Page 46 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)
Twenty-Nine
Benedict
I would have thought that Fernmoor House would hold unpleasant memories for Zelda, but our arrival seems to weigh far more heavily on me than it does on her.
This time, with staff given more time to prepare, the house smells fresh and clean. Windows along both the top and ground floors stand open, filling the rooms with the smell of the wildflowers growing at the edge of the woods.
Dam, Leo, and I carry in the bags, listening to Zelda’s directions on what to leave downstairs and what to bring up. She doesn’t seem at all hesitant to take the same bedroom we occupied last time, but my heart stalls as I see the familiar iron bed frame and crisp white sheets.
She and my brothers turn away after they’ve left their respective bags, voices carrying after them as they head down the stairs.
I don’t move, though, standing still in the doorway, staring at the bed without really seeing it.
Memory after memory is flooding back to me, of moments tangled together beneath these same sheets, of soft hands on my skin, and the noises of pleasure she made as I touched her.
The ache of longing I feel is more than just physical desire.
I had no idea sex could be like that before I had it with Zelda.
Now that I do, I can’t erase the knowledge or even consider returning to what I knew before.
Fucking is a poor substitute for that kind of connection and the sense of presence that kept me rooted in every moment we spent together.
It seems a cruel irony to find myself in the very place I decided to walk away, with the knowledge that the choice, and all the pain that came with it, was all but worthless.
Nothing has changed, except I’ve fallen harder. She’s on my mind every hour of the day and night, and even the possibility of her being hurt today was enough to cripple me with fear unlike any I’ve ever experienced.
I hadn’t known it then, but I do now: never again will my heart be wholly my own.
Unable to look at the room for another second, I turn away, following the voices of my brothers and Zelda from downstairs. My heart lifts as I pause in the doorway of the kitchen to watch the scene unfolding before me.
The staff have obviously done what I asked and stocked the kitchen with a full range of vegan cooking ingredients, snacks, and even a fresh vase of flowers.
Zelda is digging in the pantry, and sucks in a gasp of delight, turning toward us with a container of quinoa held aloft like a trophy.
“This is amazing,” she beams, looking between me and my brothers.
“I haven’t had a full kitchen in months .
You have no idea how many times I’ve eaten that stupid salad at the hotel. Will you all stay for dinner?”
I expect my brothers to say no, being raised in the same semi-carnivorous family as myself.
They surprise me, though, agreeing readily and even offering to help Zelda with the preparation.
She waves all of us off, and we take seats at the scuffed wood table in the corner of the massive kitchen, opening a bottle of wine to share between us.
It’s impossible not to look at her.
My eyes are drawn back again and again, watching as she chops ingredients and checks the recipe on her phone, lips moving silently as she reads through the list. Nobody has ever cooked for me before, not like this.
Zelda isn’t being paid, or trying to impress, or acting out of self-interest. This is her way of taking care of me—and my brothers, for that matter—and it’s so easy to fall into the fantasy of it all, effortless to imagine this could be my life with my family .
There’s so much standing in our way, so many obstacles we’d need to overcome to make that dream a reality, and yet my brother’s earlier words struck a chord, and I have hope in a way I didn’t when we were last together in this house.
I’m allowing myself to believe it will all work out, because the alternative is no alternative at all.
Now that I’ve felt this, I know I can’t go back to the way I was before, accepting the well-played family line that duty is incompatible with happiness. It doesn’t have to be that way—it wouldn’t be that way. Not if it was with Zelda.
The sun is setting beyond the tree line when she finishes up, placing heaping bowls of curry, vegetables, and rice before each of us with a radiant smile. “Lie to me if it’s terrible,” she warns us over her shoulder as she crosses back to the stove to retrieve her own helping.
Both Damien and Leo have already dug in and are nodding their approval by the time Zelda returns to the table. She takes the chair beside me, her arm brushing mine as she does.
“ It-it- it ’ s excellent, Zelda,” Leo assures her quietly, “I could eat this every day. Thank you.”
His praise has her beaming, and she looks to Damien next, who echoes our brother’s sentiment in between stuffing his face with a level of enthusiasm most often seen in five-year-olds consuming birthday cake.
My chest warms as she looks at me, and I make a show of bringing the first bite to my mouth. It is excellent, but even if it weren’t, I would eat every bite just for the happiness it obviously gives her.
“Well?” she presses, nudging me with her elbow.
“Delicious,” I confirm. And, still soaring with a newfound sense of resolution, I can’t help but press my luck. Below the table, I reach out, covering her hand with my own.
Zelda’s gaze falls to her plate, a pretty pink color rising in her cheeks, but she doesn’t pull her hand away.
We stay that way through the entire meal, maintaining that secret connection as we eat and speak with my brothers.
Even Leo, whose struggles with speech often increase in the company of unfamiliar people, is relaxed and cheerful.
Both of them ask Zelda about her job, and about life in America, and by the end of the meal, we’ve all fallen into an easy back and forth, barbing playfully.
When we’ve all finished and had second helpings—or third, in Dam’s case—the three of us clear up, scolding Zelda when she tries to help.
“That was fun,” she tells me quietly as we stand in the open front door much later, watching Damien stride toward the small, shadowy group of security personnel at the entrance to the drive. Leo is following at a distance, surveying the grounds under the moonlit sky.
It’s not logical, given the measures I’ve taken to ensure she’s safe at Fernmoor House, but now that my time here is running short, the prospect of leaving her alone is making me uneasy.
“It was,” I manage, shoving my hands in my pockets, my heart beating a little faster as I tear my eyes away from my brothers to meet her darkened gaze. “Will you be alright staying here on your own?”
“Yes,” Zelda replies simply, her smile gentle and unconcerned as she leans back against the doorframe, her eyes lifting to the night sky. “I believe the several dozen guards you’ve sent to assure my safety will make sure of it, too.”
She isn’t wrong. I’m taking no chances and doubled up on every measure that Damien recommended. She will be as safe here as it’s possible for her to be, and if I’m wholly honest with myself, my hesitation in leaving tonight has little to do with Zelda’s physical well-being.
I want to undo what is already done.
Instead of returning to Ashwell Palace tonight, I want to bid my brothers goodnight and tuck her under my arm, heading upstairs to bed.
I want to rewrite our story so that I cherish the unbelievable gift that this woman is, from the beginning.
There should be no question in her mind about the way I feel, but how could there not be, when I’ve never told her .
The cold, shameful truth is that I’ve never told anyone .
Not once in my life have I opened my mouth to tell someone how I feel about them.
The closest I’ve ever come was the day of the garden party, and those words, however true, were little more than a desperate attempt to repair some of the damage I’d inflicted.
Now, here I am, a grown man falling in love for the first time, and I don’t know how to say it, or if I even should.
The wood from the doorframe is digging into my back as I lean against the side opposite hers, grounding me as I will the right words to come.
The moment will pass soon. My brothers will come back, and it will be time to leave.
Another chance might not present itself in the weeks we have left, and I have enough damn regrets where she’s concerned. I won’t let this moment be another .
Never in my forty-one lonely years have I been this afraid.
I want to retreat, to hide, but I don’t have that luxury right now.
So, instead, I speak. “Zelda.” She lowers her gaze from the night sky to meet my eyes, and something vital inside me seems to stall as I look back at her.
Everything about this woman, inside and out, is so incredibly beautiful that she literally takes my breath away.
“I know I’ve made such a mess of this,” I begin, my voice a rasping plea.
Now that I’ve started, though, the words come more easily than I would have believed.
“And I know that you deserve so much better than what I’ve given you.
It might be selfish, but I would regret it the rest of my life if I didn’t ask you to give me a second chance, darling.
Beg, actually. I believe this is me begging. ”
A watery laugh escapes from between Zelda’s lips as she stares at me through shining eyes. I step forward, reducing the distance between us to inches.
“I didn’t know it was possible to feel so many good things until I met you.”
“Ben,” she whispers, and we’re close enough that I can hear her breath catch as I grow closer still, my body pressing hers into the entryway of the ancient house.