Striking (Red Lips & White Lies Book 7)

Shock is easier than grief.

—Bellamy’s Secret Thoughts

My heart sinks in my chest as I slide to the edge of the bed, unable to avoid eavesdropping on Rhys’s conversation. One I shouldn’t be privy too. But here I am, in his room, in his bed, with his rings on my finger, listening as he gets the heartbreaking news.

His shoulders slump as he’s told of his grandfather’s death.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him look anything less than in complete control, and my heart hurts for him. I fight the urge to go to him. To comfort him. There’s no way I’m what he needs right now.

I can’t imagine that he wants me seen, so I slip his t-shirt back on and quietly stay put.

He goes back and forth with whoever’s on the other side of the door for another moment, but I can’t quite hear what’s being said. Just every few words until . . .

Until I can— “Long live the King.”

I’m sorry . . . what?

I didn’t think it was possible for this morning to go any more off the rails.

But apparently, I was wrong.

Rhys straightens and stands frozen for a moment before closing the door without another word. He rests his palm flat against the wood, and everything about his body language—from the unmoving way he stands to the rigid hold of each muscle—it all screams shock . . . and pain.

That’s all I need to drown out the voices in my head trying to process this roller coaster of a morning and focus on him.

I pad across the room quickly, then press myself against his bare back and wrap my arms around his waist. Emotion clogs my throat. “I’m so sorry, Rhys.”noveldrama

His chest vibrates with an enormous inhale as he turns in my arms and stares at me. His dark-blue eyes, void of all emotion. Clearly in shock. After a few long beats, he runs a hand over the back of my head and pulls me against him. “He’s gone.”

Rhys buries his face in my hair, and we hold each other in silence for a long time.

His phone rings a few times, but he makes no move to answer it.

He makes no moves at all. Just stands there with me in his arms.

I’ve dealt with shock before, my own and my patients’, and I’m not sure Rhys will have the time it’ll take to process his shock before people start descending. I can’t even imagine the actual ramifications of the king’s death, but I think it’s safe to assume it won’t be long before he’s needed.

When I lift my head, forcing him to do the same, his unfocused eyes look through me, not at me.

I hate shock almost as much as I hate grief. This man might not be mine, not forever, but for today, he is. And for today, I’ll be here for him. Today, I’ll take care of him because I’m not sure anyone else will see Rhys Windsor, the man today, or if they’ll just see their new king.

Holy. Shit.

The. King.

And there goes my own spiraling fear, barreling down on me again.

Time to box that shit up and lock it down.

With his hand in mine, I press a gentle kiss to his lips and silently lead him into the en suite bathroom. He has to get moving, and I’m hoping a hot shower may help bring him back to me. Rhys follows my lead quietly. Too quiet. In the short time I’ve known him, quiet has never been his MO. Bossy, yes. Grumpy, maybe. Incredibly sexy . . . well apparently, I married the man, so that about sums that one up. But he’s never been silent. His big brain works too quickly for that.

I reach in and turn the shower sprays and heads on. All eight of them. And once I’ve got the water temperature where I want it, I look at this man . . .

My new husband.

Mornea’s new king.

Dear God. That’s going to take some getting used to.

Not that I expect to be here when that happens.

Crap. I’ve got to focus so I don’t completely lose it.

Easier said than done.

I consider stripping off his boxer briefs, but decide it’s not worth it and instead guide him into the shower still clothed. And when he refuses to let go of my hand, I follow him in. Clothes be damned.

The glass door closes behind us as I step under the spray, and Rhys drops my hand long enough to grab my hips and pull me to him. He doesn’t move. Just holds me as water rains down from every direction, soaking my hair and my skin until my tee clings to my chest and legs.

Standing there, under the hot spray in his arms, I realize I have a choice to make.

Take control or let circumstances control me.

Guess it’s a good thing I’ve never been one to be controlled.

I take the shampoo from the tile shelf and pour it into my palm, then lift onto my toes and run my hands through his dirty-blond hair. Massaging his scalp and lathering the suds until they’re sluicing down his body, and his shoulders finally relax.

Rhys closes his eyes and lowers himself to the bench as he tugs me closer, making it significantly easier to wash the shampoo out, then repeat with conditioner and eventually body wash.

I’m not sure how to explain it, but something about the moment is as calming for me as I’m hoping it is for him. My hands skim over his slick skin as he drops his forehead to my chest. “Don’t leave.”

The anguish in his voice breaks my heart.

“I’m right here.” I lift his face and hold it in my hands. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The words are out before I think them through. But I mean every one.

I can’t explain it, but I want to be here for him.

Rhys’s big hands wrap around the backs of my thighs as he holds me.

“I have to go to the palace. I’m not sure how long I’ll be, but I can’t bring you with me.” His eyes close for another moment, and when they open, they’re clearer than they’ve been since he left the bed this morning. “Christ, I promise you I’m not trying to hide you. But I can’t . . . Not today . . . I need answers. I need to take care of things . . .” he trails off.

“Hey.” I force his eyes to mine. “I’m not the crisis you need to deal with right now. I’m sure it won’t be hard to spend the day hidden away, studying. Take care of what you need to handle, and I’ll be waiting for you when you come back.”

“You will never be my crisis, Bellamy.” The deep tenor of his voice sends a chill down my hot, wet skin as he takes my hand and brushes a kiss over my knuckles, paying special attention to the rings on my finger. “We’ll talk tonight.”

I nod, unable to speak as my emotions go to war with each other.

Heartache.

Need.

Comfort.

Unexplainable peace and unimaginable fear.

None of them make sense.

But I’m not sure Rhys and I make sense either. How can we?

And yet . . . I’m not sure we don’t either.

The only thing I’m sure of right now, in this insane moment, is that this man is staring at me like I’m the last string of sanity he has to cling to, and I refuse to rip that away from him too.

Rhys

You can’t live your life as a royal without believing in fate. Destiny drives our lives from our first breath until our last. To rule a country is a calling stronger than any other. It has to be to survive it. But as I sit in one of the many conference rooms at the palace, surrounded by Atticus and my advisors, my hand in my pocket with my wedding band held tightly in my grasp, the weight of it all threatens to force me to my knees.

Atticus sits to my right, with the Duke of Hollenly to my left. Hollenly’s family has overseen the royal family’s funerals for the past three hundred and fifty years, and the fat bastard is as determined to make sure everyone is as aware of that today as he was when my mother died years ago. My father, The Duke of Edison, is next to him, as pompous and self-serving as ever. His face is red, pinched, and failing to hide any of his impatience. From the moment my mother died and took away his opportunity to be consort to the queen, he’s lived for the moment when he could be the father of the king. I tolerate him because I have no other choice.

The Archbishop of Calder is flanked by the Bishops of Mayson and Linley. The latter performed my wedding ceremony last night and is currently refusing to meet my eyes today.

As if this day wasn’t already going to go down as the most fucked of my life.

And that’s saying something.

“Seven days then. We need to give the world time to mourn the king.” Hollenly closes his folio with a flourish as if his word is gospel.

Our world is steeped in tradition and repetition. My mother’s funeral was exactly the same as my grandmother’s, down to the readings and hymns. Every last minute of it, and there were too many minutes to count. Too much time spent with my family’s pain on display for the world to see.

I close my eyes and remember what Grandfather said when we buried my mother.

“Grief is for the living. Don’t mourn the dead. The dead are in a better place. And for Christ’s sake, don’t let Hollenly make a spectacle of me. Give him five days. Not a day more.”

“And then . . . ?” I remember asking.

And I’ll never forget the look in his eyes when he answered.

“Then you rule.”

Grandfather was no-nonsense at all times.

He understood the need for pomp and circumstance but avoided excess whenever he could. He was frugal. He was fair. I’d dare anyone to find a more down-to-earth monarch. And yet when my mother died, all of Mornea observed an entire week of mourning. He wanted to make sure the world grieved his only daughter.

Love will do that to a person.

He’d hate this.

“No.” I’ve spent the majority of the day quietly observing. Getting my head on straight and gathering the strength I need. “You’ve got five days. The funeral will be Friday. Make it work.”

“And the princess?” Linley asks.

“She’ll be here tonight,” Atticus assures him, and Hollenly blusters in his seat. Luckily for him, he’s smart enough to keep his mouth closed.

“But son,” Father starts as Calder opens his mouth to argue.

“As of ten hours ago, I am your king, gentlemen.” I stand, ending any chance of further discussion. “This is what the king wanted. This is what he asked of me. And this is how I will honor him. By respecting his wishes. I appreciate everyone’s input. Condense it into five days. Thank you for your time.”

“Your Majesty” is echoed around the room as every man bows, and my heart tightens in my chest before I walk through the door and head to my private offices, followed by Atticus and Devon. Once we’re alone I turn back to them both. “Don’t let another living soul through those doors.”

Devon nods before he walks out.

Once we’re alone, I drop to the couch and watch as Atticus pours us two fingers of scotch. We haven’t had ten minutes alone since he was brought in from Remington Armstrong’s flat this morning. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had a good night and woke up to a nightmare.

He stops in front of me and holds out a crystal glass. “Long live the king.”

“I could have gone another fifty years without hearing that, and it still would have been too soon,” I groan before throwing back the scotch. “You spoke to Lennon?”

“Yes. She and Maddox should be on the jet shortly.” He refills our glasses and brings the bottle back with him before taking a seat. “She’s worried about you.” The hundred-and-fifty-year-old amber liquor swirls in his glass before he looks at me, concern etched in every line of his face. “We both are. How are you? Really?”

How am I supposed to tell him I feel fucked?

Like my free will just vanished and my future is set in stone.

Like I’m living the first line of my eulogy.

Like the last choice I ever made for myself was made last night. Now every choice I make will be for my country first and my family second.

I don’t tell him any of that though. This is the life I always knew would eventually come. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

Atticus shakes his head. “Okay, so you want to talk about why your queen isn’t sitting next to you?”

Fuck . . .

“She’s at Lilihill,” I swallow my scotch and welcome the burn. “Where she’s going to stay . . . for now.”

“Are you in over your head, Rhys?”

No one else in the world would ask me that.

No one else’s balls are that big.

Only Atticus.

When I don’t answer quickly enough, he kicks his legs up on the coffee table between us and takes a shot straight from the bottle. “When are you going to tell the world about her?”

“She’s got to remember first,” I admit, and this time when he offers me the bottle, I accept.