Page 4 of Go Luck Yourself (Royals and Romance #2)

Questions answered, pictures taken, Wren leaves, and so do the journalists. But the stiffness of performing carries over to dinner in an appropriately medieval dining room with the same dark wood beams offsetting the bright white walls. A long polished table way, way too big for four people is set with places for Lochlann, his sisters, and me.

Across from my seat, Siobhán darts looks at me. Fionnuala deliberately does not look at me.

And Lochlann, to my left at the table’s head, sits so rigid that I wonder if he’s having a muscle spasm.

I rip off a hunk of soda bread and stuff it in my mouth so I have something to do that isn’t talking until I can get my head to settle.

First boyo. Now bitch.

Him and his motherfucking accent, I swear.

And also screw this bread, holy shit it’s good.

In our painful silence, a butler emerges from a side door and sets a first course in front of us. It’s a bright green leek soup that is also maddeningly delicious, savory and creamy. I eat quietly, not even letting my spoon hit the bowl too loudly, because it feels like another ploy for victory. Whoever talks first loses.

I take a mouthful of whatever the butler poured in a squat glass on my right.

Oh shit.

Whiskey. Straight whiskey.

Of course it’s whiskey. What the hell did I think it was? It’s brown, for fuck’s sake.

My tongue burns where I hold the whiskey in my mouth and it’s everything I can do not to choke, eyes watering, throat contracting—

—until I realize Lochlann’s watching me.

He clocks that I’ve got a gulp of whiskey I can’t swallow and his face lights up like a Christmas tree.

Challenge so strong I can feel it bruising my skin, he lifts his own glass and downs the whole damn thing in one go.

Don’t give in. Don’t bow to his juvenile taunting.

Except this is alcohol, so it isn’t exactly juvenile, which means it’s a fully adult taunt and not matching him would let him win more than resisting on principle would.

Yeah, that’s a strong argument.

Regardless, I force the gulp down, a cough welling deep in my lungs, but I will die before I admit how much I hate strong liquor.

I toss back the rest of my whiskey before I can psych myself out.

Holy fucking shitballs goddamn.

I’m not sure where I find the fortitude to hold in my wheezing gasp, but it’s good to know that when I need to, I can completely control my faculties.

The butler materializes from nowhere and refills both our glasses.

Great.

Lochlann’s gray eyes are pinned on me. Making indentations in my face.

“You all right there?” he asks, not bothering to hide his chuckle.

My neck is bulging against my too-snug tie, throat on fire and eyes tearing, and the only solace is that he talked first. “Fine,” I manage. “Where’s your king?”

I want to subtly insert that Lochlann is not in charge, not really.

The warmth of the whiskey streaks in lightning arches through my chest.

Well.

That’s okay then.

Lochlann lets his glare hang on me, and when he smiles this time, it’s significantly less performative and more annoyed.

“Off on business. He’ll be at the St. Patrick’s Day Dublin parade, though, if you’re so keen to meet him.”

“I get you all to myself, then.” I give another beaming smile and throw it at the princesses too. “Along with your sisters, of course.”

Lochlann rolls his eyes. “Fucking show pony,” he grumbles.

“Sorry?”

He looks straight at me. “I said you’re a fucking. Show. Pony.”

I laugh, totally humorless. “And yet, you claimed to have no idea who I was in Cambridge. Wouldn’t a fucking show pony like me have registered in your memory more?”

Did you actually know who I was, you dick?

“You might’ve,” he snipes, “only I did na expect an esteemed Prince of Christmas to be slumping round with coffee-stained sweats and scraggly hair. So you’ll have to forgive me for not automatically recognizing Your Highness.”

My neck aches with how tightly I clamp my jaw.

Okay. Yes. I was a bit… underdressed that day.

But I twist to rip into him when Siobhán bolts up straight.

“Will you be running in the race tomorrow, Prince Kristopher?” she asks in a rush, like she’s been working through possible questions and finally figured out the best one to start with.

Lochlann drops his eyes from me, pushing soup around his bowl.

My smile for Siobhán is real. “You can call me Kris.”

“Kris,” she echoes. Then she leans in like she’s got a secret. “They’ll never tell you themselves, but you can call her Finn, and him Loch.”

“Siobhán,” Fionnuala hisses. “Christ, you’re such a wain, don’t be nice to him.”

“Loch, huh?” I turn to him with a grin. “Can I call you that? We are such good friends, after all.”

He’s not looking at me. He’s staring down the middle of the table and licks his bottom lip in a clear, unbridled glower. So, his ability to fake this propriety lasted all of, what, an hour? I’m tired too, but I can do this all day, buddy.

“Of course.” He faces me, says slowly, “Kris.”

I sit up, an irritating itch rolling down my spine. “Loch.”

He white knuckles his whiskey glass.

“So, Kris.” Siobhán shifts in her chair. “The race tomorrow?”

I should pretend I read the schedule and know what she’s talking about, but the whiskey is starting to make my head a little fuzzy. Me and my zero tolerance for anything harder than 8 percent alcohol.

“What race is that?” I ask.

Siobhán leans her elbows on the table. “The 5k charity race? There’s a festival around it too.”

“He’s na running.” Finn cuts a direct look at me, her first since we sat down. “He canna be arsed to raise money for youth services and after-school programs.”

I blink at her. That sounds… not nearly as performative as I’d expected for our first event.

“Of course I’ll run for that.” If it was Coal, hell no, that boy couldn’t run up a staircase; but I can do a 5k no problem thanks to my one moderately healthy coping mechanism: hitting the gym.

Finn seems unconvinced. “Really? I would na think Christmas would give a shite about giving back to people rather than taking from people.”

“That reputation is exactly the thing my brother and I are trying to undo,” I say civilly.

“Christmas has been terrorizing other Holidays for years. What exactly do you think you can do to make up for that, Kris ?”

I stare at Finn, trying to tell myself not to take it personally—my Holiday was a piece of shit for a long time to a lot of different people.

“We’re trying,” I say again. “It’s no excuse for—”

Finn’s on a war path. “Living up your privileged arse off the magic you stole from other Holidays—”

“Christ, Finn, get off it,” Loch cuts in. “Not everything has to be a bloody fucking crusade.”

Finn snarls at him, but surprisingly relents, sinking into her chair and shooting me one last glare.

After a moment of silence, Siobhán gives a strained laugh. “Finn is our moral compass, as you can see.”

“She’s not wrong,” I admit.

That makes Finn glare at me all over again, expecting a fight, but I grab another cup in front of me.

“It will take a long time to undo what Christmas has done.” I fiddle with the glass. “My brother and I didn’t know how to counter it. Turns out it just took a few moments of reckless bravery to get started. And diplomatic outreach to other Holidays.”

I bat my eyelashes at Loch.

He works his lips, and the whiskey tunnel-visions my focus on that repressed snarl so I take a drink before I think to check which glass I grabbed.

The whiskey. Again.

Loch sights it, hunter to prey.

He picks up his own glass and knocks it all back easily.

I don’t have to do it. I know I can’t win a drinking contest with anyone, least of all someone who’s downing whiskey like water. I don’t think he’s on his second glass like I am—I’m pretty sure the butler’s been refilling his more, and Loch’s eyes aren’t even bloodshot.

My whole face squints to double check.

Yep. They’re clear.

And gray.

Who has gray eyes? Is that a real eye color?

Loch’s expression pinches into revulsion, likely at the way I’m studying him. So to cover, I suck back my glass of whiskey, because that’s a smart move.

But this time, I’m not able to choke off my reaction, and I splutter a wet cough into my lap.

Classy, Kris.

Real top-shelf levels of self-preservation going on here.

Loch snorts. “Canna handle your whiskey, boyo?”

“Would you stop with that boyo shit.” I wipe my mouth with a napkin.

“Consider it part of your penance. Boyo. Though I prefer Coffee Shop, I think.”

“Fine, then. Shamrock. ” I drop the name and wait for a response.

Loch’s fuming glower is unfazed.

Siobhán picks at her bread and singsongs “ Awkward ” into her lap.

“See now, boyo. ” Loch leans back in his chair, chucking his spoon into his bowl with a clatter. “This is why I’m having a wee bit of trouble taking your earlier apology serious.”

“Loch,” Siobhán tries.

Finn is smirking at me. Like I deserve whatever’s coming.

“You do na seem at all remorseful,” Loch continues. “You seem to be the same stubborn prick you were in that library.”

“Funny,” I snap back. “I was thinking the same about you.”

Ohhh , here’s the whiskey coming out to play. Mix that with the incendiary fury Loch unleashes in me, and I should excuse myself from the table until I’m sober out of fear for what I might do without inhibitions.

But see above re: the whiskey coming out to play.

Oh boy, does it wanna play.

Loch launches forward, red starting in his neck and rising up his cheeks. “Do you have any idea the mess you made for me? You saw the goddamn tabloids?”

“Yeah, I saw the tabloids—and do you realize that I did come here to apologize?”

“I do na want your pity, Coffee Shop.”

“Not pity—I felt bad about what I’d done to you. And I was going to apologize. Properly. But you had to go and jackass-up that confrontation—” Did I say that word right? Confrontation. Yeah, we’re good. “So you’re right, my apology didn’t come off as sincere because you reminded me of what a self-righteous dick you are. And you know what? Turns out, I’m not actually sorry. ”

He darkens. “Why are you here, then? Go on back to Christmas if you hate me so much.”

“I made a commimit—” Fuck. “Commimim—” Fucking whiskey fuckity fuck fuck—

Dark amusement flashes in Loch’s eyes and I hold up a finger at him.

“ Commitment, ” I get out. “I made a commitment, and I honor my commitments. So I’m going to stay in St. Patrick’s Day un til your Holiday and I’m going to be all smiles for the cameras and every tabloid that circulates is going to think we’re the closest of friends, and not a single second of it has to do with you. I’m just the best liar you’ve ever met, and I fucking hate the tabloids thinking they can manipulate anyone. Even someone who’s an asshole.”

I barely manage to keep from fist pumping that I got all that out with only one tongue blunder.

Kris, 1—Whiskey, 0.

Or, er, maybe more like half and half.

The butler waltzes back into the room and trades our soup bowls for the second course like this is a totally normal dinner service and two of his charges aren’t yelling at each other.

A pile of herbed mashed potatoes covers a chunky stew, the beef so tender it disintegrates on my fork. Rosemary and garlic explode over my tongue, creamy butter from the potatoes, a savory-umami symphony from the stew.

Fucking hell, why is their food so good?

They’re the enemy. This should taste like dirt but I’m making a mental note to ask Renee to incorporate more Irish fare into our meals and I hate tipsy me for being a food whore.

We eat in silence. Again.

Utensils clink.

The butler refills our glasses and I am truly winded by how much whiskey Loch is putting away; meanwhile, I had two glasses, piled in meat and potatoes, and the edges of the room are still carouseling. At least he doesn’t make his every sip a challenge. Only when I drink does he need to show off.

Last course. Finally. Dessert, crumbly shortbread with a martini glass of something brown and creamy.

“Is this… chocolate milk?” I can’t help but ask.

Siobhán starts to answer when Loch jumps in with, “Yeah. Chocolate milk. For the shortbread.”

He’s obviously lying. They wouldn’t poison me. Would they?

Fine. Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than the whiskey.

I pick up the martini glass and, holding his gaze, I chug it in three quick swallows.

More whiskey.

It’s Irish cream.

Loch sips his glass delicately with a wicked leer. “Sorry, boyo. Irish chocolate milk.”

I sit there for a second, trying to guess how much whiskey was in there, then, a beat later, feeling how much whiskey was in there.

The room is a little brighter, a little warmer, a little spinnier.

“Fuck me,” I groan to my plate.

Loch doesn’t hesitate. “Only if you say please.”

That warmth intensifies, the spin gyrates more.

All that sugar and whiskey and my sensitive reaction to alcohol? I am going to be hungover tomorrow.

And then run a 5k.

Awesome. Just. Fan-fucking-tastic.

And I haven’t asked any of my esteemed fellow diners a question even adjacent to finding out if they might be the one stealing joy from us. No, I’ve been too busy picking at Loch and getting properly sloshed.

Well. Today has been a comedy of errors, hasn’t it?

Somewhere in my soul, my guilt grows several more roots, but I won’t feel it until tomorrow morning. I’m locked in this state of suspended sensation and I really should drink more whiskey. All the noise in my head is… muffled. Like the alcohol is holding a pillow over my self-contempt’s face.

Distantly, I can hear that self-contempt screaming to pull myself together, but oh no, I can’t make out what it’s saying, how tragic.

Loch slams his hands on the table and shoots to his feet. I flinch so hard it’s a full convulsion.

“I’ll show our guest to his room,” he tells his sisters.

Finn’s eyebrows leap up. “Are you sure?”

“Dead on. We’ll be fine.”

“We will? Ha.” I press my fingers into my temples. “He’s going to throw me into the moat, isn’t he?”

“No.” Finn smirks icily. “Only because we do na have a moat.”

I laugh. And have a disconnected thought that they could kill me, very easily, right now. The three of them. Maybe the butler’ll help.

Siobhán smiles at me again, pleadingly. “He will na throw you anywhere. Will you, Loch?”

Loch presses a hand to his chest. “On my honor, he will live to see the race. I would na deny myself the chance to beat the Christmas Prince.”

“It’s a family fun run, ” Siobhán enunciates. “Remember. Fun. We’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Kris. It was lovely to meet you.”

She stands in tandem with Finn, so I mirror them, hands planted on the table as the room goes upside down then right back up.

Holy shit, Irish whiskey is strong. Do they know how strong it is? They should warn people about how strong it is.

Siobhán leans over the table, that conspiratorial glint back in her eye, and I decide I like her, that she couldn’t possibly be the one to screw over Christmas. Her brother got all the severity and dickishness; she’s pure sunlight.

“For what it’s worth,” she whispers, not low enough to be private, “I thought the tinsel was right funny.”

“Siobhán!” Finn smacks her arm.

“What?” Her grin scrunches her nose. “No one ever gets to take the piss out of Lochy.”

He looks like he wants to dump the rest of his Irish cream on his youngest sister’s head.

“Leaving. Now. ” Finn grabs Siobhán’s arm, and they both press kisses to Loch’s cheeks as they funnel out of the dining room.

Loch stays rooted against the table. Maybe he’s drunk too, just hiding it well.

“Lochy,” I mimic Siobhán.

Me saying it is even more hilarious than her saying it, and I splutter laughter as Loch’s eyelids pulse.

Loch leads me out of the dining room and I pad along silently, not trusting myself to speak again. It’s hard enough to walk without toppling into side tables as he winds us through the castle.

The lights are low, the walls dabbled stucco with that heavy cherry-red wood stretching in beams across the ceiling. Occasional tapestries show scenes of Irish history and landscapes, the stone floor covered in mismatched antique rugs, making the castle cozier than Claus Palace. Homier. Like everyone who lives here is required to sit in front of a roaring fire and read for a few hours a day, and I definitely don’t hate that idea.

“That was Colm,” says Loch. “If you need anything, ask him. Do na bother me.”

The butler. “Colm. Got it.” And then, plowing through my rapidly degrading filter, “Where’s everyone else?”

“Eh?”

“Your staff. For St. Patrick’s Day? Shouldn’t there be other people getting ready for—”

“We do na have other staff.” He faces forward, and I push a little faster to walk alongside him.

“Is this St. Patrick’s Day’s base of operations?”

“Mm.”

“Then… you don’t have anyone helping you bring a whole Holiday to the world?” I let my disbelief show.

Something passes over Loch’s face, a flicker of tangled emotions until he lands on derision.

“Nah, boyo.” He sneers. “That’s what the leprechauns are for.”

The toe of my shoe gets caught on a perfectly flat plane of carpet. “Lepre—excuse me?”

“Leprechauns. They’re the ones running the show.”

All Hex’s eerie Halloween shit churns against my drunkenness to severely screw with my head.

Sweat prickles on the back of my neck. “You—you’re joking. You’re joking? Shit, I’m drunk.” I squish my eyes together and suck in a deep breath like that’ll purge my veins of this gunk, but when I look back up at Loch, his grin is ripe and wild.

The hall around us is spinning, but his smile is a fixed point.

“Of course I’m joking,” he huffs. “You got elves prancing about the North Pole?”

“No. That would be ridiculous. Obviously.” Thank god.

Silence falls, and I’m reminded that I got exactly nothing out of this night, no hint at who might be behind Christmas’s stolen joy, and ah, there my self-hatred is, finally rising up through the alcohol in a shattering fragment.

I scratch my forehead as Loch takes a left. “That’s something Christmas and St. Patrick’s Day have in common, then.”

He looks at me like I’m a moron. Which is fair in this moment. “Not having legendary creatures? Rather sure that’s what all Holidays have in common.”

“Yeah. Well. I—” I’m trying to transition into what else Christmas and St. Patrick’s Day might share, like, I don’t know, joy —not the smoothest transition.

We pass a room, the doors thrown open. Loch heads up a staircase across from it without pausing.

I, however, come to a full stop.

My body is all limp and tingling. My brain, a fogged mess.

I step into that room, drawn like a magnet, and the breath gets vacuumed out of my lungs.

“This,” I say, not even sure if he followed me in, “is your library?”

Holy.

Actual.

Fuck.

The library in Claus Palace is my favorite room in the place, the overlap of a ski lodge during a blizzard and a lounge in a cottage.

But this room? It can’t even be called a room. It’s the Cambridge Library gone full medieval fantasy. It’s all the best elements of castle grandeur thrown into a blender with thousands, thousands of old leather volumes and newer glistening spines organized into wrapping tiers of balcony shelves that stretch two, three, four stories above me. Night is falling fast so the few massive iron-paneled windows I can see from here do little to light the space, but that makes it even more impressive, gothic accents hanging in the shadows and hidden corners.

“Yeah,” Loch confirms behind me.

“This is your library.” I whirl on him. “What were you doing in Cambridge’s library?”

He jerks back. “Studying. Or I was trying to.”

“You could have been using magic to hop over to this whenever you wanted, and you chose a study room like that ? What is wrong with you?”

Loch’s shoulders stiffen. “Do you use Christmas’s magic to fund your study sessions? Christ, Mary, and Joseph, you wasteful bloody arsehole.”

“ I’m the asshole? I’m not the one who hunkered down in that room illicitly when I had literal paradise in my house. ”

The abruptness of being in a room like this while well past tipsy absolutely wrecks my barriers, letting a tidal surge of emotion through.

This is how I felt when I stepped into Cambridge’s library my first year and had an entirely different major lined up alongside a naive resolve to do something for me.

Wonder.

That’s the feeling.

Like all these books hold possibilities and if I pick the right one, I’ll get swept away somewhere better and righter and truer.

I tear my hands through my hair, yanking it out of the topknot, letting it hang down loose and messy because an ache is rising up the back of my head. I tug at my damn tie and manage to get it undone enough that I can take my first non-gasping breath since Wren forced me into it hours ago.

“Fuck.” I spin back to Loch. “Just—whatever. Where’s my room?” I need to lie down. I need to not be—not be in here, with these books, with these little slivers of potential I gave up.

When was the last time I wrote something that wasn’t a school paper or stuff for Christmas? When was the last time I read something that wasn’t a research text?

Oh my god I hate whiskey so much.

But Loch doesn’t move, studying me in the light that has fully shifted into blurry nighttime gray.

He pulls out his phone and switches on the flashlight. “C’mon.”

And he heads off, not back out into the hall, but deeper into the library.

I hesitate.

Then follow the flashing of his phone’s light.

He doesn’t go far before he stops beneath the wrapping balcony. With the hostility of someone who would rather be hurling breakable objects at a wall, he yanks books off a shelf and shoves them into my chest.

I stagger, make a cradle of my arms, and he piles books in it.

“What are—”

“You’re gonna be down here anyway, yeah? And I know in that fancy-ass international relations track that they sure as hell are na having you lot read good shite.”

My mind cartwheels over the fact that he knows what track I’m in. But I know what track he’s in too. Shut up, whiskey.

“So if you’re gonna use my library.” He grabs one last book, adds it to the pile, but doesn’t let go of it, hovering over me in the yellow-white beam of his flashlight. “You gotta read the literature that matters.”

I glance down at the spines, willing my spinning eyes to focus. “Oscar Wilde. William Butler Yeats. Bram Stoker.”

“Irish—”

“Irish authors. I know. I was in the English track for a term.”

I hear the words. Feel their echo.

And go impossibly still.

I never told anyone I did that. Not even Coal. He assumed that I was always in International Relations because Dad forced me to, and I never corrected him.

And I just admitted the truth to Lochlann Patrick, of all people.

So when Loch asks, hesitantly, “Why’d you switch?” he’s close enough that his exhale billows across my cheeks.

I shove the books into his chest. “None of your business.”

He pushes them right back. “The payment stands—you wanna use this library while you’re here, you read these authors.”

Fury rages. Bright. Piercing. And I remember every second of that term I spent in the English track. I remember why I stopped being in it, why I stopped writing, not because Cambridge consumed my time, but because—

Ah hell. I do not think about this. Ever. It’s done. It’s over. I have my whole real life lined up now—helping Coal with Christmas, being an ambassador, fulfilling these duties, so on and so forth, I don’t need to think about that other shit.

But Lochlann. Fucking. Patrick.

Is standing here in this amazing library, trying to guilt me into reading these books with a smugness that’s a permanent fixture on his face.

“Ah yes, the superiority of classics?” I snarl. “No other books are worthy? You aren’t a true writer if you haven’t read and loved these pinnacles of human creation? Stick them up your ass. Where’s my room?”

Loch lurches back. Something on my face must finally break through his pomposity, because he snatches the books from me.

His expression fades to resigned annoyance and he drops the books on a table. “You’re an ungrateful arse.”

“I really don’t care.”

But he keeps studying me. He’s frowning but doesn’t look as pissed as he should, and the energy is—different. Like he’s trying to work something out.

Without another word, he cuts around me to head through the library.

I follow, scowling at his back as we leave and file up the staircase.

On the second floor, after ducking down another long, dark hall, Loch shoves open a door.

“Here,” is all he says before he marches away.

His silhouette fades into the shadows.

I push into the room and slam the door.

Pretentious prick.

My eyes barely see the room. It’s small, a lamp on in the corner, my suitcase propped on a bench by an armoire. A canopy bed is arranged for the night and my brain picks that moment to go leprechauns did the turn-down service and I shiver at that horror movie image.

Alone, silence pressing in from all sides, my self-hatred rises up again, along with its ever-obnoxious friend, guilt.

I made a mess of my first night here, didn’t I?

I dig my phone out of my pocket. There are a few missed texts—from Wren, chastising me in a mildly passive aggressive way for going rogue with the apology, and I manage to ignore my wince; but most are in the group chat with Coal and Iris, both of them asking me how it went.

I hit a video call with Coal before realizing I have no idea what time it is. It’s after ten here, so what time is it at home? Ireland is ahead. Time zone math—

The call connects, showing the hazy outline of Coal in shadows. “Hang on, we’re in the theater room. Sweetheart, can you get the light?” It pops on. “Thank youuuu. Okay. What’s up?”

He takes one look at me and bolts upright in a black recliner. I can see other empty ones around him, so I’m assuming it’s just him and Hex watching a movie. That I interrupted.

Ah, hello, guilt, there’s always room for more of you.

“What’s wrong?” Coal asks. “You’re a mess.”

I catch sight of my image in the self-view screen and yeah. Mess is accurate. Hair all disheveled. Eyes bloodshot.

“Sorry.” I rub my face. “I should’ve texted first.”

“The interruption is much appreciated, honestly,” says Hex off screen. “Coal picked this show and I am regretting every second of it.”

“I picked it for you ! No, wait, Kris—what happened?”

I give the simplest answer. “Irish whiskey.”

Coal gawks at me, so motionless I think the screen froze.

He snorts. “You idiot.”

Hex drops onto the chair beside him. “You need me to leave?”

“No, no.” But Coal looks at me, eyebrows twisting. “No?”

“No.” I press my fingers into my eyes. “Actually. Never mind. Go back to your date.” I start to hang up, but Coal waves his hand over the screen.

“Woah! Wait a hot second—tell me how it went. Even in those press shots, you and Lochlann looked like you wanted to give each other Colombian neckties.”

Hex writhes in the chair. “ Coal. ”

“Colombian what now?” I ask.

Coal grins, cheeky. “We’re watching Hannibal. Colombian necktie. Throat sliced, tongue pulled through. Necktie.”

Hex mimes gagging. “This is the last time you ever get to decide what we watch.”

My eyebrows pop at the half of Hex’s face that I can see. “ You are grossed out by Hannibal ?”

“Right?” Coal jostles Hex’s shoulder. “I picked it because here I thought oh look, I can bond over a love of horror with my boyfriend, the Crown Prince of Halloween, only to find out that someone is squeamish. ”

Hex blushes. “Just because something falls under a general Halloween purview does not mean that I am required to enjoy it. I am far more of a thriller and jump-scares person.”

“Your court will revolt.”

“Oh yes, people are known to be furious when it’s discovered that their leader does not enjoy watching people get maimed.”

“Huh.” I chew on my tongue. Which is a little numb. Which explains why everything I say feels pillowy. Woooo , alcohol. “Hex doesn’t like horror. That’s good to know.”

Hex’s attention pivots from Coal to me.

I smirk at him and his eyes narrow, but not enough to hide the laughter in them.

Coal yanks the phone away until I only see his face. “Don’t use this knowledge to torment him.”

“This is how Hex and I have bonded, Coal, and I finally have ammo. You can’t take this away from me.”

“Nuh-uh, we aren’t getting off track anymore. Tell me how it went tonight.”

Damn it.

He sits forward. “Wren said you and Prince Lochlann were clearly uncomfortable in each other’s presence. And the photos that have already posted… uncomfortable is generous. The press seems to be buying what you’re selling, but good god, dude, how do you suck at acting so much? You’ve been there, what, five hours?”

“Four and a half.”

“Four and a half. And you look like that already?”

I hear the concern in his voice, and I know my brother—he isn’t saying this accusingly. But I can’t help the tug of shame that’s more sobering than an IV of espresso.

“I’m sorry. I let Loch get to me. I didn’t—”

“Loch, huh?”

My face gets warm. Er. Warm er.

“Are you friends now?” Coal presses.

“No.”

“But you’re using a nickname.”

“His sister told me to. He agreed. He’s calling me Kris. This isn’t that big of a deal.”

Is my voice shrill?

“It feels like a big deal,” says Coal. “You’re yelling.”

“I AM NOT—” I catch myself. Breathe. “I am not yelling.”

“Okay, I’m confused. You’re confused?” Coal asks Hex, who squishes close so he’s in the screen again. “We’re confused. Walk us through what happened. You get to St. Patrick’s Day. Lochlann— Loch —greets you. Pictures in the foyer. You apologize—which, loved that video of the apology, by the way; I do not remember that many adjectives in your draft—then…”

I sit on the bed and fill in the rest. The dinner, the food, which was definitely the highlight; Loch’s inability to have a single conversation that doesn’t revolve around himself; then the library, his pretentious Irish classics; then—

“Wait.” Coal is lying back now, his head on Hex’s shoulder. “He saw you were interested in the library. And even after you guys screamed at each other during dinner, he showed you his favorite books?”

I yank my tie fully off and let it snake to the floor. “So?”

“ So it sounds like he was trying to connect.”

“No. There was some ulterior motive. You weren’t there, you haven’t met him. He exudes this manipulative bullshit energy and I’m not having any of it.” I sway as the drunkenness gets tired of fighting my self-reproach and gives up in favor of exhaustion. “But I’m sorry. I’ll be better now, more prepared to field him. I won’t keep dropping the ball and letting him get to me.”

Coal shifts to give Hex a look I can’t see.

“What?” I pull the phone closer. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That look wasn’t nothing.”

“I like looking at Hex. Don’t climb all over me about it.”

I might be crossing into paranoia territory.

“But”—Coal sucks in a breath—“you could get further in your investigation if you aren’t constantly attacking him. You don’t have to actively buy into his bullshit, but remember, lie. ”

This is all stuff I knew going in. I was ready to lie my ass off; I knew Loch unsettled me last time we met, so I should’ve been even more prepared.

Instead, I not only let him get to me, I let myself get drunk.

“It’s still early here,” I try. “I can fix this. I’ll get answers tonight.”

“No—Kris. I love you. Go to bed. You’re drunk and tired.”

“I’m fine. Totally sober. Never been more alert in my life.”

Coal rolls his eyes. “Of course. You’re a picture of angelic grace. And since you’re so consumed by angelic grace right now, I’m going to tell you what to do, and you will gracefully obey me. One, you’re going to stop drinking whiskey, you lightweight dumbass. Two, you’re going to lay down and go to sleep. Three, you’re going to pretend that anytime Lochlann speaks, all you hear are choirs of little kids singing Catholic hymns. Four, you’re going to go to sleep. ”

My eyes are shut and yeah, it’d be easy to lie back in the pillows, but I stay upright. “You said the last one already.”

“It bears repeating.”

“Mm.”

A pause.

Coal sighs. “You’re not going to listen to me, are you?”

I pretend to be tipping over onto the bed. “Falling asleep already. Can’t talk. Love you. Good night.”

Coal barely gets out a “Don’t think you can—” before I hang up.

And because my inhibitions are still lowered, I pull up the text thread with Iris.

I started messaging her again after seeing her in Coal’s office, but it’s only been in response to her texts, nothing I’ve initiated yet.

Now, I flip over to some of the links Wren sent of the tabloid sites with their shots of Loch and me from earlier today.

Yeah. Wow. I do look miserable. Smiling, but my eyes are screaming, Kill me.

I scroll down, screenshot a pic of Loch, and send it to Iris.

IRIS

I never sent you his picture—he’s a prick, but here, character study. How many googly eyes do you think it’d take to recreate those motherfucking cheekbones

IRIS

well look who’s coming back into our little game with a ringer

On second thought, his ego definitely doesn’t need to be fluffed any bigger.

She’s quiet for a long time. Well, maybe like a minute or two, but I watch the ellipses pop up and go away and pop up again.

IRIS

hmmmmmm

i’ll get to work adding prince lochlann to my character study sheet

get some sleep monsieur ambassador

Why does everyone keep telling me to do that?

What was that unnecessarily long hmmm for?

This whole day has left me swaggeringly exhausted, but there’s no way I’ll sleep more than a few hours tonight, if that. Coal and Iris don’t know what they’re talking about.

I mute my phone and dig a T-shirt out of my bag, a bright green one that says 100% That Grinch in swirling red script. When I change, I immediately feel better.

Throwing back two preemptive ibuprofen dry so Tomorrow Kris doesn’t hate Tonight Kris too much, I slip out into the hall.

I came here with a job. And goddammit, I’m going to do my fucking job.

That’s all that matters.