Page 80 of The Royal Art of Revenge

“Good. Now, when you get back, send me your schedule between now and the banquet. I’ll have the palace vet your remaining clients to make sure they’re legitimate. I’ll also have Alec arrange security in close proximity in case anything like this happens again.”

“Isn’t that a little overkill?” I tilt my head back to see him looking down at me. Our noses are but a breath apart, and the raw intensity in his blue eyes makes my stomach tighten.

“No. There is no such thing as overkill when it comes to your safety.” He brushes a kiss across my forehead. “Get used to it. It’ll be far worse when the whole world knows you’re mine.”

A tingle dances down my spine.

Oh.

When he says it like that, he makes it sound like less of an obligation and more of something he wants to do. Like he’s not just doing it because of our agreement.

Maybe he isn’t.

It’s a wild thought, I know, to think that he could actually care about me in a way that’s deeper than mere obligations. It’s crazy to think that in the short time we’ve spent together he’s developed any kind of emotional attachment to me that would lead to him saying this stuff from a deeper place, but maybe I can allow myself to be a fool.

Just a little bit.

“Send your calendar to Sophia to get it checked,” he says, pulling back and adjusting our hands so we can walk. “I don’t think we’ll see each other again until the day of the banquet, right?”

I sigh. “Yes. Between your schedule, my work, and all the preparations we need to make, I don’t think there’s any time.”

He grunts, tensing his shoulders.

Cute.

Wait, cute? What’s wrong with me?

“Well, it’ll be worth it.” He lifts our clasped hands and kisses my fingers, then peers down at me with a smile. “Just be careful, Hattie. Your family don’t suspect anything, do they?”

I shake my head. “Jasmine and Rosalyn won’t even be here from Wednesday. They’re going off for some fancy spa getaway so she looks all pretty to get her heart broken.”

His smile grows just a tiny bit. “Keep it that way. If they suspect anything…”

“I’ll be fine.” I squeeze his hand as we approach the entrance to the garage. “I know how to stay out of their way.”

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “Positive.”

“All right.” He pauses, then pulls me against his body. He wraps his arms around me and kisses my hair, then dips his head and brushes his lips against the corner of my mouth.

He’s worried about me.

For me.

Will I ever get used to this? To someone caring?

How do I ease his worry? I know how to calm scared children and distract wayward toddlers. I know how to settle the nerves of nervous young’uns with a dream, but a man? Who cares about me?

The warmth of his lips on the top of my head tingles its way down to my toes, and, ah—I know.

Touch.

He’s a touchy-feely person.

I’m not. I never have been. Not since I was a child, at least. As an adult, affection and closeness has never been something that’s crossed my path, and I feel clumsy for even considering it.

Physicality seems to come so easily to him. Whether it’s stroking my hair, touching my hand, resting his arm over my shoulders… it’s so natural, like he’s barely even thinking about it.