Striking (Red Lips & White Lies Book 7)

It just feels . . . right, in the most natural way.

My hand in yours. Your lips on mine. Our lives linked.

Like it was meant to be . . . or maybe I need to wake up from this dream.

—Bellamy’s Secret Thoughts

Rhys and I sit at the ridiculously long dining table, a silver tray with tea and toast between us and a beautifully intricate teacup filled with delicious Italian coffee in my hand because my new husband made sure the kitchen is stocked with the best coffee I’ve ever tasted as soon as I mentioned I’m not a big fan of tea.

Truth be told, I’m pretty happy my hands aren’t shaking as I lift my cup to my lips.

Score one for me.

I barely slept a wink last night, thinking of all the ways today could go horribly wrong.

Not just with the council . . . but with everything.

The fear is real.

But right now, sitting quietly next to Rhys, I can’t seem to bring myself to care. At least not until Atticus strolls in, looking like he just stepped off the pages of a Tom Ford runway. His hunter-green suit tailored perfectly to his lanky frame, and his golden-brown hair hanging just a touch too long, probably as a fuck you to the old-school suits, AKA Parliament and the council. I may not have been around these men long, but I’ve picked up on their strong dislike of old-fashioned authority. Even if they don’t have authority over either Windsor brother.

“You’re going to have to learn to drink tea to be queen if you don’t want to see Rhys overthrown, poppet.” Atticus pours himself a cup of tea, adds a splash of milk, and cocks a brow. “If your surprise marriage doesn’t send the country reeling, clutching their precious pearls, the fact you prefer that slop to tea certainly will.” He throws back his tea like a shot of tequila, then looks at Rhys. “I thought Joss was tutoring her.”

“She was . . . is,” Rhys corrects himself. “But it hasn’t been that long yet.”

“Umm . . . Hello.” I look between the two of them as my nerves reach Empire-State-Building levels. “She’s right here. And she’s also not giving up her morning coffee. Not even for your country, boys.”

“Referring to yourself in the third person now, little bee?” Rhys rests his hand on my thigh and squeezes. It’s meant to be a gentle teasing, but that small touch sends a shiver down my spine. “And it’s your country now too.”

The look on Atticus’s face says it all, but of course he has to add his two cents. “Men, queenie. Not boys,” he piles on, and I can’t hide the smile tugging at my lips.

Right now, hidden from the rest of the world, their relationship reminds me of the way Cross and Ares play off each other, and it makes my heart pang from the way I miss my brothers and their kids, followed by another wave of fear about how they’re going to respond when I finally tell them the truth.

“Bee . . .” Rhys pulls my attention. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t have to give up my coffee, right?” I glance between the two of them, attempting to keep the light mood. “Because that might be a deal-breaker.”

“Well—” Atticus starts before Rhys glares at his younger brother.

“No, love. Drink your coffee. He’s just teasing you.” He stands and drops a kiss on my head and lifts my chin to meet his eyes. There’s a softness there today. An understanding. One I cling to. One I desperately need. “I’ve got to speak with Devon before we meet with the high council. I’ll collect you in an hour, okay?”

I nod and watch him walk away before Atticus drops down into the now-vacant seat. “Are you nervous?”

“That’s a loaded question. Any sane person in my shoes would be nervous.” I guess the question is can I really call myself sane and throw myself into this world? I clink my coffee to his nearly empty tea. “Rhys keeps telling me I shouldn’t be, but I can’t shake the feeling I’m in over my head and the sharks are circling.”

Atticus’s grin grows devious and slightly deranged. “It’s like you know the high council already. Rhys will do whatever he can to make this as painless as possible.”

“Rhys, but not you?” For the life of me, I can’t figure out Atticus. While he’s a goofball one minute, sometimes I think he might be a shark.

“No. I’m a realist. Pain reminds you you’re alive. If you feel the sharks circling, you have better instincts than I gave you credit for, queen bee. Those sharks already smell blood in the water. Once they hear about you, they’re going to surface, ready to feast. It’s going to take us all working together to make sure it’s not a bloodbath.”

“Don’t hold back on my account, Atticus.” My palms sweat as I slide them into my lap, trying to hide my nerves. It’s hard not to picture the great white shark from Jaws and his horrifically scary teeth taking a bite out of the boat.

I think I’m going to need a bigger boat.

“I need you to trust me, Bellamy. We’re going to get you through this.”

“Why?” I question and remind myself to breathe before I let my fears drag me under. “Why are you being so nice to me? You don’t even know me.”

Atticus leans back in what looks like a hundred-year-old chair. Old, dark wood with thick cream, green, and gold upholstery that would have looked right at home on an episode of Game of Thrones.

All we need are three giant dragons and a bitchy queen.

Oh wait . . . that’s me.

I’m the bitchy queen.

I’m so fucked.

“The truth?” My new brother-in-law tilts his head, appraising me, like he needs to be absolutely certain of my intentions before he gives me his answer.

Or maybe like he’s a predator deciding whether or not to strike.

Not sure which is the better option.

“Yes, the truth. I don’t like liars, and I’m not a sixteen-year-old girl, so I don’t like secrets,” I snap back, and his lips tip up on one side along with a cocked brow.

“Okay . . . Now I’m imagining teenage you in a little plaid skirt and knee-high socks, with a white shirt tied at the waist. Maybe your hair in braids.” He whistles, and my last shred of sanity snaps. “My brother is a lucky man.”

“Atticus, you douche, I’m not Brittney Spears, and no one else actually dresses like that.”

“Don’t ruin this for me.” He closes his eyes and hums.

It’s creepy.

“You better not be picturing me in that stupid outfit,” I groan and consider throwing something at him. Can I do that? Toss a sugar cube at a prince? “Could you just get to the point, please.”

“Ohh . . . And bossy too.” He cracks an eye open, then winks. “That’s even hotter.”

The ass.

“Atticus . . .”

“Fine,” he pouts, actually pouts, and somehow manages to make the expression look manly.

I’d almost say sexy, but compared to Rhys, I’m not sure I’ll ever find another man truly sexy again. Flipping fantastic. He’s ruined me for other men.

“When I saw you and Rhys together at Seven Swords, it was the first time I’d seen my brother look truly happy and relaxed since the day our mother died. It was the old Rhys. The real one. The Rhys he’s supposed to be. Deserves to be. And even with everything that’s happened since the king’s death, when he’s had every right to have broken from the weight thrust on him, he hasn’t. I’m not saying he would have without you, but I’m saying you made it better for him. You, queen bee, are good for him. He chose you⁠—”

“He didn’t choose me,” I whisper, needing to push back. To protect myself from believing it. “A few too many drinks and a bad game of darts chose me.”

My words are quiet.

Careful.

Meant for self-preservation.noveldrama

Even if Atticus doesn’t seem impressed. He seems determined to prove a point as he lifts my hand up to his eyes and studies my ring finger dramatically. I’m coming to expect most of what he does to be done dramatically.

“You’re wearing our mother’s ring, Bellamy.” His voice takes on a more serious tone, one I haven’t heard from him until now. “I promise you my brother knew exactly what he was doing when he slid that ring on your finger. He chose you, even if you choose to live in denial. So do us all a favor and try not to fuck it all up.”

My eyes bug out of my head with his harsh words, but either Atticus doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care.

“The meeting with the high council is going to be a shit show. Expect yelling and the occasional tantrum. You’re dealing with a group of pissed-off, blue-blooded wankers, and they’re all used to getting their way. Most of them think my brother is too young to run this country, but they have no choice but to follow him simply because there is no other option. They’re not going to be happy he did this without consulting them. He’s setting a standard that he won’t be controlled, and these men live to control something. Definitely some mummy issues.”

The psych classes I had in undergrad flash through my mind. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what that⁠—”

Atticus puts a hand up with a smile and presses a finger against my lips. “Just go with the flow. Joss should be here soon.”

“I can’t go running to her every time I have to get dressed.” I look down at my black yoga pants and t-shirt. This is my go-to outfit when I’m at my home in Kroydon Hills, but looking at it through Atticus’s eyes, I can see his concern.

Maybe I should reconsider my stance.

The dining room doors open, and one of the butlers I haven’t met yet walks in. “Lady Joselyn Armstrong is here for you, sir.”

I’m not sure I’m ever going to get used to this.

Joss walks in and thanks the butler. “Please take my bags up to Miss Wilder’s dressing room. We’ll be up in a moment, and we’re going to need a fruit and cheese tray as well as mimosas, please.”

She walks over and air-kisses Atticus’s cheeks, then waits for the doors to close again before she curtsies to me.

“Stop that,” I snap, but she doesn’t look bothered in the least. Her eyes drag over my clothes, and her nose scrunches.

“Up you go. We’ve got work to do before your meeting today because you are never again allowed to leave the house dressed like . . .”—her finger circles me as she shakes her head—“well, dressed like that.”

“I was going to change,” I murmur defensively.

“Perfect. Let’s get you ready to make your debut, Your Highness.”

Joss isn’t just good. She’s incredible.

I still look like myself but better. Elegant.

Subtle makeup manages to highlight my features without hiding my face behind layers of heavy foundation. My hair is down in sleek waves, and the black cashmere sweater and skirt still let me feel like myself, not a little girl playing dress-up. A long Chanel necklace and pink Louboutin heels bring everything together in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever looked before. Polished.

And when Rhys steps into my room right on time, the exhaustion in his eyes immediately morphs into something else. Something that looks an awful lot like desire. He runs a thumb gently along my jaw as heat grows in his gaze. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

“Not even a little.” I cover his hand with mine, knowing if I’m going to demand the truth from him, I need to be able to give it myself. “But this is what we have to do, right?”

He ghosts his lips over mine. “Smart and beautiful.”

“If you say so, Your Highness.” I press up on my toes and wrap my arms around his strong shoulders. “But if I was so smart, I’m not sure we’d be married.”

“I’m not so sure about that, love. I think marrying you may just have been the smartest thing I’ve ever done.” Rhys presses his big palm against the small of my back, holding me against him. “Will you go with me somewhere after the meeting?”

“If it’s the Seven Swords, I’m not sure I’m ready to go back there just yet,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

“Not the Seven Swords. Just something I like to do. Typically, I go alone, but I think you’d enjoy it. Do you trust me?” Rhys’s beautiful blue eyes beg me to say yes, and I’m quickly learning I don’t want to tell this man no.

Do I love this man? That’s not an easy answer.

Do I think I could? Yes. I think it’s going to be hard not to fall in love with him. With the way I feel when I’m with him. With his big heart and big brain.

Do I trust him? That’s an easier answer.

“I trust you.” The words are quiet but powerful.

They’re my truth.

His eyes close for a moment, like I just gave him a peace he’d been searching for, and Atticus’s words from earlier play over in my mind.

I’ve always wanted to be a nurse.

Helping people is part of who I am. Taking care of them. Easing their pain.

I thought I’d be able to do that in a different way with the foundation. Now I’m realizing that maybe . . . just maybe, I’ll be able to do that for my husband as well.

When his eyes open, there’s a look there I haven’t seen before.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you, Bellamy. I promise you that.” He takes my hand in his, and that wave of electricity that always seems to spark between us sizzles along my skin. “It’s time, love.”

I guess it is.

I send up a silent prayer that this meeting goes better than I’m expecting.

So much for better than I was hoping.

This is worse.

So much worse.

“Are you out of your mind?” The loudest, angriest, hairiest council member yells across the long table in what Rhys called the high-council chamber. Apparently, according to tradition, only high-council members are allowed in this room. And from the looks of it, it hasn’t been redecorated in over a century. I’m expecting someone to walk in and yell, Off with her head! at any moment. “You cannot do this, Your Highness.”

Rhys’s thumb rubs soothing circles over my palm under the table, but it does nothing to soothe me.

“She’s a commoner,” another rounder, redder, possibly angrier man with a thick, gray combover gasps, like commoner is a four-letter word only to be whispered in dark alleys.

I was introduced to everyone when Rhys and I walked into the room, but the arguing started so quickly after we sat down, I can’t remember anyone’s name.

“She’s a bloody American,” yells Lord Dalton Armstrong, the only gentleman who’s name I do remember, and I half expect him to bless himself after, like he’s just seen the actual devil.

Joss wasn’t kidding when she said her father was an ass.

He looks so similar to her and her brothers, but all I see is a man who won’t accept that his daughter is in love with a woman or apparently, that his king is married to an American.

I might be a bloody American, but he’s a bloody asshole.

There is one remaining man sitting next to Atticus. He seems to be the oldest of the group and so far, the quietest as well. “Holbrooke,” Rhys challenges him. “You seem to be quiet over there.”

“I’m considering my words, Your Majesty, because I do not think you are going to like what I have to say.” He leans on a black cane as he pushes to his feet and faces Rhys. “You’ve broken the laws of your own country. The ones you’re charged with upholding as monarch. The Royal Marriages Act of 1772 states that the queen must be either a natural-born citizen of Mornea or must be of royal blood. If my understanding is correct, Ms. Bellamy Wilder is neither of those things.”

He looks at me with pity in his gray eyes.

“You cannot sit on the throne with her as your wife or your queen. I’m sorry to say, but you can’t.”

Rhys presses his palms against the table and rises, every muscle in his body strung tight as he looks around the room at his council. “Bellamy Wilder became Bellamy Windsor the night before my grandfather died. We were married by a Bishop of the Church of Mornea in the palace chapel. It was a legal and religious ceremony. She is my wife, and she will be my queen. In the eyes of God and the law, she is who I’ve chosen. So you had better figure out a way because I am not going to let a law that was passed two hundred and fifty years ago dictate who I spend my life with.”

He holds his hand out for me, and I slip mine in his and stand on shaky legs, stealing strength from my husband . . . my king.

“Your highness,” handlebar moustache man stops us. “This is bigger than us. You’ll need to get Parliament on your side.”

“Then I suggest you all start working on that.” Rhys’s arm slides around my waist and guides me out of the room and down the hall until we’re hidden in an alcove among paintings older than the country I grew up in.

His strong hands frame my face as he presses me against the wall under a painting of a group of men on horseback, swords raised in what I can only imagine was a rallying cry. “Was that supposed to be you asking for forgiveness?”

“Kings don’t ask for forgiveness, little bee. We tell people what we want done, and we let them make it so.” He presses his forehead to mine. “And I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you on the island. I’m not going to let a law from centuries ago determine whether you’re fit to rule by my side.”

I reach up and run my fingers along his temples. “What is it like?”

“What?” he asks with hooded eyes.

“Being so confident in who you are and what you want.” I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that kind of certainty. “Leading people.”

He kisses the corner of my mouth, then licks along the seam of my lips, demanding entrance. And this kiss . . . this kiss isn’t like the others.

This kiss is a claiming.

This is the kind of kiss that steals your senses and maybe just a little piece of your soul.

“Ask me again in six months, little bee. Now come on. We’ve got places to be.”