Shattered Throne (The Shattered Crown #2)

Prologue

XAVIER

"Patience," I said, glancing at her for a second. "We're almost there."

I saw her pout just before I turned my attention back to the road.

Full lips, perfectly glossed. I'd met her three hours ago at some gallery opening I hadn't meant to attend, and now her fingers were doing things that made it very hard to focus on traffic.

Her name was either Bianca or Brianna. Something with a B.

"You've been saying that for ten blocks." Her voice was a purr. She leaned closer, breath warm against my ear. "I'm not a patient woman, Xavier."

I shot her the grin. The one that had gotten me out of trouble and into beds for most of my adult life. "Try, honey. I’ll make it worth your while."

"Mmm." She pulled back, but only barely. "You better be worth it."

I was. I usually was. At least, no one had complained yet.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it.

It had been buzzing for three weeks straight, and I knew exactly who it was.

Eleanor Dubois, matriarch of the Dubois empire, controller of purse strings, and my grandmother.

The woman who had looked me dead in the eye over dinner twenty-one days ago and said something utterly ridiculous.

I'd laughed. She hadn't.

So I'd done what any reasonable person would do when faced with an unreasonable demand: stopped answering her calls and hoped the problem would solve itself.

The valet at my building practically tripped over himself when I pulled up. I tossed him the keys to the Aston Martin and helped B-something out of the passenger seat. She wobbled slightly on her heels. I steadied her with a hand on her waist, and she turned it into an excuse to press against me.

"Penthouse?" she asked, eyebrows arched.

"Would you expect anything less?"

She laughed, low and throaty. "From you? No."

The elevator doors slid shut, and she was on me before we'd passed the second floor. Her fingers curled into the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me down to her. I went willingly.

She tasted like the champagne we'd been drinking, sweet and sharp, and when I pressed her back against the mirrored wall, she made a sound in her throat that sent heat pooling low in my stomach.

"God," she breathed against my mouth. "I've been thinking about this all night."

"Just thinking?" I traced my lips along her jaw, down the column of her throat. She tilted her head back, giving me access. "I'm offended."

"Thinking." Her hands found the last button of my shirt, tugging it loose. "Imagining." She moved to the next one. "Planning."

"Planning?" I pulled back just enough to look at her. "What kind of plans?"

Her smile was wicked. "The kind that involves significantly less clothing."

The elevator dinged. Thirty-second floor. I grabbed her hand and pulled her down the hallway, both of us laughing. I fumbled with my keys, distracted by the way she pressed against my back, her lips finding the spot below my ear.

"Hurry up," she whispered. Her teeth grazed my earlobe. "I don't like waiting."

"You mentioned that." The key finally cooperated. I pushed the door open and spun to face her, walking backward into my apartment, pulling her with me by the waist. She came easily, rising on her toes to catch my mouth again.

I reached up to loosen my collar. The top button gave way, then the second. Her fingers joined mine, working faster, more urgently. The shirt gaped open. Her palms pressed flat against my chest, and I felt the cool metal of her rings against my skin.

"Better," she murmured.

Someone cleared their throat.

We froze. Both of us. Her hands still on my chest, my arms still around her waist. We turned toward my living room like teenagers caught after curfew.

My grandmother sat on my leather sofa. Ankles crossed.

Teacup balanced on its saucer with the precision of a woman who had never spilled anything in her life.

Her silver hair was swept into its usual elegant chignon.

Her eyes moved slowly from the redhead's smeared lipstick to my half-open shirt.

Then she lifted her teacup and took a delicate sip.

"Xavier." Her voice was pleasant. Conversational. "How lovely of you to finally come home."

Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

I released B-something and stepped back, running a hand through my hair. "Grandmother. This is... unexpected."

"Is it?" Her gaze flicked to the redhead again, appraising and dismissing her in a single glance. "I've been calling for three weeks. You've been avoiding me for three weeks. I'd say this was entirely predictable."

The redhead tugged at her dress, which had ridden up during our elevator activities. "Xavier? Who is this?"

"My grandmother."

"Your..." She blinked, looked at the elegant woman on the couch, then back at me. "Okay. That's... not what I expected."

Neither did I. I should've known better.

Eleanor Dubois didn't tolerate being ignored.

I'd just hoped that if I avoided her long enough, she'd find someone else to torment.

Sebastian, maybe. Or Isabelle. Someone who actually cared about family legacy and responsibility and all those other words she loved to throw around.

"Look," I said, moving toward the redhead, lowering my voice, "why don't we raincheck this? I'll call you tomorrow, and we can pick up where we left off."

She raised an eyebrow. "You're serious."

"Absolutely."

"Actually." My grandmother's voice cut through our conversation like a knife through silk. "I'm quite comfortable here. I could sit on this couch all night if necessary." She smiled. It wasn't a kind smile. "Please, don't let me interrupt."

The redhead stared at her. Then at me. I could see her running the calculations: was I worth this? A penthouse and a pretty face versus a grandmother who apparently had no concept of boundaries or appropriate timing.

I already knew the answer.

"Right." She grabbed her clutch from where it had fallen near the door. "This has been... memorable."

"I'll make it up to you."

"Will you?" She paused at the threshold, hand on the doorframe. Then she crossed back to me, grabbed my face with both hands, and kissed me. Deep. Thorough. When she pulled back, her lipstick was smeared across both our mouths.

"Don't lose my number, Xavier." Her hand trailed down my chest, fingertips catching on my belt buckle. "I expect a call."

Then she was gone.

I stood there, shirt half-open, lipstick on my face, and slowly turned to face my grandmother.

She set down her teacup. "Well." She folded her hands in her lap. "I see your taste hasn't improved."

I crossed to the bar cart in the corner. I bypassed the wine, the vodka, the gin, and went straight for the whiskey. Whatever my grandmother was about to say, I was going to need something stronger than tea to survive it.

"Did you need something? Or did you just break into my apartment to judge my love life?"

"I didn't break in. I have a key."

"I never gave you a key."

"No." She picked up her teacup again. "You didn't."

Of course. Because Eleanor Dubois didn't need permission to access anything. She simply decided she wanted something, and the universe rearranged itself accordingly. I poured two fingers of Macallan and drained half of it in one swallow.

"You've been avoiding me," she said.

"I've been busy."

"You've been hiding." I heard the couch creak as she adjusted her position. "Because the last time we spoke, I said something you didn't want to hear."

"You said something ridiculous," I corrected, turning to face her. "And I'm hoping if I ignore it long enough, you'll realize how insane it sounds and move on."

"Insane." She repeated the word like she was tasting it. Finding it sour. "Is that what you think?"

I laughed. "I'm twenty-eight years old. I'm not walking down the aisle because you've decided it's time."

"You're right." She rose from the couch in one fluid motion. "You're getting married because if you don't, I'm removing you from my will."

"Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?"

"I want you to grow up. I want you to become the man I know you're capable of being. But you're so determined to be nothing but charm and parties and empty evenings with women whose names you can't remember."

"Her name was Bianca."

"Was it?"

I hesitated. "Brianna?"

My grandmother's expression didn't change. “Do as I say, Xavier… or you can kiss your trust fund goodbye.”

I set down my glass. "You're bluffing."

The look she gave me could have frozen the Hudson solid. Her chin lifted slightly. Her eyes narrowed. And the temperature in the room dropped by about ten degrees.

"Am I?"

She pulled out her phone. Dialed. Put it on speaker. Then, "Mrs. Dubois. How can I help you this evening?"

"Gerald. I need you at Xavier's apartment. Immediately."

"Of course. I'll be there in ten minutes."

She ended the call. I stared at her.

Gerald Morrison. Her attorney. The bald, round man had been handling the family’s legal affairs since before I was born.

I'd seen him at every family gathering for as long as I could remember, lurking at the edges with his leather briefcase, looking like someone's uncomfortable uncle.

He had to be pushing seventy-five by now.

And apparently, he made house calls.

"You called the lawyer," I said slowly. "To my apartment. At eleven o'clock at night."

"I did."

"And he's just... coming? Right now?"

"Gerald understands the importance of being available when needed." She settled back onto the couch, smooth as a queen returning to her throne. "A quality you might consider cultivating."

I picked up my whiskey again. Drained it. Poured another.

The minutes crawled by. I stood at the window, watching the city lights blur and refocus, trying to convince myself this was still a bluff.

My grandmother was dramatic. She always had been. She'd make her point, Gerald would shuffle some papers around, and then they'd both leave, and I could call B-something back and salvage what was left of my evening.

The doorbell rang.