Page 22 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)

Before I ever laid eyes on Zelda Flowers, fate was hard at work, ensuring I could never love her. Regardless of her intentions, or mine, we were doomed from the first moment we met.

It’s clear now, as a brand-new kind of pain spreads through my chest like poison, that I’ve made a grave miscalculation. When we came here, I believed the extra time would make it easier and would satisfy some of the deep, painful yearning for more of her. It hasn’t, though.

It’s made it so much worse.

“A car is waiting for you, sir,” Harrold speaks up after a long moment, obviously unsettled by my lack of retort. I still don’t respond. Ending the call, I allow the hand clutching my phone to fall to my side.

As I stare at the aging wallpaper without truly seeing it, the pain grows more acute the longer I stand here. I’m thinking in circles, frantically searching for a way out, even as I steel myself to do the thing which must be done.

Leave.

Every step back toward the bedroom is an exercise in will, forcing my body on, even as every muscle is stiff with protest. I pause outside the door, scrubbing my hands over my face as I listen, straining my hearing for signs that Zelda is awake.

There’s nothing, though. Not a rustle of sheets or a footstep or water running in the bathroom, only birdsong outside the window, and the weary beats of my own battered heart.

My throat is impossibly tight as I turn the corner, staring at my lover’s sleeping form.

I have never felt this way about a woman, and certainly not one I just met.

I was married for ten years and didn’t experience even a shadow of the raw devotion which fills me now, illogical and confusing as it may be.

Zelda’s hair is spread over the white pillowcase, her beautiful face relaxed in sleep, and a hand resting on the empty place I occupied only a few minutes ago.

It’s that small facet of this, her reaching for me, even as her conscious mind is far…

Tearing my gaze away, I cross to the crumpled pile of clothing I arrived in, careful not to make a sound.

I don’t look at her as I dress.

I don’t look at her as I stride to the door.

I don’t look at her as I leave.

It’s better this way .

The sunlight has turned from blue to yellow in the moments I lingered after the call, filling the old house with a warmth that makes me furious. Reality was always coming, but in the back of my mind, I thought I had more time, another day at least.

My brother is the one waiting when I step outside, still aching with the pain I can now recognize as grief.

“I thought you’d look more refreshed!” Damien calls as I approach. He’s leaning against the side of the car, arms folded over his chest, and looking amused. “You owe me, by the way. You have no idea the shit I had to pull to keep palace security from flooding that pub. I hope she was worth it.”

I don’t respond. I can’t speak. I can’t even look at him. Never in my life have I resented anyone quite as much as I do my bastard brother in this moment. Not the perfect prick, Arthur, or my absent father, or my unfeeling mother. No. There is not one person I hate in this life more than Damien.

It should have been him, not me.

An ugly thought, and a cruel one, but I can’t convince myself it isn’t true.

If my father—the selfish fuck—had acknowledged Damien as his true-born son as he always promised, my life wouldn’t be like this.

My brother would make a better king than me, is better suited to it, and unquestionably the sort of man who inspires love in his people rather than disappointment and disdain.

“Make sure there’s a car waiting to take her wherever she needs to go,” I snarl as I fist the handle to the passenger side door, ripping it open with unnecessary animosity.

The bedroom we occupied was on the opposite side of the house. There is no possible way she could hear a car door closing, and yet as I slam mine, I allow myself to imagine Zelda awakening to the sound.

In the deepest, most self-loathing parts of my imagination, I picture her opening her eyes at the noise and getting to her feet. She would cross to the window and look out in time to see the black car making its way down the drive toward the road.

Even knowing I could be the only passenger, she would turn to look at the empty place where I slept, searching for a way to deny the cruelty of the only logical explanation: That I left her alone in a cold, empty house, in a country that isn’t her own.

It wouldn’t matter that the driver I requested for her would arrive in minutes, or that she could surely get herself home if need be.

In that moment, Zelda Flowers would feel abandoned, all because I was too weak to look her into those eyes the color of the morning sky and tell her there was no place for her in my life.

In the end, it doesn’t matter whether or not Zelda were to see me driving away or not. Not really, when, regardless of my intentions, or how much I liked her, or the way she made me feel… I am truly every bit the cold asshole the entire world knows me to be.

For the first time since I realized I would be king, I wonder if I damn well deserved it.

Beneath me, the engine of the car rumbles to life. I stare straight forward, the acrid taste of bile filling my mouth as Damien fiddles with the radio, his demeanor unhurried and unbothered.

“Would you drive the fucking car?” I snarl, registering a start of surprise from my older brother, and not caring.

Damien lets out a low whistle, his hand dropping to the gear shift. “Of course, Your Royal Highness ,” he replies cooly, dripping sarcasm from each word. The car begins to move. “Should I kiss your ass while I’m at it?”

I ignore him.

The weight on my chest is crushing, a million times worse than I imagined it, and it takes all my self-control not to tell my brother to stop.

I could go back in. It isn’t too late.

What would be the point, though?

My hands curl into fists at my sides as something deep inside me goes cold. “Just drive.”