Page 99 of The Royal Art of Revenge

It’s under every inch of my skin, bubbling away.

A rich, penetrating fury that shows no signs of fading away. It’s only grown. With every tired blink she’s fought through, every forced shake of a hand, every plastered-on smile. I doubt anyone else noticed the fight she was having with herself just to continue with her newfound sense of duty, but for me, it took far too long to finally convince her we could call it a night.

The only saving grace is that we already had this planned. Tonight was always supposed to be at the palace. With no way of knowing exactly how her family would react to our announcement, it was the only way I could protect her.

Not even I can station bodyguards inside the Sinclair house.

Even now, I have no idea how she’s going to be treated when she goes back. All I know is that it won’t be well. Not after seeing William almost raise his hand to her.

In the privacy of the Sinclair residence, there’s no telling what she might be subjected to.

Whatever it is, I don’t want her to have any part in it.

If I could, I’d lock her away. Chain her to the walls of this palace and keep her away from anything and anyone that seeks to hurt her.

She’d hate it.

It’s the only thing stopping me from acting on those darkest impulses.

Maybe, just maybe, I can convince her to stay here. With me. Instead of going back to that place of hatred. God only knows we’ve discussed it enough times.

Maybe her father’s actions are enough to convince her to move in.

“Do I have to be there for that meeting tomorrow?” Harriet walks out of the bathroom, squeezing water out of her long, blonde hair with a towel.

“That depends,” I say, my gaze quickly flitting down her half-naked body.

“On?”

“Whether you feel you’re able to attend.”

She pauses mid-squeeze. “All right,” she says after a moment of lingering silence. “I suppose I’ll make that decision tomorrow.”

I nod, and she tosses the towel over the back of a chair before turning to her suitcase. She pulls out a button-down nightshirt and tugs it over her head, briefly giving me a view of her arse as her towel falls away from her body.

It’s the first time we’ve been properly alone since our first night together, and as she pulls out some pink underwear to step into, I adjust my trousers over my cock.

Fuck.

She’s going to think I’m some kind of horny maniac.

Truth is, I am. For her.

Ever since that night, I’ve thought about her. Imagined what it would be like to have her naked in my arms again, have her soft skin beneath my fingertips. If I’m honest, I’m fucking desperate for it.

I’m dying to touch her. Dying to run my fingers through her hair and kiss her warm lips. Dying to lose myself in the whirlwind that she is—the wonderful, intense storm of a woman that is my fiancée.

Fiancée.

It’s official.

No more hiding, no more sneaking around, no more of her being forced to live in secret.

She’s lived enough of that. And hiding herself is something I’ll make sure she never has to do again, not for me or anyone else.

“You’re staring at me.”

“Mm.” I tilt my head to the side and let my gaze rove over her body. “That a problem?”