Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 22425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
“From this moment on, I will raise him as my father raised me.”
“Because that was pleasant for you?” I bite out. “Going your whole life without a scrap of affection? Not knowing if the man gave a damn about you until he was on his fucking deathbed?”
“He made me a queen! Can’t you see that? None of us would be here if he hadn’t. I never would’ve been bold enough to befriend Thomas—I never would’ve met you. I would have let them marry me off to the first man they chose! But he made me a queen . . . before they ever put that crown on my head. And I will do the same for Nicholas, I swear it. If I have to rip my heart in half to do it, I will make him a king.”
She swallows harshly.
“And no one will dare move against him. Because he will be strong, like steel.” Her voice thins and tightens, until it cracks. “And nothing . . . nothing on earth will ever hurt him.”
The fight and fury drain out of me, leaving me defeated. For the first time in my life.
I lift my empty, useless hands.
“No, Lenora, nothing on earth . . . except you.”
And I turn on my heel and walk out the door.
Late that night, after several drinks too many, I retire to our rooms. Lenora is there, in her nightclothes but awake, waiting in the chair beside the fireplace. She watches me in the low lamplight as I open the crystal decanter on the corner table, pour another scotch I shouldn’t have, and loosen my necktie as I sit down in the chair opposite her.
And she’s not cold or harsh anymore, I can feel it. She’s wary and worried, and so very, very sad.
“Do you hate me?”
The bark of my laugh echoes in the glass as I take a sip.
“Never. Silly girl.”
“Are you angry with me?”
“No. I’m angry at everything else. Mostly I’m angry with myself. At how I have failed you all.”
Her head jerks, finding my eyes in the dimness.
“Failed us? Is that what you think?”
My chest is heavy with remorse and so thick with guilt I can barely breathe past it.
“I was his father. I was supposed to protect him. But now they’re both gone. And you, Nicholas, and Henry are racked with the agony of it. If that is not failure, I don’t know what is.”
She wets her lips and rises slowly, taking the drink from my hand and setting it on the table before standing in front of me.
“You listen to me, Edward Rourke. You have never failed us. Not any of us.” Her gaze glistens and a silent tear slips from the corner of her eye and down her cheek.
“The only reason I know how to love, the only reason there is joy in my life . . . the only reason I was able to give love and joy to their lives . . . is because of you. And that could never be a failure. Do you hear me?”
She slides onto my lap and takes me in her arms, holding me close and threading her fingers through my hair. And I let myself sink against her, absorbing the absolution I desperately need.
“It’s so hard, Lenora,” I whisper into her neck, my face wet with grief.
Because it’s still able to shock me. The brutality of living. The heartless cruelty of it.
“It’s so very hard.”
“I know,” she says. “But we have each other.”
I breathe in deeply. Inhaling the warm scent of her skin, the strength and sense of purpose she has always given me.
“We do.”
“And we’ll see it through,” she swears. “You and I, together. As we always have.”
I look up into her face—my beautiful little wife, my queen, the love of my entire existence.
“Yes, together.” I bring her hands to my lips, kissing the delicate knuckles of one and then the other. “Forever and always.”
She gives me a small smile. It’s broken and sad, just as we are . . . but it’s still there.
“Forever and always.”
(11 years before Royally Screwed)
“She’s a battle-ax with a chunk of concrete where her heart should be.”
~Prince Nicholas, Royally Screwed
Nicholas
THREE DAYS AFTER THE CELEBRATION of my sixteenth birthday, I’m in the yellow drawing room being lectured by Her Majesty the Queen.
“These cards will be kept by your guests as treasured mementos forever. One day, they may be displayed in museums throughout the world.”
Because these days, if her mouth is moving in my direction—she’s lecturing me.
“And they cannot look like a gaggle of chickens stepped in ink and walked over them. Honestly, Nicholas,” she tsks. “You will write them again.”
My last two birthdays have been more political events than parties. An opportunity for scheming and strategizing, for bumbling bureaucrats to engage in the time-honored tradition of royal arse-kissing, and for supporters to offer their tithings of loyalty.