Page 7 of Go Luck Yourself (Royals and Romance #2)

My knees smash to the pavement, jarring my body so bad my teeth clack. I try to catch the impact by rolling onto my shoulder at the last second, but the momentum carries me flipping one more time until I land on my back in the grass at the edge of the path.

And I just lie there.

Because yeah. This seems about right.

I already knew my body was going to hate me tomorrow, but it’s really going to hurt now. Pain flares up both my legs, my shoulder is burning, something on my temple is wet—

“Kris!” Loch skids to a stop, doubles back, and drops to the grass next to me. “Holy shite—Kris, are you all right?”

My lips set in a grimace.

“Fuck,” is all I can get out, refusing to feel the full brunt of the pain I know I should be in.

“Sit up—slow, go slow. Christ, Kris, you’re—ah, shite.” Loch’s hand is on my back and he can’t seem to decide which injury to be more horrified by, the cut on my temple or the gash through my shoulder or the burns on my knees where my tights ripped. Everything’s bloody and the cut on my temple leaks down the side of my face.

I’m sitting up, but suddenly the ground seems a little closer than it was before—

“Kris! Stay up, lad—here.” He rips off his beanie and presses it to the cut on my head.

I wince at the sting. “You could have used my beanie.”

Loch goes momentarily stiff. I think he blushes, but his face is already scarlet in the exertion of running.

“Yeah. That woulda made more sense.” He licks his lips. “Here, hold this to your head. C’mon, to your feet. The water table’ll have first aid. Up, now. Slow.”

We’re down the hill where the water table volunteers can’t see us yet. It’s bad enough that Loch bore witness to this obscenely graceful moment, but we get to bring other people into my humiliation now, too. Awesome.

“Oh, the paparazzi will love this,” I say, or more moan, because Loch bodily hauls me to my feet and ow.

He loops my free arm over his shoulder, my other one dutifully holding the beanie to my cut.

“Do na worry about that. Come on.”

My mouth opens to say that of course it’s easy for him to say that, he’s not the one all banged up thanks to his own stupidity—but then Loch bolts his arm around my hips, crushing my body to his.

It’s so he can hold on to me. Keep me standing upright. Because my legs are jelly.

I feel all his muscles that I saw last night. Feel them pressed against me, around me. Straining.

We head up the path, mostly by his support.

My pulse swerves wildly. “ Spare Claus Beefs It at Cork Race, Saved by Lucky Charms in Shining Armor. ” Do I have a concussion? I think I’m babbling.

I don’t babble.

Loch gives me an odd look.

“The headline. That the paparazzi will write. When they see us like this.”

“That’s na important right now, Kris. We’re almost there.”

“You’re saying my name a lot.”

“Should I go back to Coffee Shop? Shut up, now.”

We’re both a sweaty mess and my heart is thundering like mad. Loch’s heart is going too, the echoes of it shaking his chest where it’s pressed to me.

“Your heart’s racing,” I hear myself whisper.

We crest the hill and he pauses to readjust his grip on me. Up ahead, I spot flickers on the road. Other racers. The volunteers at the water table can finally see us, and someone calls out; but Loch’s gaze pops down to mine.

I let the beanie drop away from my forehead.

There’s something unendurably intimate about looking into someone else’s eyes within a certain distance.

I have a concussion. I have to have a concussion.

The next words that come out of my mouth are, “There’s a rim of green around your pupils.”

Loch exhales. A staccato pant.

“You should’ve eaten more. You’re woozy,” is his response.

He starts us off again as two of the volunteers reach us. They offer to take over helping me, but Loch assures them he’s got it.

A sweep of caustic awareness washes over me: relief.

I don’t want anyone else holding me like this.

We make it to the water table. The volunteers not only produce a first aid kit, but they also get the race’s on-call doctor to head up. Loch lowers me into a metal folding chair behind the table while we wait for him.

I toss the bloodied beanie in the trash and reach for the first aid kit—to find it in Loch’s lap.

He’s crouched before me, ripping open a box of bandages and antibiotic ointment.

My face sears with heat. “I can handle this on my—”

Loch gives me such a rebuking glare that I lurch back on the chair. The impact of my spine hitting the metal forces out a breathy “Sorry.”

Sorry?

I mean, I’m used to apologizing for my very existence a lot, but— sorry?

Loch’s glare softens.

“Do na apologize, Kris. Just stay still.” He readies a sterile wipe. “Might sting.”

And he gently dabs at the scrape on my right knee.

I watch him, jaw gawped open.

The volunteers are busy getting water to the next wave of racers. Loch’s doggedly focused on bandaging me. So no one sees the seismic shift happening across my face; I can feel the stunned stretch of my expression, but I can’t stop it. Can only stare down as Loch fin ishes one knee by soothing his thumb over the tab of the bandage, an anxious scowl on his face.

He takes my other leg in his hand, brushes the frayed edge of my tights aside, and ghosts his fingers over my kneecap as he checks the wound.

I had no idea, no idea, how sensitive that part of my body was.

The heat from my blush sizzles across my chest. Burns, burns, goes atomic as it settles in my gut.

What…

What’s happening here?

A cart drives up as Loch’s bandaging my other knee, so it’s the doctor who steps in and dresses my temple and shoulder. And thank god for that—I’m not sure how much more of Loch’s ministrations I could’ve handled.

The doctor checks the response of my eyes to light and a few other tests until he nods definitively. “No concussion. You’re lucky. Fall like that? But it’s superficial wounds. You’ll be fine.”

Lucky.

No. That’s—no. I’m reading into things. Lucky would’ve been not tripping at all.

“No concussion,” I repeat dazedly.

Loch is behind the doctor, and his anxious rigidity goes out with a grateful breath.

So I’m the only one mortified.

Everything I said to him. Everything I felt. With nothing to blame it on but myself.

Loch guided me up the road. He put bandages on my knees. It wasn’t anything sensual to him; he was being helpful, Mr. Hero.

Well isn’t that the cherry on the shit-cream sundae that’s been this whole day. Past two days. Every moment I’ve been around Loch since we collided with each other in Cambridge.

“Good, then.” Loch sounds winded. “Thank you, doc.”

The doctor packs up his supplies. “You lads can ride back to the finish line with me?”

“That’ll do,” says Loch.

“No—what? Why?” I shove up from the chair. The cuts on my knees burn, but I’m not dizzy anymore.

Not from my injuries, at least.

Loch eyes me like maybe I do have a concussion. “You are na finishing the run, Kris.”

“ You can finish the run.”

“Do na be faffin’ around—get in the cart.”

“Faffin’ around?”

“ Wasting my time. ” Loch rounds on me, rage kindling in his eyes. “Get your arse in that cart and do na go tryna tell me to leave ya.”

I meet his rage. Anger for anger. “Gotta get those paparazzi pics, right? Repair your reputation?”

That’s what this is. What it has to be.

Unease floods my system, desperation to hear him confirm that that’s his only concern, to redraw that line in the sand between us.

Loch might have been mad before.

He’s livid now.

“Get in. The fucking. Cart.” He wheels off without another word.

The doctor is already in the driver’s seat, waiting none too awkwardly while we yell at each other. Loch hauls himself in the passenger side, the whole cart rocking.

I drop into the seat behind him and glower at the scenery as the doctor takes us to the finish line.

The blocked-off two-lane road is bordered by dead shrubs and spindly trees that haven’t gotten the memo about this being for St. Patrick’s Day. A crowd looks on from either side of the road as I climb out of the cart, and cameras flash. The Holiday reporters keep their distance, but they get plenty of shots of me all banged up and Loch hovering nearby.

Siobhán and Finn rush up to us.

“Christ, Lochlann!” Siobhán smacks his arm. “You actually tried to kill him!”

“I did not!” Loch looks in horror at the reporters. “The bastard tripped himself.”

“Do you want me to go tell that to the journalists?” I nod at the reporters. And wave. Because fuck them. “Tell them how Prince Lochlann valiantly swept to my rescue?”

Finn snarls at me. “Do na use that title here! You eejit, we’re in public. ”

But Loch rounds on me, face red, eyes wild. I can’t place it at first, it’s not anger; amorphous emotions push and pull him, and he centers it all on me.

“You got hurt, Kris,” he spits, like I might’ve forgotten. “This is na a joke.”

Worry.

He’s worried. For me?

No. Right? No, that’s not—

A shout rips through the air. Not from any of us.

Off to the side of the finish line, a fight has broken out, bodies in a tussle of fists and kicking legs.

“Shite.” Loch tears off without hesitation and I pitch after him, but Siobhán grabs me, and Finn gives me a withering glare.

“He can handle this,” Finn snaps. “You’re in pieces.”

She isn’t as unsettled as she should be. There’s a fistfight, at one of their Holiday events, a place that should be all joy and happiness—and Finn seems tired. Siobhán drops her eyes to the ground.

Meanwhile, Loch is centered in the conflict, and I recognize that telltale flick of his hands. He’s using magic—not to stop the fight; our magic can’t change a person’s choices. But it can, if needed, lighten spirits.

Which is generally something a king should do, and on a much grander scale.

But their king isn’t even here. His advertisements are, though.

Doing what Loch is doing should be wildly unnecessary. His uncle should have this covered, blanketing everyone at this festival, everyone celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, in a feedback loop of joy and goodness and light. I get that the King might not be at every event we go to, but the people generate joy, he uses that joy to enhance their happiness, and it builds and builds everywhere people are celebrating his Holiday.

The press swivel from taking shots of me all ripped up to getting pics of Loch in the crowd.

“What is going on here?” I ask, breathless.

Finn glowers at Siobhán. Who glowers right back.

“Ya both are stubborn arses,” Siobhán barks at her sister before she turns to me. “Our uncle is a right prick.”

“Siobhán! It’s none of his business.”

“It’s my business, and I’m na about to let the chance at Loch having a real ally pass by.”

My face widens in surprise.

“Now, Kris.” Siobhán’s sweet smile is marred by the first show of anger I’ve seen on her. “To be fair, our father was a right prick in his own way, too.”

“Jesus, Siobhán. You’re on your own.” Finn walks away, towards the fight that’s now settling.

I stay focused on Siobhán. Who sighs and folds her arms.

“We’ve had a long run of prick rulers for St. Patrick’s Day,” she says. “Our grandda and da weren’t cruel, just poor managers. No vision. But our uncle keeps a tight hold on the magic, hoards it all up.”

A few police are intermingled with the crowd around Loch now. The doctor has his medical kit back out.

“This happens a lot? Fights? ” I can’t stop the disgust from warping my voice.

Siobhán nods with a wince. “Our uncle does na use his magic as he should. The attitude gets… muddled.”

“So St. Patrick’s Day is running out of magic?”

“We’ve quite a lot of it. But our uncle’s a greedy son of a bitch who uses all our magic to make the luckiest business decisions for his distillery, claiming it’s an Irish company, so its success is imperative to St. Patrick’s Day’s success. It’s all fucked. Finn and I get no magic; Loch barely gets enough to do—well, that.” She waves at her brother. Who doesn’t appear to be using magic now, as the fight’s stopped; he’s got his hand on someone’s shoulder and is talking to them, posture gentle and soothing.

“That’s why we drove here instead of using magic to travel,” I connect.

“Yeah.”

My lungs grip tight. For all Dad’s jackass ways, he never limited our magic. He threatened it, but we always had enough. Which turned out to be because other Holidays were being forced to give us their magic. So, perspective and all.

But I feel a pulse of empathy. For Siobhán. Finn.

Loch.

“Is that why you don’t have staff at the castle?” I ask.

Siobhán shrugs. “With our uncle keeping the magic for his distillery, we got less and less to run our Holiday. The staff and court’ve been slipping away for years. Malachy gives magic to the ones he wants to keep close, but the rest have faded out, and we do na have magic to help with the resources we need in the castle.”

“Wait. You’re saying no one runs St. Patrick’s Day? What does your uncle do?”

“Fucks off in Dublin with his distillery. Shows up at the big parade every year to let people adore him, as if he deserves any of it. Pops in on occasion to check the joy meter and yell about how he does na have enough magic.” She scowls at one of the Green Hills Distillery banners. “Oh, and plasters his adverts on every event Loch coordinates. Like this race? Malachy’d canceled it years ago. But Loch started it up again last year, and it was a big success. Malachy got right livid with Loch for daring to go against him, but he let Loch keep this race on account of it bringing in more magic. Only he took credit for it, slathering his distillery over everything.”

A picture is starting to form. And it isn’t at all what I expected. It makes my heart rate spike, or maybe it never calmed at all from the run and fall, so it’s banging even harsher now, quaking my chest apart.

“But Loch should be king,” I try. “Why isn’t he?”

Siobhán’s eyes dip over my shoulder.

Loch is talking with a police officer. The press are hovering near him.

“He took it hard when our da died,” she whispers. “He’s always carried too much. He’s a brilliant idiot and an artist to boot so he’s doomed to burn out one day. Uncle Malachy used that against him, pushed our court to believe he was unreliable. Loch was so young, plus reckless and silly, before Da died, so they believed Malachy. Loch believed Malachy. He surrendered the rule on the idea that Malachy would give it back once Loch’s worthy, but we know now, that’ll be never. Which is a heap of bullshite—you saw all the artists’ booths there, yeah?”

She points to the area behind the race registration tent. Where I’d seen Loch talking to the vendors.

“Before Malachy canceled this event, it was a charity race. When Loch brought it back, he got the organizers to bring in local artists, made it a proper large fundraising festival. It’s a celebration now, with Irish artisans and musicians. Loch does stuff of that sort all across the isle while Malachy takes credit. He runs circles round Malachy.”

I press the pad of my thumb between my eyebrows, fighting down a headache—from my fall, from the tension in my shoulders, from this finally making sense in the worst way possible.

I really, really wanted Loch to be the thieving jackass.

He could be. Maybe he’s stealing Christmas’s magic to compensate for his uncle’s stranglehold. But wouldn’t Loch be doing more with magic then? He’s barely using anything.

Malachy’s the one stealing from us, isn’t he? His own Holiday wasn’t enough anymore.

“So—” I shake my head and lower my voice. “That’s what my being here and all this press shit is—he’s trying to change his court’s opinion of him to take back the throne?”

Siobhán looks skyward, pleadingly. “Let it be so. Finn and I both were shocked off our arses when Loch told us he’d planned you coming for the week, and planned more having the tabloids so involved. He’s not told us his reasoning because he’s a grumpy fuck, but we’re hopeful this means he’s trying to replace Malachy.” She glares at me. “I know you’ve got no reason to give a shite, but you’re here, and so help me, Christmas Prince, if ya bring more stress on my brother—” She stops. Considers. “Do ya know what happens to a body when it’s buried in a peat bog?”

“I… I do not.”

“Well. Make trouble for Lochlann, and you’ll find out firsthand. I told ya this for a reason. Ya need to understand him. He lets Malachy take credit and walk all over him, and Finn and I are proper sick of people thinking the worst of him. I like you, Kris. You could be good for him. Getting him out of his head like ya do.”

Good for him? We’re not friends, and we damn near kill each other in every conversation we have.

I thought Finn had the whole terrifying-sister angle on lock. But the real threat is Siobhán, hiding behind that bubbly facade.

I manage to clear my throat. “I don’t want to make things harder on anyone. But I’m not sure how useful of a… of a real ally I can be.”

“Hm.” She considers me, her eyes toying. “You’ve got a point. You are a right eejit sometimes.”

“Okay, that’s harsh—”

“Why’d ya trip on the road, eh? It’s a paved path.” Her eyebrows lift expectantly.

I think she means that only a dumbass would trip on flat pavement.

But I remember Loch’s laugh. The way it’d sent me toppling over.

I scrub a hand over the back of my neck. “Fine. I relent. I’m an eejit. ”

She grins and jostles my shoulder.

Finn and Loch come back, both looking exhausted. But Loch’s exhaustion sharpens as Siobhán peels away from me, and I see the echo of our fight about me not trying to sleep with her.

He glares at me.

I hold that glare, but I don’t return it.

He drops his eyes first.

“I’ve had about enough of Cork,” he says to no one in particular. “Home?”

“Yeah.” But Finn dips her head back dramatically. “Ah, Christ, the car is gonna reek with you two in it. Canna you find somewhere to shower first?”

“I do na smell. ” Loch snags Finn and jerks her head down to bury her face in his armpit.

“Get off me! Fucker! ” She flails, landing a fist to his stomach, and he lets her go with a laugh.

“We’ll pile ’em in the back and open all the windows.” Siobhán points at Loch, who spreads his arms and moves as if to tackle-hug her too. “Do na touch me, ya wanker.”

“Ah, but Siobhán—deirfiúr bheag—” He lunges, and I stumble away as Siobhán ducks and squeals and the two of them tear across the road, hopping through the crowd, angling for the carpark.

It leaves Finn and me to trail them, and when she gives me her usual frown, I become aware of the stupid grin on my face.

“Siobhán threaten you good and proper if you fuck us over?” she asks.

Well, Finn definitely can’t be the one stealing from us because, god, the irony of me fucking them over.

I nod.

She eyes all my injuries and shakes her head in disgust. “See if ya can get to the car without falling on your arse.”

And she quickens her pace to walk off without me.

Which is fine. I need the time to… breathe.

My phone is in the car. So I can’t text Coal and ask him what I should do, and I don’t want to text him while we’re all in the car together in case someone sees.

So for now?

I’m on my own.

The knot of pressure in my chest matches the one currently radiating pain up my neck.

What is it with the rulers of Holidays fucking off their duties so the heirs have to step in? Loch and I should start a club with Coal and Iris.

At the car, Finn claims the driver’s seat and Siobhán sits next to her, which leaves Loch and me to crowd into the back, all the windows thrown down in the frigid March air. That won’t last long. But we do stink.

And this car is tiny.

I didn’t realize it when I was sitting with Siobhán. Loch has to bend his long legs practically to his chin, pivoted with his hip towards me to give Finn enough room to put her seat back. I squish in next to him, doing my best not to touch him, my body shoved up on the door like I’m trying to scale it.

Finn drives us off, the chilly air buffeting my face. I close my eyes. My body aches, every wound throbbing with the beat of my blood. The one granola bar and bag of almonds I’ve eaten today is rapidly making my stomach revolt against the rest of my body.

Something cold touches my knee and I jerk.

Loch chuckles. It’s a water bottle.

I note the small unzipped cooler between his feet.

“You did na drink enough during the race,” he says.

I take the bottle. “You are way too concerned with my water intake.”

“I would na have to be, if you’d drink enough of it.”

He produces another granola bar, a bag of carrot sticks, sandwiches, and passes some up to Siobhán and Finn too.

A handful of snippy comebacks pop to mind.

But all I say is “Thanks.”

Shit, I need to sleep. Like, really sleep, but I doubt even this level of exhaustion will result in anything more than a few restless hours tonight.

We eat in silence, the car quickly going arctic, and I regret my tank top all over again. But my stomach is full now and I close my eyes again and lean against the open window, focusing on how the icy wind rolls into my lungs, crisp and cool.

His uncle is screwing him over. Worse than my father ever did, at least in the way he treated Coal and me. If I got proof that Malachy is the one stealing Christmas’s magic, what would happen? He cares about smearing Loch so much, making sure their court is against him—would the scandal of people knowing that Malachy’s a thief be enough to not only get Christmas’s joy back, but also force him to give Loch the throne too?

Could my presence here help undo Loch’s bad reputation—not necessarily with the press, but with his court? That was the point, right, to set the story straight about his hazing incident.

Or he could have organized my being here to cover up stealing Christmas’s magic? Maybe he’s hoping he can find out how much we know about the theft.

The thought doesn’t come with the annoyance and hatred I expect. It’s… deflated.

I saw Loch at the festival. How he was with those vendors.

And how he was with me, when I fell.

I want his uncle to be the one screwing us over.

My own thoughts catch on themselves, trip and tumble into silence.

Why? a voice whispers. Why do you care whether Loch’s the thief?

After about thirty minutes of riding while holding myself angled away from Loch, straining all the muscles I abused today so I don’t bump into him, I put my hand flat on the seat to prop against it and give my torso a break.

But my eyes are shut.

And I don’t see his hand already on the cushion.

I feel it now, though. The edge of his wrist against mine.

My body goes even tenser. Concrete solidified.

Pull away. It was an innocent mistake. Pull back.

But a second passes.

Two.

And it rapidly barrels past the time when I could yank away and claim it’s an accident and now, now, I’m actively touching him, barely touching him, and the beat of blood in my injuries channels to pound, pound, pound over my heart.

It’s an accident. He touched my knees earlier, and that meant nothing, so this, this means—

His finger moves.

Hooks with mine.

Holy shit.

The icy wind thrashes against my face and chaos ratchets to boiling in my head, it’s haunting me, that juxtaposition, cold to hot to cold—

I hear his voice, the memory of it. Echoing. Echoing.

I’m Irish, boyo. Talking shite is how we flirt.

Holy.

Fuck.

Has he been flirting with me this whole time ?

And. Oh my god.

Have I been flirting back ?

No. No way. Flirting is telling someone they look nice, or smiling at each other across a room, or anything that leaves a fuzzy feeling in my chest, not—

Not heat so intense I don’t think there’s a part of me that isn’t blistered anymore.

Not tension so potent it creates its own gravitational pull.

That’s not—that isn’t—

Oh my god.

THAT’S WHAT THAT IS?!

My mouth opens. I gulp the wind. But I do not move any more than that.

Only I do.

Bullets of that cold-hot-cold are firing down into the root of my stomach, and I chase them. I am stripped of all thought again, a being of appetite only, and that appetite wants more of this sensation, hot-cold-hot —

I work my hand under his and twine our fingers together.

What am I doing.

I’m suffocating is what I’m doing. I’ve passed out from my injuries and I’m unconscious right now.

Loch’s fingers tighten on mine. His thumb strokes over the back of my hand and I launch stratospheric.

There is nothing deniable about this. No rationalizing it off. It’s such a thing outside myself that I’m forced to sit here in excruciating mental silence and endure his hand in mine. The roughness of his palm, a callus between two fingers, probably from a paint brush.

This is so childish, isn’t it? Holding hands. This is playground bullshit. It shouldn’t be—it shouldn’t be —

But it’s everything. His touch is on my hand but it’s all over my body, and those bullets whizzing through me, the aching thuds of my pulse, all of it swells together in a detonation that is physically agonizing to not react to.

My eyes split open. And I twist to him; increment by increment, I’ll find an excuse in his face. My mind will start working again and I’ll see the reason I did this and it’ll be something—something—that makes sense —

I get as far as looking at the seat between us when Loch pulls away.

He drops my hand and cocks his shoulder to me and clears his throat, scratches his jaw. His beard bristles on his fingertips.

There’s paint caked in his nailbeds. Specks of green. Orange.

I stare down at my palm. Empty.

No thoughts.

But a feeling.

Rejection.

Another. Stronger. Feral and out of control.

Confusion.

I tuck my hand into my lap.

“ Shite, close the windows!” Siobhán shrieks. “I canna take it anymore. It’s winter, Christ.”

Finn hits a button and all the windows go up.

No, I need that air, fuck, fuck —

One arm curled up on the car door, I make myself as small as possible, nonexistent.

Loch shifts. My eyes dart over to him. I can’t stop it.

His head is angled at the window, but he dips his eyes to the side. Towards me.

Goes back to staring out the window.

I watch the muscle in his jaw, under his beard, constrict, stay clamped.

Hot-cold-hot.

My hand is still on fire. The brunt force of the sun scorching every line in my palm.

I spin away from him and shut my eyes and do not think, not at all.