I find it fitting that the only clothing I have at my disposal is a black robe. Naked. Draped in darkness.
By the time I get the nerve to open up the bathroom door and step into my room, I’m feeling sick and shaky, embarrassed and ashamed and needy. God, I want her so much.
When I step out, my room is empty.
THIRTY-TWO Lucy
I’m walking in a grove beyond the stables when I hear the crunch of tires behind me. I don’t even turn around at first—but I go warm: my head and stomach, all at once.
Thank God. I figured Liam would find me. It’s been almost an hour. If he didn’t show up soon, I was going to go back to his room and demand he talk to me. Explain himself.
As I’ve wandered, I’ve been trying to make sense of what he told me. That he’s not a royal. Not a prince.
Stressed out. Drinking. Not a prince.
What does it mean?
My best guess is he found out maybe he’s…a child his mother made with someone other than King Gregory? That fits some of his murmured ramblings: about someone named Drucilla, who he called “disgusting” and referenced once as “my fucking sister;” about needing to give someone money; about “when everyone finds out my name.”
I stop walking and close my eyes. Poor Liam. When I get into the car with him, I hope I say the right things.
I turn slowly, schooling my face so I don’t look angry or overly upset or like I pity him.
The face I see through the windshield is angry. So, so angry, fear flares in my chest. I’m scared of Liam. Except—as he rolls closer—I realize that’s not Liam.
*
I don’t know who it is, I don’t know why he’s here, but when I realize it’s not Liam behind the wheel of my rented Range Rover, something deep inside me screams RUN!
I run into the trees, away from the castle and the stables. I run toward the ocean—and I feel okay until I note the absence of the engine sound. Until I hear the pounding of footsteps on the grassy ground behind me.
I hear a snarled, “You fucking bitch” before his great weight slams into me, taking me down. I hit the forest floor so hard the breath is driven from my lungs.
The baby!
Before I have the breath and wherewithal to roll onto my back, I’m slung over a thick shoulder and carted in the direction of my rental car. I realize I should scream—so I start screaming.
Something hard hits me in the back of the head.
I hear a woman’s throaty laughter.
Somewhere distant, I’m aware I’m lying down and moving. I see trees move through a car window. Maybe hear the screech of tires.
“Did you get the cat?” a male voice asks.
“I sure did,” the female coos. “What a good boy you are…”
I’m confused. And tired. Who would want my cat and me?
I hear the name “Dru” and a light bulb flares inside my head. It’s quickly extinguished.
*
“I can see the attraction,” says a British-sounding female voice. “She’s definitely the prettiest of the three.”
“That text to Heath was a godsend,” says a lower voice.
I hear a woman’s sultry laugh. “Only Liam. So frantic. He always was the settle down and play house type.”
“With the two of them looking for her… I’m not sure what’s best to do,” the male says after a moment.
“I still vote in favor of simply calling him. Have him meet me here—he’s a few days late with the cash, which he’s likely well aware of—and don’t mention Lucille Rhodes at all. He gets here, you and Briggs tie him up. We give Lucille the injection, let her ‘jump’ off of the rock, Liam goes in after her in his drugged state and drowns. Leak the story through my contact at the Guardian that he was all but disinherited with questions of paternity, had been drinking, perhaps depressed…”
“And when it gets out that I’m really the king’s half brother?” the man asks.
“You’re the son of Gregory the first, as much entitled to the throne as our current moron king. Regardless of who your mother was. Liam’s death will only reflect more poorly on King Gregory. I’ve got a definite point of access to sources more than willing to verify our dear king struck poor Liam when he was young. So we’ve an abusive king, a dead, drowned son, and that atop an international celebrity scandal. Gregory looks horrid. You are pristine, leading a very popular shift in parliament, and you enact the vote as we’ve planned all along. No one will suspect you of anything untoward, father. One of the benefits of keeping your nose clean and not being an abrasive asshole.”
The man chuckles. “I guess it is pretty ironclad. You’re so much like me, Drucilla. Very much your father’s daughter.”
“So I’m told.”
“And you agree that no one knows, no one finds out, in this…scenario?”
“How would they?” Drucilla asks. “Liam is dead. No doubt he’ll be cremated quickly. You know Gregory won’t want his body tested for illegal drugs. Gregory won’t know Liam isn’t really your son. He won’t know; it’s neither here nor there. He assumes Liam is your bastard, always has, as we all know. Be that as it may, what reason would you have to kill him off? Your own son? If Liam was your son, he wouldn’t take the throne from you.”
“It’s true,” the deep voice says. “Gregory has always thought that Liam was mine. And he doesn’t know that I know his kids with that cunty current wife of his are illegitimate, from test tubes. So if he thinks Liam is my son, and doesn’t know I know that his living children can’t rise to the throne, you’re right—my nose is clean.”
“You’ve kept it clean for years. This is your reward, Daddy.”
I hear a chair creak. “I suppose it is. You’ll make a wonderful solicitor, Drucilla. You make your father very proud.”
“So shall I call him?”
“Yes. I agree, no texting.”
As their words stretch out and blur together, what I’ve learned swims through my mind.
Liam’s father hit him? That’s who gave him his scars? The king of Gael is a child abuser?
And he doesn’t believe Liam is his real son? He thinks Liam’s mother cheated?
Is this guy, Drucilla’s father, really royal, or no? That detail evades me, courtesy of whatever drug I’ve been—
Oh my God, THE BABY!
FUCK! They gave me drugs!
As soon as the thought hits my mind, I feel a painful pinch between my legs. Oh my God, I’m cramping! Am I going to lose the baby?
Details roar into my mind: something about me falling off some rocks and Liam drowning.
Sick dread swamps me. I can barely breathe.
I try to open my eyes and find there’s something strapped over them, keeping me blindfolded. I try to move my arms, but they’re bound tightly behind my back. I try to move my feet, but of course, they too are bound.
I’m sucking air in through my nose when I realize I need to calm down somehow. Visualize. I don’t need to show them I’m awake.
I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth and try to picture a tranquil island, my usual go-to visualization. All I can see is myself jumping off a cliff and Liam drowning, so I picture the mountains rising up behind my place in Estes.