“Vikings!!!” Ellie shouts.
When the Prince calls the bartender for another, I push my way through the crowd to Henry.
“She’s had enough,” I tell him quietly.
“She’s fine.” He waves his hand at the air.
“She’s just a girl,” I insist.
Ellie takes exception, poking my arm with her finger and slurring. “Hey! I resent that. I’m a matter adult. Mattur. Ma-ture.” She tilts her head, gasping. “Oh my God, I just realized that except for one letter, mature and manure are the same word! That’s so weird.”
I turn back to Prince Henry. “Like I said . . . more than enough.”
He leans across the bar towards Ellie, holding up two fingers. “Ellie, how many fingers do you see?”
Ellie squints and strains, until finally she grabs Henry’s hand and holds it still.
“Four.”
“Brilliant answer!”
“Was I right?” Ellie asks hopefully.
“No—if you’d gotten it right, I’d be really concerned.” Then he bangs the bar with his palm. “Another round!”
That’s when Ellie slides clear off her stool. I catch her before she hits the floor, but just barely. And then I glare at Henry.
“Mmm . . . perhaps we have reached our quota for the evening.” He puts his hand on Ellie’s arm, lifting his chin a little as he says, “It’s always important to be able to actually walk out of the pub on our own two feet. Dignity and all that.”
Ellie’s head lolls on her neck until she rests it on my shoulder, her puffs of breath brushing my throat. “M’kay.”
The palace is quiet as the threesome—Henry, Ellie and Henry’s female companion—stumble down the halls to Ellie’s suite, giggling and whispering as they go. I get the door for them and they collapse onto the chairs and sofa in the sitting room.
Henry watches Ellie and his eyes seem clearer than when they were in the pub. “Who’s up for cards?” he asks, checking his pockets. “I’ve got a deck around here somewhere.”
His brunette pouts unhappily. “I’m getting tired, Henry.”
And it sounds like his shagging for the night is in jeopardy.
He gestures towards Ellie. “I can’t just leave her. She could Janis Joplin in her sleep—Nicholas would literally kill me, and I’d have no choice but to let him.”
Ellie shakes her head mournfully. “Janis Joplin—what a voice.”
And she starts to cry.
“It’s just so sad.”
She covers her face with her hands, sobbing now. “She loved Bobby McGee so much!”
Fucking hell.
When I’m done with Henry, there won’t be much left for Nicholas to kill.
To keep myself from committing a capital offense, I volunteer, “I’ll watch her, Your Highness. I’m on shift all night, and Prince Nicholas wanted to make sure I looked after Ellie.”
His eyes dart to me then back to Ellie.
“I don’t know . . .”
Ellie raises her head, her crying jag finished for now, then stumbles up next to me and wraps herself around my arm—sighing against it, smelling it, practically humping it.
“You can leave me with Logan, Henry. He’s my hero.”
Henry cocks his head suspiciously. “Is that so?”
“Totally.” Ellie sighs, petting my arm. “My pretty, pissed-off guardian angel.”
Jesus Christ.
The blond prince holds my eyes—judging my worth—the way men do. I don’t look away; I don’t blink. After a moment, Henry nods, smacks his palms on the arm of the sofa and hoists himself up.
“Well, that’s good enough for me.”
Ellie claps her hands.
“Yay!”
And almost falls into the fireplace.
I guide her into an antique chair.
Henry makes a show of bowing to Ellie, picking up her hand and kissing the back.
She giggles. “Thank you for tonight.”
He drops down to his knee. “Did you have fun—the best time of your whole life? I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”
Ellie nods, all giddy and loose-limbed.
“It was the very best! I love it here and you’re going to be an awesome king.”
And a strange look falls over Henry’s face. Sad, wistful. “You’re a good-hearted girl, Ellie. You should leave this place as soon as you can.”
The next time he blinks, that jester’s smile is back in place. Henry holds out his fist. “Welcome to the family, sweets.”
Ellie tries to fist-bump back . . . but misses and almost pops Henry right in the nose.
Laughing, Henry holds Ellie’s wrist and taps their fists together.
Then he stands, nods in my direction, loops his arm around the lady and strides out of the room.
“Hey Logan?”
“Yes?”
“When’s your birthday?”
“June seventh.”
“Oh.”
“Hey Logan?”
“Mmm?”
“How old are you?”
I answer without thinking. “Twenty-three.”
“Huh.”
It’s been going this way for half an hour. Ellie sits on the paisley antique sofa, staring into the empty fireplace, with me beside her. I took her shoes off a while ago but she’s made no move towards the bed. It’s better for her to sit upright anyway.
“Hey Logan?”
“Aye?”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Everyone has one.”
“Blue.”
“Light or dark blue?”
Again, I answer without thought. “Light blue.”
Blearily, Ellie turns her head to me, her long lashes blinking slowly.
“My eyes are light blue.”
My mind stutters for just a moment.
“So they are.”
In the time I’ve known Ellie Hammond, been near her, I’ve tended to look everywhere but at her—that’s the job. But at this moment, just a few inches away, there’s nothing to see except her.
And so, I look.
Her neck is elegant, her shoulders straight and small-boned. Her skin is smooth and creamy, with a natural rosy flush to her cheeks. Her brows are fair and arched, her eyes round and deep-set—intelligent with a touch of mischievousness. And she has freckles . . . an adorable dusting of light freckles kissing the bridge of her dainty nose.
“Hey Logan?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t feel so good.”
And there it is. I’ve been expecting this.
“Yeah. Don’t worry. As soon as you puke your stomach inside out, you’ll be feeling loads better.”
Her petite features scrunch. “That doesn’t sound like fun.”
“No.”
For a few moments, the only sound in the room is Ellie’s quick, harsh breaths.
And then, “Hey Logan?”
“Yes?”
“Where’s the bathroom?”
She covers her mouth and her whole body convulses in a heave. Quickly, I lift under her arms, helping her stand, and guide her to the loo. As she steps over the threshold, she lurches towards the open toilet, hands braced on the seat, and a deluge of rejected alcohol spews from her stomach.
I gather the strands of her hair and hold them back, rubbing gentle circles between her shoulder blades and murmuring reassuring words. Though I don’t make a habit of it, I’ve been where she is—more than once—and it’s god-awful.
After another few rounds, it seems her stomach is finally empty. I pass Ellie a ball of tissues and she coughs, wiping her mouth and resting back against the wall.
I reach over to flush the toilet and Ellie groans.
“Don’t—it’s so gross. I’m so gross.”