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“I wanted to say thank you.” I pause. “For letting me know I was on the wrong track.”
“Anytime, darling.” His grin turns wolfish, and I grimace.
“Do you always have to be such an arrogant asshole?”
“Tends to spice things up a bit, no?”
“Tends to make you look like a jerk,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “There are better ways to spice things up.”
“Enlighten me.” His voice drops, sending a thrill coursing through my veins. A flush creeps up my neck, but I refuse to meet his gaze. I stare at the dancing flames, ignoring the innuendo.
The Prince gets up, and I steal a glance his way. He moves to a small bar by the wall, fixing two glasses of dark alcohol. He stalks toward me, handing me one of the crystal tumblers.
“Scotch,” he explains.
I wrap my fingers around the cool glass and nod in thanks, then return to stare at the fire.
The Prince takes his seat, then shifts in his chair. “Rowan,” he says in a low growl. “Look at me.”
Damn him and his irresistible commands. I drag my eyes to meet his, ready for the assault of his gaze—but instead of hard, mocking eyes, I see softness.
“October has been the hardest month of each of the past four years. I know I’m not always a nice person,” he starts, his mouth staying open for a moment as if he’s going to speak. I stare at him, seeing a crack in his hard exterior. His shoulders round and for a moment, his face is open. He’s thinking about his fiancée. I know it, and damn it, I’m jealous of a dead woman.
I’m a freaking mess.
Letting out a sigh, I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Hardness returns to his gaze, but I try to ignore it. He lifts the glass to his lips, taking a sip.
I shake my head. “About your fiancée. For everything you lost. I’m sorry you have to relive it every year.”
He sucks in a long breath, raking his eyes down my body and back up again. "This October hasn’t been so bad.” He shifts in his seat and for just a moment, I see him as a real person. A man who’s been hurt. Who thinks he’s failed.
Turning to stare at the fire, we listen to it crackle for a few moments. Then the Prince speaks. “We were going to an event together,” he says. “There was a crush of reporters and paparazzi outside the venue, as usual. They went everywhere Abby went. She was everything they wanted in a new princess, and the media was relentless. So, she decided to get out and walk into the crowd to greet some young fans who had come to see her. I had no choice but to agree.” His eyes get a faraway look in them as he sips his drink, then continues. “She collapsed. Right there on the sidewalk beside me. I’ve seen the videos and photos of those moments, but I don’t actually remember any of it.” The Prince’s face contorts. “I just sat there, cradling her body. I didn’t do CPR. Didn’t do anything. I just held her as she died. I froze.”
“Wolfe…” I whisper, afraid to talk.
“She had a fatal arrhythmia. Her heart just…malfunctioned. They say there’s nothing anyone could have done, but…” He shrugs, then finishes his drink in one gulp. “Sometimes I think that’s a lie. There had to be something I could have done, you know?” I watch him stand up to pour himself another drink, then turn around and tilt his head. “What about you?”
I glance at him, questioning. My throat is tight as I try to swallow, feeling the weight of his grief on my shoulders.
He jerks his chin at me. “Have you ever lost someone you loved?”
Usually, I’d shut this conversation down. I’d ignore any mention of death and grief, and I’d steer the conversation toward safer topics. Work. The weather. Architecture. Right now, though, my shoulders relax, and I find myself dipping my chin down. “My mother,” I reply. The Prince’s gaze meets mine, and all of a sudden, I want to tell him everything.
