For the second time this week, I find myself stretched out on what has to be the world’s most uncomfortable sofa. And once again, I have little hope of actually getting any sleep. Even if I thought I could find a comfortable position on these rock-hard cushions, I’m too worked up. Anger churns in my stomach, but it’s just a distraction—the rest of me is still burning with arousal, and I have no hope of releasing it anytime soon. If I had access to the bathroom, I’d relieve myself of this tension, but since I don’t, I try to think of non-sexual things.

Old, moldy food.

Stable muck.

Reginald’s stupid smirk.

That last one helps.

I turn over on the sofa, trying to find a position where it doesn’t feel like my shoulder is pressed against a boulder. When I finally find one, I close my eyes and let out a sigh. Maybe if I clear my mind and don’t move for a long time, sleep will come.

Or you could go back into that bedroom and fuck her like you want to, a voice says. Fuck her like she begged you to.

No—I can’t do that. No matter what. My conscience won’t let me.

You’re an idiot, the voice says. She told you outright that she wanted it. This has nothing to do with your conscience.

But no matter what my conscience thinks and whether it’s right or wrong, I know I can’t go back into that room—my pride won’t let me. Not after the way I stormed out of there. Not after the things she said to me. It’s been at least an hour since our argument—far too long to go back in there now.

That little ball of anger in my belly is alive again, and I hold onto it—it’ll keep me from doing anything stupid.

Is this what marriage is? Nurturing anger and sleeping on the sofa every other night? God, the rest of my life is going to feel like an eternity.

Suddenly, I hear a click—the door to the bedroom is opening.

I keep perfectly still, trying to regulate my breathing so it sounds like I’m asleep. Soft footsteps cross the carpet, stopping just a few paces from the sofa.

I keep my eyes closed and my breathing slow and even, waiting. After a few moments, she whispers, “William?”

Part of me wants to respond, but another part of me is still holding onto that anger—I was trying to do her a favor, refusing to sleep with her against the demands of my body, and she’s pissed at me for it!—so I stay quiet. If we speak, we’ll probably only fight again, and I can’t bear another fight with her. Not tonight.

This isn’t about fighting, the voice says. You’re just afraid that if you look at her, you’ll give in. That you’ll grab her and throw her back down on the bed and fuck her until neither of you can remember your own names.

I argue with myself for too long. I hear her turn, hear her feet take a couple of steps back toward the bedroom, but then she stops again.

“I know you’re asleep,” she whispers. “But maybe that’s better. I’m not sure I could say this to your face.” She hesitates for a long moment, and I begin to wonder once again whether I should say anything, but then she goes on. “I’m still angry with you. But… Oh, I don’t know.” She gives a soft sigh. “I have no idea what’s going on in that thick skull of yours half the time. And I definitely don’t trust you, and most of the time I don’t even like you, but…thank you. I still don’t fully understand why you refused to…to sleep with me tonight, but I think you were trying to explain that it was out of some sort of respect for me, and I…” Another small sigh. “I don’t know what I’m rambling about. But maybe… I think maybe you might not be as bad a man as I originally thought. Maybe. I…” She makes a soft exasperated sound. “I don’t know. I’m too tired to think about this anymore tonight.”

Her footsteps retreat quickly, before I even have the chance to say anything. I hear the quiet click of the bedroom door closing again.

I remain still for a long time after she goes back to bed. My mind is whirling. My anger has completely dissolved, replaced by something much more pleasant.

I smile to myself. Maybe there’s hope for us after all. Maybe, just maybe, she and I might come to understand each other.

I won’t disturb her, not tonight—part of me still isn’t convinced I could control myself if I go back into that bedroom, and I won’t destroy whatever goodwill I just earned from her—but I’ll talk to her in the morning.

With that thought, settle deeper into the cushions, still grinning. And finally, sleep comes.

* * *

I sleep far better than I expected to on the rock-hard sofa. When I wake, the sun is already shining brightly in through the window. Yesterday’s storm seems like a distant memory—as does yesterday’s fight.

I sit up with a yawn, already thinking about what I’m going to say to Justine. We have a chance to start fresh, to meet each other with a new understanding.

I’m grinning as I rise and stretch. I stride over to the bedroom, but when I get there, I find the bed empty.

“Justine?” I say.

There’s no answer.

I do a quick search, but she’s not in the closet or bathroom or out on the balcony. Frowning, I return to the parlor. For the first time, I notice the small note card sitting on the table in front of the sofa. The message is written in Justine’s tight, neat handwriting:

I’m going into the city to help with the clean-up and recovery efforts. Back later. The kitchen can send up breakfast whenever you’re ready.

Best, Justine

It’s not exactly a warm note, and it’s certainly not very intimate in language or tone, but it’s pleasant enough. And I find myself admiring her commitment to her country’s people—she has a big heart, when she decides to open it.

Maybe I should go help, too. In any case, I have no interest in sitting around here doing nothing all day. I’ll get dressed, grab a quick bite from the kitchen, and go out into the city to find her. After what I heard her say last night, I want to be near her. To finally find that common ground she wants so badly.

My mood is hopeful—cheerful—as I head down to the kitchens. In fact, I find myself whistling—the world seems positively full of possibilities today.

My mood evaporates quickly when I turn a corner and find Reginald standing there.

Lady Clarissa isn’t with him this time, which is a relief, but Reginald is more than unpleasant enough on his own. He sneers at me.

“You’re in a bloody good mood today,” he says, his eyebrow raised. “Was that you making that shrill sound?”

“Whistling? I suppose it was.” I grin, trying to show him that he can’t bring me down. “It’s called being happy. You should try it sometime.”

“What’s there to be happy about?” he says with a dark laugh. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but the palace suffered quite a bit of destruction yesterday.”

“And now the sun is shining,” I say, spreading my hands. “Which means the only way to go is up. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to grab some breakfast so I can go help Justine with the clean-up efforts.”

I stride past him, but I feel his gaze boring into my back. I make it about half a dozen steps before he calls after me.

“Don’t get your hopes up too much, Montovian scum. Not with my sister.”

I know I should just let it go, but my pride won’t let me—not when it comes to Reginald.

I call back over my shoulder. “Thank you for the friendly advice, Reginald, but don’t worry—your sister doesn’t share your opinions about Montovia. And I have plenty of reason to have hope where she is concerned.”

His sharp laugh makes me grimace. “Oh, really? Then why did she invite her ex-lover to the palace?”

I stop dead in my tracks. What?

“She’s told you about him, hasn’t she?” Reginald goes on. “Since you two are so close now, and since you have so much hope for your future together.”

I turn, trying to keep my expression clear. “She’s told me enough.”

“Has she?” His smirk grows wider. “Say what you will, Your Highness, but I don’t think she has.” He looks positively delighted. “You didn’t know my sister back then, but trust me—James Camden will never get out from under her skin. And now she’s invited him here, so soon after marrying you.”

“I’m pretty sure I’d know if she’d invited him here,” I say, my control slipping away.

“I’d have thought you would too, if you were actually as close as you seem to think you are. He’s one of the keynote speakers at her upcoming arts summit.” His eyes shine with what I can only imagine is pure delight at my situation. “I imagine they’ll be spending lots of time together to prepare everything.”

I won’t stand here and listen to this.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say stiffly, “I have things to do.” I turn and march away from him toward the kitchen. His laughter follows me down the corridor.

He’s just trying to make me angry, I tell myself. Don’t let him get to you.

But his words had a ring of truth to them—and it wouldn’t make sense for him to completely fabricate a story that I could so easily disprove with one glance at the conference schedule. But why would she invite him to this event after everything he put her through? And if she did, why didn’t she at least do me the courtesy of telling me?

James Camden. I have a name now. Something to connect to the man in Justine’s journals and poetry.

It doesn’t matter if he’s coming, I tell myself, trying to fight down the flame of jealousy in my chest. I’m the one married to her. That’s not going to change. I’ve already won. There’s nothing to get worked up about.

But no matter what I tell myself, I know that when I see him, when I finally come face to face with the man who hurt Justine—the only man who’s ever known her body the way I want to—I’m going to have a hard time restraining myself. I haven’t even met him yet, and yet I think I hate him even more than I hate Reginald.

She’s mine now. And she’s mine forever. And if any man tries to get between us, there’s going to be hell to pay.