he says, opening the door for me. “Appropriate, no?”

I roll my eyes as I walk past him and into a shadowy interior that smells like smoke, beer, and carpet that’s probably three hundred years old.

We make our way to the bar, and the man standing there by the beer taps clearly recognizes Seb, and not just in the princely way. He puts out a hand to shake Seb’s. “Been a while, lad,” he says, and Seb shrugs.

“Too long. Usual for me, lemonade for my companion, please.”

I really don’t want lemonade—it doesn’t mean the same thing here as it does back home. No sugary tart goodness, it’s more like watered-down Sprite, and for some reason, it’s the drink everyone seems to be handing me lately. But I don’t say anything, and just take my glass from the bartender when he hands it to me.

Seb, of course, has a pint of some cloudy beer, and I wrinkle my nose at the smell of hops and yeast.

He chugs about half of it in one go, and when he sets the pint glass back on the bar, what’s left of the lager sloshes around. Seb’s eyes follow the motion moodily.

“This is super fun,” I tell him. “Is this our version of family bonding? That I watch you get drunk?”

Seb glances over at me then, his ruddy eyebrows drawn down over his blue, blue eyes. He really is stupid good-looking, but it’s like I hardly ever notice anymore. I’ve gotten so used to his face that it’s just . . . a face. A good one, sure, but once you know Seb, it’s hard not to see the mess behind all that pretty. That has the effect of killing the handsome, let me tell you.

“I wanted to be . . . alone with you,” he says, surprising me. I watch him swirl his lager again and shift on the barstool, looking around. There are only two other people in the pub, both of them ancient old men who appear to be having a contest to grow the most outrageous eyebrows. They’re sitting in a corner booth, the gilded lettering on the window casting weird shadows on their faces. It’s clear that they either don’t know who Seb is or don’t care, and suddenly I wonder if he comes here because he knows it’ll be deserted.

I stab at my “lemonade” with a straw, a creepy-crawly feeling between my shoulder blades. “Why?” I ask Seb, and he bangs his palm down on the bar. The sound startles me, but I realize he’s just signaling for another pint, and I roll my eyes. “If it was to see you get day drunk, I’ve already seen that before—”

“I’m in love with your sister.”





Chapter 31


I don’t know if throwing a drink in a prince’s face can get you sent to the dungeons or not, but I risk it.

“What the—” Seb splutters, the remnants of my lemonade dripping down his chin. The bartender doesn’t even look up from polishing glasses, but I hear one of the old men at the booth in the corner give a wheezing laugh.

He calls something to Seb in an accent too thick for me to understand, but I’m pretty sure I hear the word “filly,” which makes me glad I didn’t catch the rest.

“No,” I say, ducking in close to keep my voice down as he pulls napkins out of a dispenser.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Seb looks up at me, lemonade spiking his eyelashes. God, even covered in my drink, he still looks GQ-worthy.

“I mean, no, you do not get to put your particular brand of disaster all over Ellie. You’re not in love with her—you probably just want to hook up with her. It’ll clear up.”

“It’s love, not an STD,” he says, and before I can give in to a full-body shudder of ick, Seb sighs, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Sorry. I don’t mean to get snippy with you. It’s just . . . you’re the first person I’ve told.”

I’m still trying to process that when Seb gives one of those elegant shrugs he’s so good at and reaches into his shirt pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. “Well, the first person besides Eleanor, of course.”

My hand shoots out, fingers closing around his wrist. “You told Ellie? This isn’t some unrequited, pining-from-afar thing?”

Seb shakes off my grip easily enough, lighting his cigarette. “Oh, it’s unrequited, most definitely,” he mutters around the butt, and I feel an almost-giddy wave of relief. Okay, my sister isn’t cheating on her royal fiancé with his teenage brother. That’s something, at least.

“What did she say?”

Taking a deep drag on the cigarette, Seb squints at me. “What do you think?”

I snatch the cigarette out of his mouth, stubbing it out in an amber glass ashtray that has probably sat in this pub since the 1950s. “I hope she told you you’re an idiot.”

He props his head on his hand, elbow resting on the bar. “In so many words. I think castration was also threatened.”

I smirk at that. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Ellie mad, but I remember that when she gets going, she can get . . . creative. And Seb deserves it, really.

Watching me, he leans closer. “So she didn’t tell you?” he asks, and I gesture to his lemonade-soaked shirt.

“Um, obviously?”