Page 32 of Royal Deception (Royals of the Underworld #2)

CLARY

I ’m sitting on my couch, staring at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of me wonders if I’m just being foolish even thinking about it. But the other part… well, it’s still tangled up in everything that happened with Rory.

I need someone else’s perspective. So, I text Ana, explaining the situation.

Clary: So?

Clary: What do you think? Should I give him another shot?

The three dots blink for a few seconds before Ana’s reply pops up.

Ana: Sounds like he’s willing to try, but one question.

Ana: Did he ever actually apologize to you? Because that’s the only way you know he’s sincere.

I frown at the message, feeling a pang of frustration. No, he didn’t apologize. Not in any real, heartfelt way. Not for all the mess he caused.

But the pull to try again is still there, lingering in the back of my mind.

Clary: Not exactly. But I think he’s trying. I wanna give him a shot. I really like him. Am I being bonkers?

Ana’s response is swift, but it carries the weight of her thoughts.

Ana: It’s not crazy to want to get back with someone you still have feelings for. Just be cautious. Make sure he’s actually sorry for how he treated you. Don’t just settle for someone who says they’re “trying”, okay? You deserve better, girl.

I lean back, reading her words over and over. She’s right, of course. I do deserve more than someone just “trying”. But maybe, just maybe, I owe it to myself to see if there’s more there with Rory. After all, if he’s making an effort, maybe that’s a start.

Clary: You’re so sweet. I think I’m going to give him a chance. I’ll see what he does on our “date”. Maybe he’ll surprise us both.

I hit Send before I can second-guess myself. Ana’s answer is a little quieter this time.

Ana: You’ve got this, Clary. Just remember what you deserve, okay?

I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of her words.

The ping of a new text cuts through my thoughts. It’s Rory. My pulse kicks up a notch, my stomach fluttering in that way I can’t control.

Rory: I’m looking forward to our date tomorrow.

I let the message hang there for a moment. I know I’m not ready to forget everything that happened, but there’s a part of me that wants to see if things can change.

Clary: Where are we going?

Rory: It’s a surprise.

Rory: Oh! But wear a warm sweater and some comfortable pants.

I drop the phone beside me, unsure of what comes next but letting the possibility of something new settle in. Maybe this time, I can stop waiting for things to fall apart.

The anticipation creeps up on me slowly. At first, it’s just a tiny flicker—something light and fragile that I can ignore if I try hard enough. But as the hours tick down, that flicker turns into something steadier, something I don’t want to push away.

I’m excited.

It’s ridiculous, maybe. After everything, I should be more guarded. But the idea of a real date with Rory, one where we’re just two people figuring things out instead of drowning in all the ways we’ve hurt each other, is more than a little thrilling.

But that excitement fades a little the next day when I stand in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection.

The pastel blue sweater I picked to wear is soft and cozy, and it’s a color that always makes me feel a little brighter.

I smooth my hands down the fabric, trying not to focus on the way it clings a little too much to my stomach.

It’s not like I can hide it anymore, not really.

My jeans fit fine, but they rest lower than they used to, accommodating the slight curve of my growing belly.

My throat tightens. I know my body is changing. I shouldn’t feel self-conscious about it. But I do.

What if Rory notices? What if he says something?

I shake my head, willing the doubts away. He invited me on this date. He wants to see me. That has to count for something.

Taking one last deep breath, I grab my coat and my purse, forcing myself to focus on the night ahead. No second-guessing. No overthinking. Just… seeing where this takes me.

The drive is long enough for my nerves to settle into something softer, curiosity replacing the sharp-edged anxiety that had followed me out the door. Rory’s being surprisingly secretive about where we’re going, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth whenever I press for answers.

When we finally pull up to the stable, my breath catches. The sight of the horses, the sprawling green fields just beyond, the way the setting sun paints everything in a golden hue—it feels like something out of a dream.

“You ever been riding before?” Rory asks, stepping around to open my door.

I shake my head, still taking it all in. “No, never.”

His smirk turns pleased, like he’s proud to be the one introducing me to this. “Then you’re in for a treat.”

As we approach the horses, my excitement grows. It’s quiet here, peaceful in a way I hadn’t realized I needed. There’s no city noise, no distractions—just the rhythmic sounds of hooves against the dirt, the crisp air, and Rory standing close enough that I can feel the warmth of him at my side.

I remind myself of why I’m here.

I like him, a lot, but I can’t let myself get caught up in this until he proves he’s changed. Until he apologizes.

Rory helps me onto the horse, his hands settling on my waist. His touch is steady, careful, but he lingers just a second too long.

His grip is firm but gentle, and when I glance down, he’s still looking at me.

Not in a way that makes my stomach drop, but in that slightly puzzled, head-tilted way, like he’s noticing something but hasn’t quite put his finger on it yet.

My breath hitches for half a second before I force myself to look away.

Shit. Can he tell?

But just as quickly as the thought comes, I shove it aside. There’s no way. He’s been remarkably unobservant about all my symptoms so far.

The ride through the forest is nothing short of magical. The crisp air, the gentle sway of the horse beneath me, the way the late afternoon sunlight filters through the trees—it all feels like something out of a dream. I hate how much I love it, how much I love this.

By the time we reach the clearing near the stream, Rory hops off his horse first and strides over to mine, offering me his hands to help me down.

I hesitate for a fraction of a second, but I let him.

His touch is steady, warm, and for just a breath, his hands linger at my waist again before he steps back.

“Perfect spot, huh?” he asks, gesturing toward the quiet little clearing.

I have to admit, it is beautiful. The stream babbles softly, the leaves rustle in the wind, and the air smells fresh, clean. Rory leads me toward a soft patch of grass where he starts setting up the picnic, but as I settle down, I notice something.

He keeps checking his phone.

The glow of the screen illuminates his face every few minutes, his brows drawn together in a way that’s subtle but telling. It’s like he’s trying not to let it show, but it’s bothering him.

Finally, I sigh and cross my arms. “You know, for a guy who set all this up, you’re awfully distracted.”

He looks up at me, caught in the act. His jaw tightens for a second before he exhales, locking his phone and setting it face down on the blanket. “I know. I’m sorry.”

I raise a brow.

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “There’s… some trouble with the Russians. But it can wait.” His gaze flickers over my face, and then he shakes his head as if dismissing it entirely. “This is more important.”

Something about the way he says it, the quiet intensity in his voice, makes my breath catch for just a moment.

Then, as if determined to shift the mood, he reaches for the picnic basket and flips open the lid. “Now, let’s see what we’ve got here.”

He starts pulling out food—cheeses, crackers, grapes, little sandwiches—and then a bottle of wine. He holds it up with a smirk. “Figured we could toast to new beginnings.”

My stomach twists, but I force a small smile. “That’s sweet, but I’ll pass on the wine.”

He pauses. “You sure? It’s a good one.”

“Yeah,” I say, a little too quickly. “I’m just not in the mood.”

Rory studies me for a moment, his brows slightly furrowed. He doesn’t say anything right away, but I can feel his mind working, turning something over. He sets the bottle down, leans back on one hand, and gives me a slow once-over.

“You feeling okay?” he asks, tone casual but gaze sharp.

“Yeah, of course,” I reply, trying not to sound defensive. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

His head tilts slightly, his expression unreadable. “You just seem… different.”

I force a light laugh, reaching for some grapes. “Well, I haven’t seen you in a while. Maybe you just forgot what I’m like.”

It’s a weak deflection, and I know it the second his eyes narrow slightly, like puzzle pieces are starting to snap into place in his mind.

Shit.

I need to change the subject. Quickly. “So, what made you pick this place? I never would’ve guessed you were the horseback riding type?—”

“Clary,” Rory interrupts, his voice low and steady.

I freeze.

His gaze is locked onto mine, intense in a way that makes my pulse pound. “Are you pregnant?”

My stomach drops.

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

Because this is it. The moment I’ve been dreading.

And Rory doesn’t look like he’s going to let it go.