THIS IS WHAT I’M TALKING about. The music is loud, the drinks are flowing, the room is alive with smoke and chatter, and everyone is laughing. Everyone is having a good time. Christ, I’ve missed this. Hello. old life, long time no see.
I tighten the strings on my guitar, debating what we should play next. Black Crowes? Lumineers, maybe?
That’s when one of the cameramen backs into a table. It tilts on two legs before going over, sending the clock, vase, and porcelain dish sliding to the floor with a sharp, loud crash.
Instinctively, I look around for Sarah.
I scan the room once, then again slower and more carefully. But I don’t see her. And the unease starts as a whisper, a gentle caress. I lean my guitar against the chair and stand up, turning in a circle, surveying, searching for the dark head and pretty form I’d know anywhere.
But she’s not here.
And the unease turns to concern. My palms start to sweat and my heart accelerates . . . because Hannibal Lancaster is nowhere in sight either.
Hannibal, whom my brother hates.
Hannibal, whom Nicholas won’t tolerate even looking at his wife, let alone be near enough to speak to her.
Concern surges into panic—the kind that churns and pokes in my gut and makes the hairs on the back of my neck spike. And that’s when I make the connection my idiot brain was too stupid and self-absorbed to figure before:
My brother would never, ever hate someone . . . without a very good reason.
I walk over to Penelope, my hand on her upper arm. “Where’s your sister?”
She blinks at me before glancing around the room. “I don’t know.”
Without needing to be told, Penny walks over to where Elizabeth and Sam are arguing in hushed, animated tones.
“Have you seen Sarah?” she asks. When both of them shake their heads, I have to grind my teeth to keep from shouting.
I approach Franny and Simon. “Did you see where Sarah went?”
Franny’s sharp eyes dart around. “I just saw her a moment ago.”
I tug at my hair, ready to start tearing the walls down, and Simon puts his hand on my shoulder. “She couldn’t have gone far, Henry.”
My throat tightens, making my voice hoarse.
“But . . . the crash. She’s not good with loud noises.”
Simon nods, even though he probably doesn’t understand. “We’ll find her.”
“Prince Henry.”
It’s James. Watchful, eagle-eyed James.
“Lady Sarah went through there.” He points to the far door that leads to a short hall and then the music room.
And I could fucking hug him right now. Instead I smack his arm. “Good man.”
Then I rush past him.
When I get to the music room, my panic is burned up by rage at what I see.
Hot, blistering rage, the likes of which I have never known.
Because Sarah is on the sofa, her face pale as death and just as lifeless, her eyes blank, with that flat, fucking horrible dullness. And Hannibal Lancaster is beside her—with his hands on her, touching her breasts.
I heave him up and throw him across the room. “Get the fuck away from her!”
And then I’m kneeling, patting her cheek. She’s so pale. I would give anything to see her blush right now.
I stand up when Hannibal moves nearer, facing him with Sarah behind me. And I feel the others rushing into the room, but I don’t take my eyes off Lancaster.
“What did you do to her?’
He shrugs, tugging on the cuff of his shirt. “Not a thing. One minute she was fine and the next she was totally out of it. I think she’s on something, maybe a bad trip.”
The vein at my temple throbs.
“A girl goes catatonic and your first thought is to grab her tits?”
“Oh please, she loved it. Look at her, for fuck’s sake—it’s probably the most action she’s ever gotten in her life.”
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.
“I believe in you, Henry,” she says so softly. “I believe you can do anything . . . everything you set your mind to, because you care so deeply for everyone you meet. You will be amazing. I know it in my heart and to the bottom of my soul. And I would tell you the truth, I promise—I wouldn’t let you try and fail.”
And it’s miraculous what that does, how her words make me feel. Like I’m a hundred feet tall and a thousand times as strong. Like I’m a superhero or a god.
Like . . . I’m a king.
I run the back of my hand over her cheek. “I’m supposed to be comforting you.”
She smiles gently. “You did.”
I press a kiss to her forehead and don’t even think about letting her go. I shift back against the headboard and hold Sarah in my arms, her head on my shoulder, her sweet breath against my neck . . . until she falls asleep.