Page 91 of Scarred Crown

“What are you saying?” I run my hands along my thighs to get rid of the sweat pooling across my palms. The implication is clear, but I need him to say it.

“I realize an annulment is, perhaps, the tidier solution to what we’ve done…” He catches my gaze. “I don’t want to do that.”

“Oh,” I breathe out, and my skin prickles with nerves. My internal pact to keep my emotions out of whatever Nick said to me has been shot down by this unexpected turn of events. Sober Nick used to be practical with a hint of rebellion when the constraints of royal life got a bit too tight. A marriage is a restraint I never thought Nick would willingly take on. One woman, forever? Impossible, right?

Except he seems to be suggesting that one woman could be me.

He chuckles, but there’s no humor in the sound. “Not an enthusiastic ‘me either,’ which I guess is what I was expecting.” He sighs. “If you want the annulment, I won’t fight you.”

My heart drops. “What if I don’t want it either?” If Nick could be mine… if Nick wants to be mine… the brokenhearted sixteen-year-old girl surfaces at the thought.

“You want to try this?” He gives me a skeptical look, which would have slain me had he not already told me he’s willing to try.

“I think—I think what you said is true. I can’t remember what happened, but I know I wouldn’t have gotten this tattoo if I didn’t believe in being married to you. I just… I just wish I remembered what led to this, you know?” I flush and shake my head. “I don’t think—I mean, we didn’t even…”

A genuine chuckle escapes him. “Jules, come on. Say it.”

“We didn’t sleep together, did we?”

“Sleep? More like passed out.”

Now he’s teasing me, and I suppress a smile. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” He smirks. “Trust me, if we’d had sex, your memory would be technicolor and clear. You’d want to write my name in the stars for all the world to see.” He draws his hand across the air in front of us as though he’s headlining a movie.

Now I laugh. “Oh? You’ve got some sort of magical mojo that can bring a girl back from blackout drunk?”

He meets my gaze, all trace of humor gone. “Not quite. There’s no way in hell I would have had sex with you if you were that drunk. That’s not how our first time together goes—married or not.”

He says it with so much sincerity and confidence I’m momentarily light-headed. Has he thought about it? I haven’t let my mind wander there in a long time. Sex with Nick? The outline of that thought died in college. But I still remember what I imagined being with him would be like.

“How would our first time be?” My voice is husky.

“I’m tempted to give you a line,” he says with a hint of a smile.

“Don’t give me something you’d give anyone else.” It’s a plea and a command.

He searches my face, and his smile fades. Without saying a word, he leans over and kisses me, a brush of his lips against mine that makes me yearn for more. When he draws back and my eyes open, he’s still close enough to touch, for his breath to stir the tendrils of my hair framing my face.

“Sex with me would be the most connected, emotional experience of your life.” His voice is rough with desire.

I suck in a sharp breath, and then I bridge the gap between us, looping my hand around his neck, drawing him into another kiss. He responds without hesitation, as though he’s been waiting for permission to cross this threshold again.

Connected and emotional should be a line, phrasing he uses to win over a woman—me—into his bed. But the sentiment is true, as though he’s already slipped inside me and knows the very darkest secrets of my heart. Whenever I pictured being with Nick, that’s exactly how I thought it would be. Deep and meaningful—the kind of sex that breaks your heart and heals it all at the same time.

He draws me out of my chair over to his, and he tugs me onto his lap, his lips finding mine again. We shouldn’t be kissing. We should be talking. My brain is waging a losing battle against my body.

After that night in the barn, I convinced myself Nick didn’t want me, couldn’t want me like this. To realize he might—that he does—is exhilarating and terrifying.

He frames my face and softens the kiss. “What do you say, Jensen? Want to stay married to me?”

Does he love me? Could he love me? The bud of love has lain dormant in me, but with care, it’ll blossom and bloom. Scary, but true. If we do this, my heart will be invested, even if his isn’t. Can I live with that?

“Marriages should probably be based on more than the possibility of good sex,” I say. It’s the closest I can come to asking him how he feels about me.

A hint of a smile touches his lips. “Royal marriages have been built on less, I’d wager.”

“What if it doesn’t work out?” I bite my lip.