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5
Wolfe
On my computerscreen is yet another speech identical to every other royal statement I’ve ever given or heard. I give it a cursory glance, approving it with zero comments. When I close my laptop, I lean back in my chair and glance out the window.
The doctor’s car is making its way from the security lodge to the main castle. I lean closer, watching the vehicle approach.
She’s in there. Rowan Reed. Probably sitting in the back seat, her perky little ass being warmed by heated leather seats. Maybe she’s wrapping her arms around her torso, staring out the window at the white expanse that surrounds us.
The woman who almost died. The red-haired beauty who looks like she’s not quite human. Part fairy, part elf, and one hundred percent delicious. I want to eat her.
I grunt, turning away from the window.
The last thing I should be doing is thinking of her. I’ll stay in my wing of the castle and let her do her design work. I’ll hole myself up in here and wait for October to pass. I might even stay the winter—being here on my own doesn’t sound so bad.
Wasn’t that the plan? Hide away here, far from misplaced sympathy and pity-filled stares? Lick the wounds that never heal, or at the very least, grit my teeth and make it through this month.
My eyes drift to the wall, where a photo of Abby and me hangs. I frown, tightness squeezing my chest.
I’d never met anyone like her. An angel with golden hair and a bright smile. Able to pull me out of my darkest depths and show me the beauty of life. The woman I was supposed to cherish and protect.
The woman I failed.
Bitterness overwhelms me. Resentment tastes like ash. Pushing my chair back, I stand and walk to the wall. I stand in front of the photo, staring at the image of my own face. A huge smile stretches across my lips, and my arm is slung around her slim waist. I don’t even know that person. Abby’s hand rests on my chest, and she tilts her head back, a coquettish smile gracing her red lips.
She always knew how to take a good photo—but then again, it’s hard to take a bad one when you’re beautiful. The media adored her, and she gave them smiles and waves and pictures they could sell newspapers with.
Nord’s darling. Our princess. My future wife.
We’d been back from our first official trip abroad when that photo was taken. I’d just asked her to marry me. Life was bright and hopeful and good.
Gingerly, I unhook the photo from the wall, staring at our smiling faces. My thumbs brush the glass of the picture frame, pressing hard enough to feel the cool smoothness of the material beneath my fingertips.
I guess I’m not getting away from these memories, even at the Summer Palace.
My thumbs press harder, the pads of my fingers leaving imprints on the glass. Anger swells inside me as I stare at Abby’s smiling face, her soft, blond curls falling down to her waist. I stare at the hand resting on my chest. At the glittering ring that always caught the light just so. My eyes drift down to her flat stomach, which still hid the secret that her death would reveal.
I failed her. When the time came for me to act, I froze, and she was gone.
Dropping my shoulders, I toss the picture, frame and all, into a drawer and slam it closed. I stalk out of the room without looking back.
My feet take me across the palace to the south wing. I pass oil paintings of my ancestors and intricate sculptures that Mother and Father commissioned when they were newlyweds. Before they had the four of us kids. Before they, too, died—at least I was too young to really remember much. The sting of that particular grief doesn’t send me to the edge of the arctic for months at a time.
I walk by huge windows that, in the summertime, reveal vast meadows of wildflowers and swaying grasses. Now, all I see is white snow and a dark, starless sky.
Pausing at one of the windows in a formal sitting room, I run my fingers through my thick, black hair. The snow is beautiful, in its own way. It muffles the world, as if giving you permission to be sleepy and warm and safe inside. Its harshness appeals to the primal parts of me. The bite of the cold reminds me of my own heart. The whip of the wind across the barren landscape reminds me what it feels like to be alone. The isolation is comforting.
There are no reporters here, following me everywhere to catch a glimpse of my misery.
Turning away from the window, I continue walking through the castle. I thought I’d hate it here this winter. I didn’t like the idea of being hemmed in here for weeks, but it was better than the assault of Abby’s memorials.
This palace is meant to be enjoyed in summertime, when the arctic is lit by the sun nearly twenty-four hours a day. When the meadows are teeming with life, and caribou bound across the landscape.
Now, it’s dead and cold and sleepy, and I like it. It feels like home.
Throwing on a thick jacket, boots, and all the warm accessories I need to brave the cold, I make my way through the big brown doors to the kennels. It’s cooler in here, but still sheltered from the worst of the elements. The warm smell of dogs greets me, followed by a few soft whinnies and cold snouts pressed against kennel gates.
Harvey, the kennel master, looks up from his crouch at the far end of the kennels. His eyebrows jump. “Your Highness.” He straightens up, giving me a low bow.
