Page 170 of The Royal Art of Revenge

“Oh, come on. I knew I was signing up for trouble from the very beginning.” I grin, but she doesn’t return it. “And everyone else around us generally encourages your antics.”

That gets her the tiniest bit.

“So, really, the best thing you could do right now is turn off that water, let me dry you off, and just accept that you’re stuck with me forever. Because if you want to leave here, then it means I follow you, and then we have a whole constitutional crisis on our hands. Believe me, that’s a lot more trouble than someone making up lies about the woman I love.”

She hugs her knees a little tighter, but nods.

“What’s the nod for? The water? Or the running away together?”

“The water.” There’s the hint of a smile in her voice. “And the drying off.”

“Okay, good.” I kiss the top of her head as I stand and turn it off. There are fresh towels on the towel rack, and I hope to God the heater has been turned on.

She’s freezing.

God only knows how long she’d have stayed in that shower if I didn’t come in when I did.

I help her out of the shower and wrap one towel around her. She barely even holds it, and my mistake hits me hard.

She can’t dry off if she’s in wet clothes.

Idiot.

I’m an idiot.

I take the towel. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes, okay?”

Hattie nods, and while she doesn’t necessarily help me, she doesn’t hinder me, either. She moves her arms when I ask. Lifts her feet at my request. And when I wrap her in a second warm, fluffy towel and tell her to grip hold of it to keep it around her, she does.

“Come on,” I say softly. “Let’s get you out of this bathroom.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT – HATTIE

Everything about him is tender.

The way he talks, the way he touches, even the very way he breathes around me seems to be with such a gentle edge that it’s somehow keeping me grounded.

I don’t know how he does it. I don’t know why he does it.

No, I do. That’s a lie.

He does it because he loves me.

He loves me.

I can’t believe he loves me. Now that is something I don’t understand—I’ve done nothing but cause trouble since I showed up in front of him, and on the brink of the biggest drama yet, he doesn’t run. He holds me closer than ever and tells me he loves me.

Maybe he’s not right in the head.

Maybe he needs the therapist, not me.

Finn sits me on the bed and turns to the walk-in wardrobe. He returns with some underwear and a fresh pair of pyjamas, and wordlessly, he sets about drying me off and getting me dressed. He finishes off by rolling some fluffy socks onto my feet, then turns his attention to my hair.

He brushes it out, squeezes out the excess water, then pulls it back into a plait. He drapes my dressing gown over my shoulders, then kneels in front of me, resting his hands on my knees.

“Better?” His eyes shine as he looks up at me.

I nod.