Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
FRIEDRICH
I used to sleep like the dead anytime he was in my bed.
Not this time. Even with his long, lean frame wrapped around me, safe and familiar, my mind would not settle.
The stillness as I lie here has my brain on the verge of short-circuiting, regardless of how wonderful it feels to be caught in his embrace.
I carefully extract myself from strong arms, his dark skin barely visible in the predawn dimness. Dressing quietly, I sneak downstairs, hoping Brenton is still sleeping too. I don’t need a tail within Kipton Park, but sometimes he still insists on joining me for a run around the walled property.
There’s not much time for a long run since my fate is being decided this morning, and I have to be at the palace for breakfast to prepare, but I need to exhaust my body to control my mind.
I set a grueling pace, faster than I’ve ever started, just to bring myself to the breaking point sooner. I need this punishment. I deserve it.
I failed. I failed to find a wife in the typical way. I failed to prepare for the continuation of my family legacy. I failed in this courtship game. And most of all, I failed at not falling in love with Aurelia.
She’s still there, in my heart, in my mind. And as I find myself drawn to the small chapel on the edge of the grounds, I know beyond a doubt she has infused my very soul.
My legs won’t hold me any longer, and I collapse onto the stone floor just as I did that day.
The day Aurelia became truly a part of me.
The day I broke all my rules because nothing else in the world mattered but allowing her to have all of me.
It didn’t matter that I belong to my people; in that moment, I only belonged to her.
She hates churches; she’s told me bits and pieces of her story, but I get the sense there’s much more to it than she’s let me in on. But something brought her here to me that day. Something drew her in despite her misgivings. Perhaps her heart could hear mine calling out to her.
If I try hard enough, I can remember every single detail of that evening.
The tap of her shoes on the floor, the rustle of her oversized sweatshirt, the smell of her mixed with exertion and wind and winter.
I can recall the breathtaking green of her eyes, at times gentle and kind, other times conflicted and scared, best of all, the times they were wide with desire and sparkling with lust. It was those eyes that made me forget all my rules, the vows I made with myself, all sense of propriety and prudence.
And here, in this holy place, this refuge, this sanctuary to our Lord, she became the sanctuary for my soul. The moment I sank my cock in her sweet pussy, she owned all of me. I no longer belong to myself, to my people, or to my God.
This is my life, given up for you.
The thing is, I thought that part of me had died years ago.
The part that could experience great love and passion with another.
That piece with the capacity for unyielding devotion and painful desire.
I thought it wasted away the day, all those years ago, when I told the man currently back in my bed that I couldn’t give him what he wanted.
Turns out that part was only lying dormant, waiting for a goddess with spring in her eyes to bring it back to life.
Yet another person who my fickle heart drew me to, yet can never be mine.
I push myself to my knees, the weight over me too unbearable to allow me to stand, so I crawl to the kneeling rail in front of the altar.
My arm is heavy as I make the sign of the cross.
I wrack my brain for a prayer, a saint, anything or anyone to help me with this burden.
The image of the Sacred Heart burns in my mind.
Christ knows about heartbreak. His heart was literally broken for us, by us.
Perhaps I’m a terrible person for thinking my pain is any comparison, but if anyone understands the pain of love, it’s the very One who died for love.
I pray, offering my heart to the Sacred Heart.
Surrendering my brokenness to Him, all the pieces that aren’t currently residing in other people, that is.
Christ was broken worse than anyone; surely He knows how to deal with my shattered bits.
Maybe with His help, one day I will be whole enough to be a good leader, a good husband and father and king.
The cushion beneath my knees shifts, and I know who it is before I even open my eyes.
“I thought I might find you here.” His deep voice wafts over me like the warm breeze of summer.
“My feet just took me here on autopilot.”
“Your soul knew what it needed.”
Strong, piano player fingers wrap around my still clasped hands.
I used to thrill at his touch. My nerves would fire off signals straight to my dick, and my brain would melt into a happy little puddle of dopamine and oxytocin.
It took years to construct the walls to protect against that, because while I couldn’t have this man the way I wanted, I still couldn’t live without him in my life.
Better to have him as the greatest friend but not be able to have him, than to have him gone completely.
And I would have never survived him staying for all these years, but not being mine if I didn’t learn how to shut down that part of my love for him.
But now, as his soft, warm hands envelop mine, almost as dark in color as mine are light, that deep, aching desire isn’t there.
I realize that last night I didn’t have to keep my heart and mind in check as he eased my worries with his tender attention and beautiful body.
When I would normally be dealing with the spiral of shame and guilt and hurt and anger that I let this happen again, I feel nothing but gratitude for my dearest friend.
And maybe if I can turn my heart off to him, I can find a way to one day do the same for her.
The press is gathered, a number of members of parliament are present, and behind the curtain in the press hall awaits my future bride.
I still don’t know which one Father has picked, and I’m struck once more just how gross I feel about this whole process.
This is the stuff of trashy TV and predatory beauty pageants, and I’m the main subject.
Yet another way I’ve failed. I failed all the women who were roped into this mess because I couldn’t do the fucking thing myself.
I take several deep breaths, steeling myself like a soldier about to go to battle.
My heart never hammered this hard, my palms never this sweaty, before flying a mission.
I guess the possibility of dying was a lot less scary than the potential for my new future.
Quick death in a helicopter crash versus dying a little each day in a joyless, loveless marriage.
I’m just a bright little ball of fucking sunshine today.
Father places a steadying hand on my shoulder. “There is still time for you to decide on your own,” he says softly. “I have not told anyone who I have chosen.”
I shake my head, my throat too dry to say anything. I am a man resigned to my fate, walking to the gallows with back straight and head held high.
The camera flashes are nearly blinding as Father and I step to the stage.
I know this room well. I used to sneak in here when Father brought me with him to parliament.
Climbing up on this stage, I would stand behind the podium that I couldn’t even see over until I was ten years old and pretend to address the media and my people.
I would make up speeches on the fly about the most ridiculous things, like how oatmeal was superior to porridge and thus porridge would be outlawed in the country, or why I should be allowed a later bedtime.
What prince should be forced to bed by nine o’clock?
If I weren’t so preoccupied with the looming declaration, I might be able to smile at the memory of the simpler times. But the camera hounds are relentless, and I’m starting to see spots in my vision. Thankfully, they have a touch of respect and stop when Father steps up to the podium.
It’s in that moment that I catch a flash of reddish-brown hair towards the back of the room.
The light must have caught it just right because I hadn’t noticed before.
I’d recognize that hair anywhere. The feel of it between my fingers is etched in my memory.
I can almost smell her jasmine shampoo all the way up here.
But why is she here? The thought is like a slap in the face.
There’s no reason for her to be here. It’s only press and peers.
I’m not paying any attention to what Father is saying now because all my brain power is focused on piecing together exactly what it means that she’s in this room.
Because there’s only one reason Aurelia would be here at the moment my future is decided.
My legs act of their own accord, and before I know exactly what I’m doing, I bend down and hop from the stage as the camera flashes begin again with renewed vigor, and a roar of chatter fills the room.
The pretty blush that always makes my heart thrill is creeping up her cheeks, and I know I’m fucked. There’s no way I can shut off how I feel for her. And yet there’s no way I can have her either. Right?
The crowd standing in the back of the room parts, all eyes fixed on me.
Except hers. Her gaze is on the floor as she dips into a graceful curtsy, and it hits me just how much she has changed and grown in the short time I’ve known her.
Not that I care about a perfect curtsy or anything, but the idea that our time together has had some kind of lasting effect on her gives me a small sense of pride.