9. “Bad Blood” - Taylor Swift
“Bad Blood” - Taylor Swift
In movies when someone sleeps with someone they shouldn’t, you can see the realization of what they’ve done dawn on them like the sun slowly rising. In reality, it’s nothing like that. I’m smacked in the face with it before I even open my eyes, more like a lightning bolt than a sunrise.
The first thing to hit me is Henry’s scent. No one should smell that good. A quick peep through my eyelashes reveals the bed beside me is empty. The manly woodsy scent is coming from the pillow beneath my face, not the actual person, thank God.
The second thing I notice is the fact that I feel incredible. I haven’t felt this good since London, and that was long enough ago that I’d almost forgotten it was possible to feel like a giant bowl of Jell-O and be okay with it.
This is quickly followed by the realization that I shouldn’t be okay with this feeling. These loose muscles and the urge to let out a satisfactory purr need to be murdered immediately. What happened here was a mistake—a huge, life-altering mistake that will never be repeated as long as I live.
The last thing to slam into my conscious is the fact that I am naked. I’m fortunately covered by a duvet, but I remember with vivid clarity my dress lying puddled on the floor of the great room.
A gentleman would carefully have laid the dress at the end of the bed for me. One glance shows that Henry is not a gentleman. He is probably waiting for me to walk out wrapped in a sheet like some tramp he brought home from a club.
I’ve made some questionable choices in my life, but this one—this one ranks so high on the list it obliterates every other entry.
At the moment, I don’t have the mental capacity to figure out what the hell I was thinking, let alone formulate a plan for going forward.
The only thing I know is that I will not be leaving this room anything but fully dressed.
I paw through Henry’s walk-in closet looking for something comfortable to wear.
It’s harder than it sounds, because my hormones have yet to accept that Henry is, in fact, the enemy.
And just because one temporarily loses one’s sanity due to an attempted assassination and sleeps with said enemy does not make it appropriate to bury one’s face into each item of his clothing and inhale deeply.
I finally locate a pair of gray sweatpants and a worn Harvard sweatshirt and slip them on.
They both smell like him, and I allow myself one final sniff of Henry-scented fabric.
I whisper a million and one prayers that he won’t be in the great room to witness the world’s most humiliating walk of shame when I step out.
God grants my request but decides to have a little fun at my expense.
Henry’s not in the great room. He’s in the kitchen, which has a direct view of the great room and the path I must travel to get to the door.
Of course, I don’t realize this until I’ve already tiptoed out of the hall and into sight, the tile floor cool beneath my bare feet.
Henry’s leaning against the counter, typing on a laptop.
He’s changed out of his suit and tie and looks absolutely devastating in a soft cashmere sweater and black-rimmed glasses.
I allow myself one brief fantasy of dashing across the room and into his arms, then shove it back into the recesses of my mind and stride fully into view.
Glancing up from the screen, he looks me over from head to toe. “How are you feeling?”
How am I feeling? A few hours ago someone tried to kill me. Since then, I’ve had a panic attack and sex with my ex-husband. “Great,” I say.
His brow furrows. “I’ll make you some tea.”
“Actually, I’m going to head home.”
He doesn’t even bother turning around, just sets the kettle to boil. “Sit down, C. We need to talk.”
“What could we possibly have to talk about?” I scoop up my discarded dress from the floor while his back is still turned.
“We can’t just ignore what happened.”
“You mean someone trying to kill me? Or us losing our bloody minds?”
His eyes rise to meet mine as he sets an empty cup on the counter in front of me. “Both.”
“Fine. I’ll have Maisie set up a time for us to meet.”
He chuckles and remove the wrapper from a tea bag before dropping it into the mug. “You don’t have anywhere you need to be. We can talk now.”
“I’ve already blown off so many engagements this afternoon, they’ll probably fire me.”
“Trust me, no one expects you to be anywhere except somewhere safe.”
I try to think of something terrible to call him, but my attention is riveted by his hands preparing my tea. They’re strong and graceful, his fingers long and lean. My face heats with the memory of where they just were and exactly what he can do with them.
“How long did I sleep?” I finally say.
Henry flips his wrist around to see his watch. “Around two and a half hours.”
“Why’d you let me sleep that long? Now I’ll have insomnia tonight.”
“You were exhausted. You just had the shock of a lifetime.” The kettle starts to whistle, and he removes it from the stove.
“Yet you clearly thought it an appropriate time to take advantage of me.”
“Take advantage of you?” He waits until he’s finished pouring the hot water to glare at me. “What the hell, C,” he mutters.
It isn’t a fair accusation, I know that, but I can’t help throwing it at him all the same. “You knew I was shaken up.”
“You were on the verge of hysteria. Kissing you was the only thing I could think of to get your mind off of what had just happened. You’re the one who started humping me.”
The picture that flits through my mind is anything but pretty. “I was probably trying not to pass out.”
“I can show you the scratch marks on my back if you’d like.”
“Defense.”
“The hickey, then.”
I snort out a laugh to cover my mortification. “Hard as it may be to believe, not every girl is desperate to get into your bed, Henry.” This sentence is absolutely ridiculous when considered next to the fact that I would very much like to be back in that bed this very minute.
He leans across the counter, his jaw clenched so tightly I can picture it snapping. He sets the cup down. “Sit. Drink. And find your damn sense while you’re at it.”
I plop onto the sleek, modern barstool with a huff. How did we go from not being able to get enough of each other to wanting to gut each other in a few short hours?
Henry sticks his head into the fridge. “What are you hungry for?”
“I’m not,” I snap, and take a sip of tea. It’s jasmine, my favorite. What guy stocks jasmine tea?
He pulls out a loaf of bread and several kinds of cheese. The frying pan clatters as he sets it on the stove. “Now why don’t you tell me how you’re really feeling?”
“We just had sex. How do you think I’m feeling?”
“Based on the sounds you made, I’d say pretty good.”
My cheeks burst into flame. I’m well aware of the noises he’s able to coax from me. “I hate to break it to you, but smoke doesn’t always mean flames. Sometimes it’s just the remnants of a fire that was put out a long time ago.”
I swear I see his shoulder muscles tighten, and I congratulate myself for getting under his skin. The sooner he gets tired of me, the sooner he’ll let me go.
“Are we really going to do this right now?” he says. The scent of browning butter fills the kitchen.
“I thought you wanted to talk about our panic-induced lovemaking.”
“Unbelievable. Someone just tried to kill you, and all you can focus on is the fact that we had sex.”
My heart rate doubles. “Because it’s the only thing I know how to feel about!”
Tossing the spatula onto the counter, he walks around the bar to me. He takes my face in his palms in a way that is becoming dangerously familiar. “I’m here to help you process it. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”
A mirthless laugh slips past my lips, and I pull away from him, causing his hands to drop. “Right. Just like all the other times.” I turn back to my mug. “Please stop touching me.” The same words he used in that stupid hotel room.
From the corner of my eye, I see him deflate. I refuse to feel even a smidgen of sympathy. He brought this on both of us. Nothing I say or do will ever equal the pain he has put me through.
“Something’s burning,” I mutter before taking a long swig of tea.
Henry walks back to the stove and flips the toastie in the pan. The silence that fills the room is louder than our raised voices were. After a few minutes, he slides the sandwich onto a plate, cuts it in half diagonally, and sets it in front of me.
“I said I wasn’t hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten anything since this morning,” he says.
I push the plate toward him. “And I still don’t have an appetite.”
He shoves it back. “You can’t function on an empty stomach.”
“A sniper nearly shot me a few hours ago, so forgive me if I can’t eat anything right now!” I send the toastie whirling across the bar. He catches it right before it sails off the edge.
Closing his eyes, he braces himself against the counter, his veins bulging against the tight skin on his arms. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. The look on his face is so apologetic I nearly cave. “Are you finally ready to talk about this?”
I drop my gaze. How do you go about discussing the fact that someone hates you enough to kill you? “What is there to talk about?”
“If you don’t want to talk to me, fine. But you need to talk to someone. You can’t bottle this up.”
“What is there to say? ‘Please tell me what’s so horrible about me that someone wants me dead?’”
“That’s a start.”
I look up. He’s watching me, arms crossed over his chest, looking like a sexy nerd in those glasses. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.” I shake my head.
“I just want you to be honest. Honest about how you’re feeling, about the fears you have.” He pauses. “Honest about the danger you’re in.”
Ah. So that’s where this was headed. “Surely they’ve caught the guy by now.”
“Trust me, if they have, I will tear him to pieces with my own hands. But I don’t think there was much to go on.”
I tear off a small piece of crust from the now cool sandwich. “What about fingerprints, shoe prints, DNA? Isn’t that how they catch the bad guys in the movies?”
“I don’t think I need to remind you that this isn’t a movie. And this guy is good. Really good.”
A needle of fear enters my bloodstream. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Just that until whoever is behind this is caught, you’re in more danger than I think you realize.”
I refuse to give in to the fear that wants to envelop me. “Good thing I have the best security team in Wesbourne, huh?”
Henry sighs. “They can’t protect you if you don’t follow orders.”
“If I hadn’t attended the memorial, that guy would have found another way to get to me.” I brush crumbs from my fingers.
“That doesn’t mean you need to make it easy for him.”
This is getting exhausting, and I’m regretting ever leaving the bedroom. “How many times do you think we’ll have this conversation?”
“As many as it takes for you to quit being so stubborn and admit that you need help.” He grabs one half of the sandwich and takes a huge bite.
“And by help I assume you mean you?”
“I’m the one best equipped to protect you, yes.”
I smirk and shake my head. “Wouldn’t you say the one being protected needs to be able to trust the one doing the protecting?”
“C—”
“Save it, Henry. You annihilated my trust. Completely blew it to shreds. I’ll never trust you again.” I slide off the barstool, grateful when the room doesn’t start spinning.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“You’re not leaving the penthouse,” he says.
“That’s what you think.”
He doesn’t respond, and when I look back, he’s still standing in the kitchen watching me, his arms folded across his chest.
“You can’t be serious,” I say.
“Dead serious.”
“You can’t lock me in your castle.”
“Watch me.”
“Go to hell, Henry.”
My handbag is on the table in the foyer, and I swipe it up as I walk past, dress draped over my arm. I have enough sense to wonder what the PPOs will think when I walk out in Henry’s clothes, but not enough to care.
The doors open well enough on their own, but my leaving is impeded by the two large men blocking the doorway.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m ready to go home now.”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” one of them says, bowing his head. “You’ll need to stay here until the palace can be secured.”
“I’m sure Henry is overreacting. Palace security is unbreachable.” Even as I say this, I wonder if it’s true. Someone did nearly kill me on the back terrace.
“All the same, ma’am, we have orders to keep you here until further notice.”
I briefly consider darting past him, but one look at his huge arms tells me he’d snatch me up before I made it two steps. “I’m your queen. Surely that must count for something.”
His face colors, and he glances down at his shoes. “Beg your pardon, ma’am, but we don’t answer directly to you.”
I scrunch my eyes shut, then turn and head back to the kitchen. Henry is exactly where I left him, polishing off the last of the toastie.
“You’re a psychopath,” I say.
He shakes his head. “That’s harsh, considering I’m trying to protect you.”
“I’m not staying here.” I can’t stay here.
Wiping his hands on a towel, he walks around the bar. “My job is to protect you. The best place to do that is right here. The Atlantis has the best security in the country. You’ll be safer here than anywhere else.”
It makes sense, in a way. No one can slip in through the back door unless they also know how to scale a hundred-story skyscraper.
The palace has a thousand doors and windows on the ground floor alone.
Henry’s flat is comfortable enough, even if it lacks personality and warmth.
The only problem is that he lives here too.
“I can’t stay, Henry,” I whisper. This place could be over ten thousand square feet, and it still wouldn’t be big enough to keep me from falling for him all over again.
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.” His voice has softened with apology.
I imagine eating breakfast with him at this bar or him walking out in nothing but a towel. There is no way in the world I can do this. “There has to be another option.”
“The royal safe houses haven’t been needed in so long, they’ve fallen into disrepair,” he says.
I don’t have to ask why. I’m sure there wasn’t funding for renovations.
My stomach lurches as another thought crosses my mind. “I guess this means I’ll have to witness your nightly parade of women?”
He lets out an amused sigh, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
I’m not sure what that means—maybe he has a private lift in his bedroom?—but I can’t handle this conversation anymore, or the way I can still smell him on the sweatshirt I’m wearing. I excuse myself to go change.
The penthouse may protect me from my wannabe assassin, but what will protect me from Henry?