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Royal Ruin: A Flings With Kings Novel by Peterson, Jessica (13)

Chapter Thirteen

Kit

A sudden flash. The crowd was all over us, taking pictures like mad. Emily looked down. Her arms loosened around my neck.

I remembered, with sudden, crushing clarity, that this wasn’t a fun, flirty night out. It was all an act. An elaborate deception. I was a tit for allowing myself to believe otherwise, even for a moment.

The song ended, and I pulled away, pointing a thumb toward our table. Emily nodded. When we got there, she grabbed a glass of water and took a long gulp. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Ready to go?” I asked. “I’m knackered.”

She set her empty glass down. “Yeah. Sure. Me too.”

We left through the back entrance as planned. And, as planned, a handful of photographers were waiting for us, along with a Jaguar at the curb. I looked at Emily, making sure she was close. Her face was flushed from dancing. She met my eyes and smiled, a radiant, slightly shy thing. She moved a little closer to me. I resisted the impulse to put my arm around her.

I imagined how we looked. A sickeningly cute couple, smiling at each other as they snuck out of a club early because they wanted to be alone.

It was a brilliant image. Exactly the sort of thing the public would love. Excitement surged through me. Excitement, and something else. Something sharper. Less pleasant.

Emily and I were really great at pretending. I told myself that was a good thing. Hell, most of my job was pretending. But after not pretending on the dance floor just now…I don’t know. The shallowness of it made me feel a bit raw on the inside.

I didn’t like this feeling. I liked the feeling I’d had back there, when I’d had Emily in my arms.

Without thinking, I grabbed Emily’s hand, twining my fingers with hers. The photographers shouted their approval, the flutter of their camera shutters filling the night air.

Emily’s hand was limp in mine. My heart dipped. Shit. I forgot.

It all happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to react. Emily slowed her steps. She yanked her hand away, the motion so strong and so urgent I had no doubt it was visible to the photographers and everyone else watching us.

No. No no no.

I blinked to see panic written all over her face. I was so bloody confused. She’d been okay with me touching her on the dance floor. She’d been okay with me touching her far more intimately ten years ago. So why the fear in her eyes? Why pull away from me like—like I’d burned her?

My thoughts churned. What the hell were we going to do about these photographs? The paparazzi loved Emily’s sudden scare more than her smile. A few of them had the bollocks to even ask us about it.

Trouble in paradise?

Get into a fight, did you? Has Kit got a wandering eye?

We were seriously fucked if these pictures were published tomorrow. Emily and I were supposed to distract the media from a controversy, not create one.

“Come on,” I said, opening the car door for Emily. She ducked inside, and I followed her, slamming the door behind me. I felt sad. Angry. A potent combo. “Go,” I grunted at the driver, and we took off, the force of the acceleration pressing me back into my seat.

Emily looked out the window. She was hurting. Yes. But she’d agreed to do this. She should’ve never signed the contract if she knew she couldn’t hold my hand without losing her shit.

This issue needed to be fixed. Immediately.

I dug my phone out of my pocket and started making calls. My secretary, the Queen’s, our press office. I hadn’t a clue what we would do. I’d think of something.

Exhaustion settled on my lap like a two ton weight. There would be no sleep for me tonight. There wouldn’t be sleep for any of us.

Emily continued to look out the window the whole way home, legs crossed, her body turned away from me.

It was only when we were on the front steps of Primrose, the light from the lanterns catching on her face, that I saw she was crying.

Cue the proverbial record scratch. Emily, crying? But she was so capable and self-contained and strong.

I remembered the weariness I saw in her eyes. The heartbreak. Something—someone—had clearly defeated her. Luke again?

I wanted to know what the fuck that someone had done to make her cry like this.

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