Vicious Prince (Royal Elite #5)(57)

I can’t say the same.

The information I just learnt — the fact that he’s probably not Ronan’s biological father — should delight me, because it’s this man’s downfall. A week ago, it probably would’ve.

Now, it doesn’t.

Now, all I think about is Ronan’s pain.

Just how and when the hell did I start recognising his pain when I’ve been doing everything in my power to ignore mine?

Even now, my feet are urging me to go to him, to hug him.

Wait…

Hug him?

What the hell, Teal?

“Mr Astor.”

“Edric is just fine, and don’t let Lars tell you ‘It’s his lordship to you.’ He tends to do that a lot.”

I smile because I think that’s what’s expected in response to his dry humour.

“Listen, Teal.” His smile slips, and I don’t like what I see on his features. I don’t like it at all.

In fact, I hate it.

I loathe it.

I wish there was an option to return his smile.

A man like Edric doesn’t get to show the shadow of pain or sorrow. He doesn’t get to be a human when he stole humanity from other people.

“I wanted to say I’m thankful for the time you spend with Charlotte, and even the text messages and the articles you send her. She looks forward to them every day and shows them to me with a big smile on her face. Your care means a lot to me.”

I’m at a loss for words, unsure why he’s telling me this. Besides, I didn’t do it for him.

“Once again, thank you.” His hard, stern expression returns. “I apologise if my son has done anything to disrespect you. He’ll grow up…eventually.”

“He’s grown up,” I say before I can stop myself.

“Excuse me?”

“Your son is grown up. In fact, he might have been grown for a long time and you just haven’t noticed it.”

He pauses, fingering his tie before he drops his hand to his side. “What makes you say that?”

It’s my turn to pause. Could it be that Edric knows?

No. It can’t be possible. He’s so proud, so sure of himself, so aristocratic and pragmatic.

“Nothing. I’ll go see Ronan.” I turn and leave before he can question me anymore. If I spend one more minute in his vicinity, I might lose control over my mouth. As Knox says, I have a problem with keeping my thoughts to myself.

I knock on Ronan’s door, but there’s no answer.

“I’m coming in.” My cheeks heat as I push the door open.

I expect to find Ronan and Eduard and I think about the possibility of punching the latter.

But there’s no one in the room.

“Ronan?” I call.

No answer.

I tiptoe to the bathroom, calling his name again, but there’s nothing.

Maybe he’s in the wardrobe? I fling the doors open and sigh in defeat.

What was I thinking? In the wardrobe, really?

I’m about to close it when I inhale his spicy scent. It does things to me now. I’m starting to notice it on other people when I’m in the supermarket or at school, and that’s not all. I even stop and think — no, it’s not quite Ronan, not quite as sexy or rough or warm.

That’s the problem with him. He can be rough, can give me what I want, but he can also be warm, like how he hugged me to his side after that nightmare.

I let my fingers run through his tidied shirts and T-shirts. They’re organised by colour, which has Lars’ fingerprints all over it. I’m tempted to ruin them just to get on his nerves.

I’m still contemplating that idea when I see some pink lace sticking out of a drawer. I pull it out, and my jaw nearly hits the floor.

It’s a bunny outfit. Scratch that, it’s one of those stripper bunny costumes with ears and the string-like underwear.

Elsa and Kim always mention Ronan’s bunny hooker fantasy. Hell, he brings it up every chance he gets, but I thought it was just that, a fantasy.

I never thought he took it to the next level by keeping the costume in his wardrobe.

A noise comes from the door and I shove the outfit back where I found it then exit before he can find me.

“Hey,” I say lamely and then wince.

He’s in black jeans and a white T-shirt, his muscles rippling at the biceps. He’s smiling, but the tension I sensed from when he was talking to Eduard still rolls off him in waves.

“Lars mentioned you were here. He forgot the part where you were going through my wardrobe like a stage-one stalker.”

“Shut up.” I pretend to be offended. “Did Lars mention anything else?”

“Aside from the fact that you can get your tea yourself because he’s PMSing and not serving you today, no.” He pauses. “Nice shirt.”

I blush.

I fucking blush.

And the problem is, I also blushed when I ordered this shirt over the weekend and when I snatched the package from Knox’s fingers and when I put it on this morning.

I don’t blush. Ever.

Just like I don’t feel like hugging people, and yet I’ve been doing both of those things lately.

“It’s not about you,” I try to deflect.

“Belle, it says ‘Talk French to Me’. If it’s not about me, I don’t know what is.” He approaches me, still smiling, but this time, it’s not forced or camouflaging pain.