Royally Matched (Royally #2)(49)

I’ve heard stories of murderous fury. Crimes of passion. More often than not, the perpetrators can’t remember their own actions. They’re confused, their mind and memory muddled and unclear.

That’s not how it is with me.

I’m fully cognizant of what I’m about to do.

I’m going to kill this motherfucking bastard with my bare hands.

And the dumb shit never sees it coming.

I grab Lancaster by the front of his shirt and slam my fist into the center of his face, again and again.

And again.

And again.

There’s a wet crunching beneath my knuckles that should be repulsive, yet only drives me on. I’d like to hear it over and over. But as I draw back for another hit, thick arms come from behind, threading beneath my shoulders and locking behind my head, restraining me.

And James’s voice rasps in my ear, “That’s enough. You can’t kill him.”

“Get your fucking hands off me!”

I struggle but he holds tight. And then another voice cuts through the rage—snapping and calculated.

“Henry,” Franny says. “There is a time and place for retribution. Now is not that time.”

Her dark eyes are velvet with sympathy. With understanding. But then she reminds me of something much more important.

“She needs you, now.”

She needs me.

Sarah needs me.

And it’s like a switch has been flipped and every cell in my body shifts and repurposes.

“All right,” I tell James, pulling away. “All right!”

He releases me and I’m back on my knees at Sarah’s feet. Penny is there beside her, holding her hand and whispering gently.

I cup her jaw, her skin cold. “Sarah, look at me.”

But she doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. There’s a streak of blood on her cheek—and it’s a surprise when I realize it’s from my knuckles. It’s dark against the whiteness of her skin, like a black stain I’ve left behind. And I’m suddenly aware of everyone else in the room. The cameras are still filming and all eyes are focused on Sarah. Watching and gaping.

She wouldn’t like that.

So I stand, sweeping her up into my arms. I cradle her against my shoulder and push through the sea of bodies to the door. Vanessa stands just inside it, arms crossed.

As I pass her, I growl, “Party’s over.”





I bring Sarah straight to our room.

Our room.

And I’m grateful it’s on the third floor, tucked in the corner of the castle—far away from everything and everyone. Sarah’s limp in my arms, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my lips against her forehead. Her glasses are askew, so I take them off. Then I sit on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, rocking her in my arms. Her skin feels cold, so I hold her tighter.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

And I am. More sorry than I’ve ever been in my life. And that’s really saying something.

This is my fault. I brought her here. If it weren’t for me, Sarah never would have heard of Hannibal Lancaster. She’d be in her simple little apartment, in her tiny town, with her books and her friends, surrounded by people who love her, who would never, ever hurt her. She would be happy . . . she would be safe.

If it weren’t for me.

“I’m so sorry.”

With an awful, scraping gasp, she comes awake, arms thrashing—fighting.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” I keep hold of her, smoothing her hair. “You’re all right, it’s me. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

She stops fighting and hiccups. “H . . . Henry?”

I keep rocking her. “Yes, it’s me. You’re all right.”

Then her arms are pulling me closer, hands grasping, holding on like something is trying to wrench her away. And she’s crying.

No—not crying. Sobbing. Great, heaving, broken sobs that wreck me.

I gather her even closer, rocking and rocking, pressing my face into the crook of her neck, trying to weave myself around her.

“It’s all right, Sarah.”

“I . . . I was so . . . afraid.”

“I know, but I’m here now. I’ve got you.”

“I hate this,” she chokes out, pressing into my neck. “I hate being afraid all the time. I hate it.”

And I can’t think of anything to say. I can’t tell her it’s okay, because it isn’t. It’s all fucked up and wrong. So I give her the only thing I can: me. I let her know she’s not alone.

“I’m afraid too.”

Her breath catches in her throat, and her lips press into my neck.

“What do you mean?”

She hugs me tighter, resting her cheek on my shoulder, and my hands grasp her closer, both of us shaking.

“I’m afraid of wanting to be king, of wanting to do it well,” I rasp out. “Of thinking I might be capable and really trying . . . only to fail. To find out I just don’t measure up. I’m terrified of letting everyone down, that they’ll all get hurt because I’m such a fuck-up. So I don’t bother . . . and it’s all because I’m just too damn scared.”

I run my hand over her hair, petting her, the way my mother used to when I was ill. Her shuddering slowly eases in the quiet that follows my confession. Her tears taper off to a sniffling trickle.