Royally Matched (Royally #2)(40)

I inhale when my hand touches the doorknob—bracing for the overwhelming sensual onslaught that is Henry Pembrook.

He looks tired. And sad. And my wound throbs more painfully.

His usually dancing green eyes are dull and guarded. The blond stubble on his chin, which typically gives him an irresistible roguish allure, now seems almost war-weary. I pull the top of my robe tighter and secure the knot on the belt, as if that might protect me from his charm.

“What do you want?”

Thick, long lashes blink innocently—he knows what he’s doing.

“It’s bedtime. I’d like to sleep. Or we can chat if you prefer? I could play something soft for you on the guitar . . . or you could hum while I try to drift off and I won’t complain once, I swear.”

There’s a heartbreakingly hopeful note in his voice as he recounts what has become our nightly routine. And I want to open the door to him. And my arms. The way I would embrace a lad who’s so sorry he broke my favorite toy.

But I don’t—I can’t. It’s self-preservation. Henry is no mere lad—and his thoughtlessness is capable of shattering so much more than a toy.

I adjust my glasses because it makes me feel intelligent and strong.

“You’re not sleeping here, Henry.”

He shifts gears and changes tactics. Smirking devilishly. Persuasively. He braces his hand on the door jamb, leaning in. “Come on, Sarah. It was an accident—I’ve already said I’m sorry. Why are you making such a fuss about it?”

This is good. This is what I need. His flippancy and derision. It shores up my anger, and anger builds a stronger wall than hurt.

His eyes scan my puckered mouth, tight jaw and hard, unyielding eyes. He pushes a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands.

“This is fucking stupid—it’s a book! I’ll have a new one delivered for you first thing tomorrow. What else do you want me to do? Tell me and I will.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

I open the door a bit wider, leaning closer, and looking straight into his eyes.

“Leave. Me. Alone.”

He flinches, brows falling helplessly. “I can’t do that.”

I shrug, channeling Miss Havisham’s cruel protégé, Estella, from Great Expectations.

“Then you’re not really sorry, are you?”

His fists clench and his body coils, like he wants to punch something. Strange, but I’m not the least bit afraid. Because to the depths of my soul I know without question that while Henry has hurt me, he would never, ever hurt me.

“If you didn’t mean to let me in, why the hell did you open the door in the first place?”

Estella’s smile tugs at my lips. “So I could do this.”

Then together, Estella and I slam the door in the Crown Prince’s face.





I WENT BACK TO MY room, lay in bed and tried to sleep through the annoying racket of the cameras—and failed. I’m scheduled to spend the morning filming with Penelope, which I take as a sign that perhaps God hasn’t completely written me off. Because Penelope is bubbly and outgoing and, unlike her sister, she likes me—she’s always liked me. Having her on my side may not get me into Sarah’s pants—though a man can dream—but it could help get me back into Sarah’s good graces.

Vanessa arranges us like Beach Barbie and Ken dolls. “Hold hands and walk slowly down the beach. Talk to each other and laugh like you’re having fun.”

I can’t believe I thought this shit-show would be a good time. Christ, I’m a moron.

Vanessa backs off and calls to the cameraman, “Hold the wide shot. Make sure you get that sunrise in the background.”

I take my chance with the younger Titebottum sister. “I wanted to talk to you about Sarah—”

“Are you miked?” She cuts me off, her smile frozen in place.

“Uh . . . no. Vanessa just wants the visual, no sound.”

“Good.” She stares off across the water. “Then there’ll be no one to witness me saying you’re a piece-of-shit bastard and I hope you die screaming.”

It’s conceivable Penelope doesn’t like me as much as I thought.

“Come again?”

“Prince or no prince, if I could, I would cut your balls off, ground them into a fine powder, mix them in water, and make you drink them.”

I swallow hard.

“That’s . . . creative.”

She’s still smiling serenely, making the entire exchange all the more bizarre. And unnerving.

“Have you all gone mad? Christ, it’s a bloody book!”

“Not to her. You see, Prince Prick,” she continues, “your family loves you. Whatever fucked-up intrigue or drama goes on in the palace, they truly love you. Not everyone has that. Our mother is off her rocker and our family wouldn’t give two shits if Sarah and I rolled off a cliff and disappeared forever. It’s always been that way. Except for dear Auntie Gertrude. She’s the only one who ever gave a damn about us. Before she died, she summoned Sarah and me to her estate to give us our inheritance, because she knew, despite her will, her arsehole children wouldn’t have.”

Penelope’s hand holds mine in a strangling death grip.

“Aunt Gertie gave me her jewels, because she said I was hard and sparkly. She gave Sarah her rare collection of books, because she said Sarah was a dreamer. She told her she could sell them for a pretty penny or keep them for herself—but either way, Sarah would have her dreams. They mean the world to my sister, and you tore one apart. Which makes you a big, fat, limp, useless dick.”