Page 5 of Go Luck Yourself (Royals and Romance #2)

It’s pitch black in the hall. No sounds come from any direction, so either everyone’s gone to bed or Loch and his sisters live in a different wing. I vaguely remember the route he took to get me here from the dining room, but there were other passages that branched off, and a place like this has to be full of secret doorways and hidden shit.

I pull my phone out to hit the flashlight and swivel it up and down the hall.

Okay. Where would I put the joy meter or the king’s office in a castle? Either is likely to have proof that they’re stealing from us. Down, maybe? Basement. Dungeon levels. The most secure areas.

I head back down the stairs, shoes tapping on the stone steps. The library doors are still open, every bit of every hall I pass through drenched in darkness, and it hits me again how empty it is here, this massive place. And it’s freezing —I hadn’t noticed, but in my T-shirt I feel the full brunt of March in Ireland in a stone castle.

I shiver as I try doors on the first level, looking for a route to the basement. A few sitting rooms, a closet. One finally reveals a set of dark stairs that twist downward, looking so much like something out of a slasher movie that I go rock solid.

I hiss at myself and descend.

But I leave the door open behind me. Just in case.

Each step down has the temperature plummeting until I swear I can see my breath in the flashlight beam, goosebumps listing in waves up my arms and down my neck.

The stairs end at a long, echoing stone hall. And I hear… something.

A pulse. A haunting, echoing thump-thump.

My brain, of course, goes It’s a heart. They have a heart buried in the walls. Loch went Edgar Allan Poe on this place and that’s sacrilege because Poe isn’t even one of his precious Irish authors.

But the beat congeals into music. Base heavy and pounding.

I follow it, keeping my steps quiet, and the farther I go up the hall, the louder the music grows until I don’t worry about making noise. Any sound is being swallowed in “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls blaring from an open door on the right. White light spills out, cutting in a single rectangle through this dungeon gloom.

I turn my flashlight off, pocket my phone, and, breath held, I peek around the doorframe.

High ceilings tower over paint-splattered tarps on the floor. There’s a canvas propped on the far side of the room, an absolutely enormous square at least eight feet tall with folded ladders leaning in the corner next to it. Various shades of red, orange, and green paint are smeared across the canvas in the haphazard organization of abstract art. A space heater gently raises the temperature of the room and the warmth licks at my face.

Loch is in front of that canvas, paint palette in one hand, using his thumb to stroke a line of vivid orange against a swoosh of red near the middle. His head bobs to the music, muscles in his back flexing.

He’s shirtless.

And I glare daggers at the sculpted lines of his shoulders.

Of course he’s jacked. It isn’t enough that he’s a prick; he has to have the body to match his self-esteem. Though I’m one to talk, I suppose, what with how I intentionally buy these Christmas shirts too small because yeah, okay, I spend a lot of time in the gym pretending that lifting weights alleviates my stress and I might as well show that off. How have I not seen him working out at Cambridge? I’m there often enough to—

I lean too far forward and hit the edge of the open door so it bangs into the wall.

Loch whips around with a panicked “ JESUS FUCKING SHITE. ”

Any other time, I’d laugh at how I got another one of those out of him, but I’m caught in the doorway of his studio with my arms splayed.

Loch flings the palette to the floor. “What is your problem? Jesus Christ, sneaking up on me like that.”

He’s defensive, voice shaky, and I’m shaky too, not having planned for any of this.

“I—” I clear my throat and take a single step into the room. “I was looking for Colm. You said to go to him if I needed anything but you didn’t tell me where he is.”

“Colm’s on the same floor as you.” Loch’s talking too fast, voice unsteady. “Two lefts from your door. Only room in that hall. What do you need him for this late? Gotta have someone telling you a bedtime story?”

Don’t take the bait. Don’t. Do. It. “Anticipatory hangover cures.”

Loch scrubs the back of his hand across his chin. It leaves a trail of red paint on the cliff of his jaw, streaked through his short beard. Matching smudges are all down his chest, his gray sweatpants as splattered as the tarp under his bare feet.

My gaze bounces up to his, cheeks heating. I wasn’t— looking at him. I’m tipsy. And exhausted.

But he shakes his head, not paying that any mind. “And your first thought was Oh, they store their help in the basement ?”

“I… heard the music.”

Loch’s head tips, like it hadn’t occurred to him that anyone outside this room could hear his music blasting.

His eyes roll shut at some realization. “Useless magic.”

I perk up. “What?”

But instead of answering, he looks at me again, and it’s… different. That same pull of realization, but with a shadow of dread.

“You heard the music. It brought you here,” he clarifies.

“What does this have to do with useless magic?”

C’mon, tell me you’re stealing from us. Admit it and make this easier for us both.

Loch grabs a spray bottle from a side table and mists an area on his painting, pumping the nozzle more aggressively than needed.

“St. Patrick’s Day’s magic,” he says. “It’s useless. Luck. ” He clicks his tongue in distaste. “Which I’ve always thought was a xenophobic attribute for our Holiday’s magic to assimilate, luck of the Irish and all, but Siobhán’s certain it leads us to where we need to go. As if luck canna be bad too.” He waves at me. “As displayed.”

I absorb this, mind switching gears noisily. “So—you—you’re saying your magic made me hear your music so I’d come to you? That’s what you were talking about?”

Loch puts the spray bottle back on the table. “I’m saying my headphones broke this morning, so I had to blast my music like this and now—you’re here.”

I scoff. “There’s no possible chance your headphones broke because electronics do that sometimes and I happened to hear your loud-ass music?”

His aggravation deadens his stare. “Fine. Take the piss.”

“Are you sure your magic isn’t narcissism instead of luck?”

He turns to his canvas with a muttered “Arsehole.”

I smirk at the back of his head.

Then hear Coal telling me that maybe Loch will be more forthcoming if I’m not attacking the shit out of him.

I’m usually way better at prioritizing what Coal needs me to do. Loch’s ability to derail me is getting a little ridiculous.

Holiday magic manifests in increasingly bizarre ways, influenced by the beliefs and traditions people create as they celebrate. So, sure, it’s possible Loch’s magic could manipulate his life in terms of luck.

And if it’s bad luck for Loch that led me here, then it should be good luck for me, right? Maybe his magic’s pissed at him for stealing Christmas’s.

The Goo Goo Dolls drone on in the proceeding silence.

I stuff my hands in my pockets. “An American band? After your display in the library, I thought it’d be all Irish, all the time.”

That’s not much less confrontational than mocking his luck magic.

He glances back at me and his lip understandably curls. “I’m not a monolith, ya wanker.”

Like the Halloween Prince not liking horror. Still need to figure out how to use that to my advantage.

The song ends.

And immediately switches to “With or Without You” by U2.

I can’t help the shitty grin that rolls across my face.

Loch blushes from the edge of his beard to his hairline, his kick of embarrassment reforming his face into the closest to sincere I’ve seen on him yet.

My smile reels back. A fraction less shitty.

“That was… poor timing.” He clears his throat and crosses the room to punch off the sound system.

Silence drops with a heavy thud, the stone walls aching with the absence of noise.

Loch clears his throat again and messes with an area near the speaker—a sink, a cupboard, supplies stacked precariously along a paint-splattered concrete counter.

He shifts back with a glass of water and gets close enough to shove it at me.

Orange freckles decorate his torso. His arms. Like the droplets of paint sprinkled on the tarp.

“The start of any good whiskey cure,” he tells me.

My nose curls at the paint-smeared glass. “I’m good.”

“Do na go waking up Colm for him to bring you a glass of water. Take it.”

“There has to be a better cure than water.”

“How much have you had? Water?”

I lick my teeth. “Two ibuprofen.”

Loch pushes the glass closer. “Proper nice that’ll be on your stomach. Drink. ”

I snatch the glass from Loch and take a gulp. When I swallow, I wave at my face. “Happy? Jesus.”

“My lot in life is fulfilled.”

I smack my lips. “It tastes like paint.”

“It’s acrylic. Ya won’t die.” But he chuckles. “Although, given your proven delicate constitution, you might be keeling over in a wee bit.”

I weigh my options. Then chug the rest of it, dare accepted.

His eyes lower from mine, and I think ah, yes, I’ve won… something, until I realize he’s watching my throat.

His awareness there is abruptly tactile, making my muscles jump with electric pulses.

I lower the glass.

He flinches and moves away to snatch up his paint palette.

I grimace at him as I cross over and dump the empty glass in the sink. He left streaks of paint on the cup that are now on my fingers, but there isn’t a single paint-free towel to be found, so I settle for scraping my hand on my pants.

When I turn back for the door, the angle of the canvas changes enough that it catches my eyes.

I stop.

“Did ya need something else, then?” Loch bites, his back to me.

“That’s—a face?”

He gets a posture I recognize, the grip of wanting to hide art. I feel that way whenever Coal looks over my shoulder while I’m writing. Like part of your soul is laid out, and you wouldn’t mind sharing it one day, but in that moment, it hasn’t grown a protective shell yet.

But his canvas is the size of a wall, so there’s no hiding it, and Loch relents with a drawn-out sigh. “Yeah. ’Tis.”

My eyes follow the flow of the paint blotches, the rhythm of the red and orange and the contrasting green. It’s a woman looking over her shoulder with a wide, joyful smile, eyes round and glittering.

“Who is she?” I ask.

I can feel Loch’s stare on the side of my face. My attention falls to him.

He’s fuming. “None of your business. Yeah?”

It’s what I said to him in the library.

Don’t constantly attack him, I hear in my brother’s voice.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten defensive earlier. You were trying to be… nice. Maybe. I shouldn’t have snubbed your favorite authors.”

Loch’s brows shoot up. “Those were na my favorite authors.”

“But you—”

“I assumed you had na read a lick of Irish literature. Wasn’t about to let you be both a prick and an eejit.”

“Oh yes.” I bare my teeth. “Three years at Cambridge and I’m still considered an idiot.”

“There’s knowledge and then there’s education, boyo.”

Loch extends his palette to me.

There’s about two yards between us, so I give him a confused look.

“You paint?” he asks.

“Ha. No. I have a friend who does and I leave that sort of artistic expression to her.”

“Nah, that’s true—you said writing, eh?”

My face falls, mind flying back through everything I said in the library.

Fuck. I let that bit of information slip too. Just dumping all my secrets on this guy, aren’t I?

Loch pulls the palette back to himself and waves at the canvas. “It’s part of a series I’ve been doing for a final project. Portraits of Ireland. ”

I’m more grateful than I can say that he didn’t make me expand on the writing thing, but hell if I show him that. I nod up at the painting. “So who is she?”

“Not a clue. Saw her in Cork last year. She had this… light about her.” He drags his hand through the air, encompassing the untouchable. “Wanted to capture it. Joy like that is the point of all this, eh?”

He eyes me again, and the challenge this time isn’t Come at me bro ; it’s deeper than that.

This is likely the longest we’ve gone without yelling at each other. I want to point out that it’s because I’m choosing to be the bigger guy, but I don’t, and that feeds into my pride of being the bigger guy, and I’m stuck in an ego-loop.

“All this? You mean your Holiday?”

One half of Loch’s lips cuts up. “Surprised I give a shite?”

“Not really. I’m reserving having an opinion about who you are in relation to St. Patrick’s Day until I find out for sure. Fuck the rumors.”

His tension goes to suspicion. “The hell you on about?”

“What? Nothing.”

“You’re being awful pleasant.”

“You’re mad that I’m not being a dick to you?”

“A bit.”

“You’re certifiable. I’m trying to be civil. Can you be civil?”

“I can be perfectly fucking civil.”

“So can I.”

“Well, awful good, then.” He holds the palette back out to me. “Paint.”

“What?”

“We’re being perfectly fucking civil. And this is a perfectly fucking civil thing to do.”

“I will screw up your painting.”

“Impossible. It’s abstract impressionism.”

“Oh, okay, that makes perfect sense.” That means nothing to me. “Why?”

His eyes go up and down my body. Not fast enough that he’s trying to hide it, not slow enough to be suggestive.

It pins me in place. A transitory statue moment, like I’m allowing him to look at me.

“You can tell a lot about someone by the way they do art,” he says. “I wanna see what kind of person you really are.”

“How will I see what kind of person you really are?”

Loch’s smile is ferocious. “Nah, you owe me first. Maybe this is why my magic brought you down here.” He steps closer, palette extended. “Paint.”

Stubbornness wends around us.

Fine. It’s his art at risk here. I have nothing to lose.

I grab the palette and dip two fingers into the orange paint. “If I screw up your painting, remember, you made me do this.”

“There’s no wrong way to paint.”

I step up to the canvas. Most of the white where I can reach easily is covered, but a few clean bits poke through. I have no idea what the intention behind those blank spaces is, but I choose one at eye level and put my fingers on it. Two dots of orange are left behind.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Loch hisses behind me. “You love proving me wrong, eh?”

“What?”

“ That is the wrong way to paint.”

“Oh, piss off.”

“You made two dots in a flow that’s all curves and motion.”

“Well, maybe I’m more artistic than you.” I wave up at the rest of the canvas. “There’s too much curve and motion. You need something solid.”

“Back up.”

“What?”

“ Back up, boyo. What’s the first thing you see now?”

I take a few steps back, fingers coated in paint, palette level on my other hand.

My eyes immediately go to those two dots. It’s all I can see. Two dead spots in palpitating, dancing waves.

I roll my eyes and return to the canvas. The dots are almost dry already; I scoop up more paint and try to add a curve over them that matches the rest.

It does not match the rest.

It’s somehow just a line.

More paint on my fingers, I reach forward again as Loch stomps up behind me.

“Christ, you are wrecking it.” He wipes his hand off on his sweatpants and grabs my shoulder, the arm I’m using to paint.

I whip a glare back at him. “What are you doing?”

“Relax. You’re too stiff. It’s translating. The paint can feel your stress.”

“I’m not stressed.” But I growl it through my teeth, so that kind of negates it.

His eyes hold on mine. “Must be some other reason you’re tenser than stone.”

“I work out a lot. I was hoping you’d notice.”

Loch sighs, exasperated. “Course you would. Preening like a fucker.”

That was almost the exact thought I’d had about him and his physique.

It shocks the hell out of me when I laugh.

Catches him off guard, too. His eyebrows pinch and he looks all over my face, a quick sweep, searching. Analyzing? I feel suddenly like a portrait subject.

He clears his throat and juts his chin at the canvas. “You’re gonna fix this. Now relax. ”

His thumb pries into my shoulder, and I can feel under his strength exactly how stiff I am. I always know, I always have a headache on the precipice of splitting up my skull, but he hits a spot and my eyes bulge. My hand sags and I roll my wrist, stretch my fingers.

God, that’s good.

Wait. What the—

Loch reaches in front of me with his paint covered hand. The curve of each fingernail is caked in it, something more permanent than the splotches on the rest of his skin, like he paints so much it’s an enduring part of his body now. Those fingers shake, but I could be imagining that, maybe my eyesight is still a little whiskey-loopy; or maybe I’m the one rocked, not sure why he’s standing so close. And touching me.

Or why he’s wrapping his hand around mine where it’s lifted in the air.

His other hand keeps pushing into my shoulder, thumb kneading that one knot like he’ll force it to submit. Warmth hits me, not the space heater, but him, a velvet frisson that carries the scent I now attribute to him, that rich, spicy cologne with a sharp chemical smell—which must be paint-related, sealant or varnish. All of it this time is battling with a whiff of exertion sweat, and I realize I’m holding an inhale like I’m dissecting his scent.

I exhale forcefully through my nose.

The angle puts his face right next to the shell of my ear. His voice goes limp when he orders, “Relax for me, boyo.”

But relaxing is out of my capabilities at the moment. Hell, even thinking is out of my capabilities at the moment.

I’m stagnant. A morbidly fascinated spectator in my own body as I let him put my fingers back on that orange line. He drags my hand down, bends it, knuckles twisting, until we milk the line into an arch that flows with the rest.

“There,” he says. It doesn’t have his expected croon of victory or his usual pompous control. I can both hear and feel the scratch of his words like they’re struggling to roll out of his throat. “Was that so hard, now?”

I’m staring at the curve we made.

Not at his hand cupping mine, both lifted in front of me. And I’m not fiercely aware of his other hand vise-gripped on my shoulder. Or the curl of his breath on the underside of my jaw.

I’m not aware of any of those things because I’m hovering outside all this, watching, drowsy with thoughtlessness.

Loch strokes his fingers down the back of my hand, leaving trails of mixed orange-red-green.

My head slants towards him. A robotic motion. I stop there, the full scald of his exhale burning my cheek.

And he steps away.

A ruthless knot ties deep in my stomach and wrenches me back into my body, stiffness returning to my shoulders and neck.

I drop my arm to my side, hand in a fist.

I’m exhausted. On the razor-thin edge between drunk and hungover. Having come off a day of emotional volleyball. Because of him.

Coal’s insistence that I go to sleep makes a lot more sense now. I had no business trekking around the castle in this condition.

I’m crushingly aware of Loch behind me, his miring gaze on the back of my head.

But he barks, “Now get to bed, boyo.”

“Bed?” is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.

“When I beat you in the race tomorrow”—his voice is a little rough—“I do na want it to be because you’re tired and hungover. I want it to be because I’m better than you.”

The paint from his fingers is drying on the back of my hand.

I should snap back at him. But I don’t. I’m being the bigger person. That’s right. I’m choosing not to take his bait.

I keep my eyes on the floor as I crouch to set his palette on the tarp. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

“And drink more water.”

That jars my defensiveness when I’m a foot from the door. I don’t look at him, but my lip curls, and all I can think to say is a childish “Make me.”

Real smooth.

I know he’s smirking at me. I know he’s smirking.

I bolt back into the frigid dark of the castle’s basement hall like plunging into an icy lake, a crash of sensation-shift, hot to cold. I stagger, catch myself on a corner in the dark.

That was… weird. Right?

That was weird.

He did this to throw me off, didn’t he? Was this another power play?

But it… why did it work ?

Oh, I am in no condition to answer that.

I’m going to go to sleep. I’m going to go to sleep, and in the morning, it won’t be weird. It’ll make sense.

Yeah.

In the morning.