A Rivalry of Hearts

Chapter 17

Islam my bedroom door behind me and immediately start pacing. The room is small with two beds, two desks, and a wardrobe, and doesn’t allow for more than a few strides before I’m forced to turn and pace the other way. My fingers curl into fists, my heart raging against my ribs. I feel like I’m about to claw my way out of my skin.

“What do you think they’re doing?” I mutter as I run a hand through my hair, not caring how it falls. “Is she really going to go through with this? The nerve! I told her she could have a free pass, but she chose him. I could snap him like a twig.”

“William, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I freeze and face the girl in my room. The girl I haven’t paid the slightest attention to since we left Somerton House. She shifts anxiously from foot to foot, wringing her hands at her waist. Her question pierces my flustered mind. She’s right, what am I talking about? Why am I pacing about the room like a storm cloud?

She steps closer. “Are you worried about Edwina? Is he yet another unsavory character like the lion fae?”

“No,” I say, and it’s true. I’m not worried about her in that way. She didn’t consume any alcohol tonight, so her means to consent is sound. Yet my chest remains coiled with fury. But fury over what? She’s in no danger. Am I simply annoyed that she didn’t fall for my seductions?

My chest screams, Yes.

Is that really it? I’m…jealous.

Of that tiny fucking weed named Archie.

“Then…then why are you so upset?” Jolene asks, interrupting my thoughts once more. “Did I do something wrong?”

The worry on her face cools some of my ire, and I’m left with a well of shame. How careless I’ve been with this woman. Now my evening’s actions have come to collect my guilt. This was all my doing, bringing her into this. I was never attracted to her, yet I wooed her tonight. I even kissed her. That wasn’t for Jolene, but she doesn’t know that. She has no clue I only kissed her to rile up Edwina. It was only because I’d been looking at Edwina that I was able to kiss Jolene at all.

That’s the first time I’ve ever done that. The first time I’ve delivered a convincing kiss to someone I’m not attracted to.

Blooming hell, I should be attracted to Jolene. She’s pretty, I can admit that, but true attraction is different. Ever since the incidents with Meredith and Greta Garter, my tastes have grown more distinct. In my university days, when I slept my way through half my acquaintances, attraction was purely physical. Now there’s an emotional aspect too. Being pretty or handsome or sexy isn’t what constitutes attraction anymore. Not for me. It remains a factor, of course, but what matters more is an unmistakable pull. A longing. A desire for more.

But wait.

Doesn’t that mean…

I’m attracted to Edwina?

I run a hand over my face and resume pacing. Her visage fills my mind. Her fiery hair, always a mess. Those spectacles, constantly being shoved higher up the bridge of her nose whether they’ve begun to slip or not. The dirty hem of her dress the day we met. Her bare feet when she refused to take back her shoes. Her temper. Her pride. The way she lies.

My heart echoes with every vision. Every memory.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Even as my annoyance burns, so too does something else. It’s the pull. Longing. Desire. Want.

No, no, no. This isn’t possible. I can’t be attracted to her.

I’m not attracted to…

I’m not…

“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my jaw with more force than necessary.

How the hell did this happen? Before I met Edwina, I was determined to dislike her. She was the wicked author behind the stage play that destroyed my career, and her appearance at Flight of Fancy was an unwelcome one. It meant I no longer had sole possession of The Heartbeats Tour. Our first interactions sparked my competitive drive. Not only that, but she drew my attention to her again and again simply because her dislike of me was so blatant and amusing. She was a source of entertainment, nothing more.

Nothing.

More.

Right?

I may have been protective a time or two, but the first instance was brotherly instinct over a maiden in distress. The second instance—shielding her from the horrors in the north wing—was out of consideration for her fragile human nature.

But in the hall outside her room…

The way I spoke to her. The offer I made. The things I said I’d do to her. The things I wanted to do to her. The things I still want to do to her.

That was neither teasing nor protection.

That was jealousy and desire.

For fuck’s sake, I no longer have the luxury of denial. I’m attracted to the weirdest woman I’ve ever met, and just acknowledging as much opens a chasm in my chest, one painful and pleasant at once. The former outweighs the latter as I recall how she misread my every flirtation, just like she did the night we made our bet. She even taunted me about my bedfellow of choice, when she’s the one I was trying to tempt into my bed. She’s the one I was fucking with my eyes across the room at Somerton House. How did she misread that? How does she not know?

I suppose I didn’t know until now either?—

A touch on my arm has me leaping in place. I whirl to find Jolene beside me, the turmoil in her expression more pronounced. What the hell am I supposed to do with her? Not once did I consider sleeping with her. There’s no way I could kiss her again. The thought alone has my stomach turning, sending me back to my experience with Meredith in the north wing, with Greta Garter at rehearsal. I take a deep breath, debating how to let her down easy without soiling my reputation as the poet she admires.

“Is this about June?” she asks, tone gentle.

“June,” I echo, and as soon as the word leaves my lips, my mind clears. That’s right. I can use this. Forcing away thoughts of Edwina, I settle into my role as William the Poet. I don’t bother shifting my outward mood, for the frantically pacing man she witnessed will serve me just fine.

“I can’t stop the memories,” I say, letting my voice warble. She reaches for me, but I lift my hands. “Please don’t touch me. I…I can’t let you touch me, not when I’m trapped in the past like this. It wouldn’t be fair to you. Oh, how I wish I could be present with you right now, but the pain…”

She presses her hands to her heart. “You can tell me about it. I’ll listen.”

I unfocus my eyes and lower my voice. “There are things I haven’t told anyone. If I tell you, you must keep it to yourself.”

Eagerly she nods, pleased to be granted such exclusive access into William the Poet’s innermost thoughts and traumas. I proceed with my performance with ease, insisting we keep our distance and sit on separate beds while I talk. She eats up my every word, and it serves me well too. The more I talk and the more I immerse myself in my role, the more I can distract myself from the thought that Edwina is likely—at this very moment—making love to another man down the hall.