Vicious Prince (Royal Elite #5)(52)

“Oh…” She sits up and tucks her hair behind her ear, which I’m starting to think is her only nervous tick — or at least the only one she can’t hide. “I don’t usually fall asleep…” She trails off and peeks at me from underneath her lashes. “Did I say or do something?”

I lie through my teeth. “No.”

Teal isn’t the type who opens up if you confront her. If anything, I think she’s the type who hides. If I bring down her walls, she won’t only build them back up, she’ll also make sure they’re made of impenetrable steel this time.

“I think you just had a nightmare.” I motion at her face.

She places her fingers under her eyes, and when she realises there are tears, she quickly wipes them with the backs of her hands. “Th-That’s weird. I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologising to me about?” If anything, I should be the one apologising. I triggered that somehow.

I pull my jacket from the armrest and wrap it around her shoulders. They’re still trembling, and no matter how much she tries to hide her reaction, she’s spooked and shaken. I’m a fucker, but I’m going to use this chance to draw her out.

Sorry, Ron Astor the Second, you need to wait for your turn.

Mum used to tell me that in order to get close to others, you need to offer a piece of yourself in return. That idea never appealed to me, so I built Ronan, the king with a popularity crown and a harem of girls. It seemed easier and Ron Astor the Second agreed, so it was win-win.

But now, that fucker and I both agree that the others aren’t an option anymore, and it’s not only because of the pact Teal and I made. I honestly have no interest in anyone else but her. It’s a first in my life, and that’s why I know it’s special.

I’ve had non-special before. It was fun, but it was lonely. It always felt lonely afterwards.

With Teal, it’s anything but.

I place my arm around her shoulders and pull her into me. She starts to protest, but I force her into the curve of my body, and she eventually gives up her futile fight.

We’re sitting on the sofa and she’s almost straddling my lap without actually doing so.

I trace shapes on her skin with my finger. “Do you remember your nightmare?”

She shakes her head against my shoulder. It’s a lie. Her expression is sobering up, which means she’s slowly but surely rebuilding her walls.

Not this time.

“I remember my nightmares.” I smile. “In fact, it’s only one, reoccurring over and over again, sometimes in the same night.”

“What is it?” she asks.

“If I tell you, are you going to tell me about your nightmares?”

She swallows and I expect her to refuse, to wear her armour and hide behind her walls, but her head bobs up and down in a nod.

I plaster a smile on my face as I speak. “My nightmare starts in a dark, long street. I’m the only person there, and I’m a child. It’s a bit haunting, a bit too silent, a bit too dark. I run down that street over and over again like a mouse trapped in a maze. I always end up on the same street with the same darkness and the same loneliness. I call for my parents, but neither of them answers. I don’t stop running or calling them, though. I say, ‘Mother. Father. I’m here. You forgot me here.’ They never come. I only wake up when one person comes.”

“Who?” she whispers, her voice almost spooked.

“Lars.” I grin, chasing away the remnants of those images. “He’s the one who wakes me every morning. I always ignore my alarms.”

She glares up at me. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Smiling while you’re saying painful things. You shouldn’t be smiling about that.”

“Well, some philosopher Cole reads about says you can fight pain with smiles.”

“You can’t. You’re only camouflaging it, and sooner or later it’ll come back and bite you.” Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. “I don’t like it when you put a mask on in front of me, Ronan. In fact, I hate it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay — what do you want? Some sort of a contract?” I tease.

She huffs. “You don’t have to be a smartarse.”

“Your turn, belle.”

A long sigh slips through her lips. “My nightmares also start like yours.”

“Like mine?”

“In the dark. It’s always so black. Everything is.” She stops and doesn’t seem to plan on going on.

“And?”

“It’s just that, dark. I can’t move or speak, and sometimes, I wish I couldn’t feel either. If I didn’t, it’d just go away, you know?”

“But it never goes away.”

“It never does,” she murmurs in reply, even though it wasn’t a question.

We share something, a feeling, a trauma. It’s there in the way she shakes but tries to smother it, the way she bites her lower lip so she doesn’t blurt it out.

One day she will, and one day, I’ll be there to hear it all.

“Does your nightmare have something to do with how you like hurting me?” she asks, her huge eyes staring up at me as if I hold the answers to the world’s problems in the palm of my hands.