Page 141 of The Royal Art of Revenge

He and I both.

Because I have no idea.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE – HATTIE

There’s a certain shift to the air whenever Finn is around. I’ve not quite pinpointed it yet, but I always know when he’s coming because something simply ripples through the very oxygen I breathe.

More than a chill, but less than a warmth.

A peculiar mix of regality and softness that comforts me in a way only my heart truly understands.

That’s how I know he’s standing in the doorway without me having to look up. How I know he’s been watching me for the past few minutes without saying a word.

“You know,” I say, flicking through the photos I’ve taken of the palace grounds over the past few days. “I am a photographer. If you’d like to stare at me, a photo might be a little less creepy. I’m not great at self-portraits, but I’ll give it a go.”

His deep laugh rings through the room, and he finally pushes away from the door when I look up. “But a photo won’t show me all the cute little expressions you make when you’re concentrating.”

“Your insistence upon calling me cute is nauseating. Cute is for babies and bunnies.”

“And you when you bite the corner of your lip when you concentrate.” He cups my chin as he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my lips. “What are you focusing on so diligently, anyway?”

“Nothing important. I’ve been exploring the palace gardens over the last few days, and I took my camera. Do you want to see?”

“Of course.”

“Grab a chair, then.”

“I have a better idea.” He yanks my chair back, pulls me up, then steals my seat. Before I can muster up a response, he tugs me down onto his lap and clamps his arms around my waist.

“This is childish,” I mutter.

He rests his chin on my shoulder with a, “Hmm,” and squeezes me a little tighter.

Fine.

Whatever.

I do like it when he touches me.

Nestled on his lap, I take control of the mouse and flick through the photos. We stay like this for the next ten or so minutes as he explores the familiar gardens through my lens, and every other photo has a little anecdote or story that makes me smile. Memories of years gone by, little flashes of what life could be if one had a real childhood.

“I’m jealous,” I murmur. “My memories are nothing like yours.”

His fingers twitch against my waist. “We’ll make new ones. Better ones. I’ll give you all those memories you wish for and the ones you never dreamt of.”

“Those are big promises.”

“Big, but not impossible.” He presses a kiss to the side of my neck. “And our children will never want for anything. We’ll give them the most magical childhood. Memories like mine. Two parents who love them. All the stability and certainty you could ever dream of.”

Something fizzles through my veins.

Something that feels an awful lot like hope.

He kisses my neck again before he says, “I’m afraid I have something to tell you that might ruin your day.”

“I can’t have anything nice, can I?” I groan and spin in his hold. “What is it?”

“I spoke to your father.”