CHAPTER 20 #3
Back in Archie's apartments, I sank onto the guest room bed and tried to process the day. We'd spent hours investigating and gotten nowhere. Multiple suspects, no proof. And now whoever was behind this had escalated again, making it clear they weren't backing down.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: Running will only make this worse. Accept reality and go home while you still can.
I showed it to Archie, who'd followed me into the guest room.
His expression went dark. "Forward that to Roberto. He can try to trace it."
"It's probably a burner phone."
"Probably. But we have to try." He sat on the edge of the bed. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. Someone just vandalized your rooms for a second time and sent you threatening texts. Fine is not the appropriate response."
"What do you want me to say? That I'm wondering if I should just leave like they want?" I stood and paced to the window. "Because I am. I'm exhausted and I don't know how much more of this I can take."
"I’m so sorry."
"But I'm also furious. Because whoever is doing this thinks I'm weak enough to be frightened away. Thinks they can spray-paint some walls and send some texts and I'll just fold." I turned to face him. "And I'm not going to give them that satisfaction."
Something like pride crossed his expression. "Good."
"Good?"
"Good. Because you're stronger than they think you are. Stronger than you think you are." He stood and crossed to me. "And you're not alone in this. I know you don't trust me, and I know I don't deserve your trust. But I'm not going to let anyone hurt you. That's a promise."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me."
We stood there in the fading afternoon light, close enough to touch but not touching. The air between was heavy with everything we weren't saying.
"I should shower," I said finally. "Change clothes. Try to pretend today didn't happen."
"Use whatever you need. Towels in the cabinet, toiletries in the drawer."
"Thanks."
I moved toward the bathroom, but he caught my hand.
"Betty, wait."
I turned back, and the look on his face made my breath catch.
"I know I said I'd give you time. I know I promised not to push. But I need you to know that I—"
"Don't." The word came out sharper than I intended. "Please don't say whatever you're about to say. Not today. Not after everything."
He nodded and released my hand. "Okay. But the offer stands if you need anything. Anything at all."
I locked myself in the bathroom and turned the shower as hot as I could stand it. Let the water wash away the stress and fear and confusion of the day while I tried to sort through my tangled feelings.
I was angry at Archie for lying to me about the marriage. Grateful to him for protecting me and investigating the sabotage. Attracted to him despite myself. Confused about which version of him was real, the prince or Peter or some combination of both.
And underneath all of that, a truth I didn't want to acknowledge: I was falling for him. Had been falling for him since the stables, had kept falling even through the anger and hurt and betrayals. Was falling still, despite every rational reason to guard my heart.
Which made me either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.
Probably stupid.
I was toweling off when I heard voices in the main apartment. Archie talking to someone, Roberto, maybe, or Captain Steiner. The investigation continuing even though we were all exhausted.
I dressed in comfortable clothes, leggings and an oversized sweatshirt I'd stolen from the palace laundry because it was soft and warm and smelled like lavender detergent instead of fear and spray paint.
When I emerged from the guest room, the apartment was quiet. No voices, no Roberto, no urgent security updates. Just Archie standing in the kitchen making something that smelled amazing.
"You cook?" I asked.
He turned, looking almost embarrassed. "Giuseppe taught me. I find it relaxing."
"What are you making?"
"Risotto. I thought we could both use some comfort food."
"We're eating together?"
"Unless you'd prefer to eat alone. I can bring a plate to your room if you want."
I should say yes. Should maintain the boundaries I'd been trying to establish. Should eat alone and keep my distance and not let myself soften toward him just because he was cooking me dinner.
"Risotto sounds good," I said instead.
We ate at the small table in his kitchen, nothing like the formal dining rooms where we usually had meals. This felt almost normal. Just two people sharing food and conversation at the end of a difficult day.
"This is really good," I said, surprised.
"Don't sound so shocked. I'm capable of basic cooking."
"I've seen you eat. Your definition of basic is probably Michelin-starred."
"Giuseppe's definition is Michelin-starred. Mine is 'doesn't burn the apartment down.'"
I smiled despite myself. "Did you really burn something?"
"Only once. And in my defense, I was fourteen and distracted by trying to impress a girl."
"Did it work?"
"She married a French diplomat and lives in Paris now, so I'm going to say no."
We talked while we ate, carefully avoiding the topics of sabotage and destroyed rooms and threatening texts.
Instead we talked about his time learning to cook in Giuseppe's kitchen, about my terrible college roommate who'd once set off the fire alarm making ramen, about the absurdity of palace protocols for state dinners.
It was easy. Comfortable in a way nothing had been between us since I'd discovered the permanent marriage lie.
Dangerous.
"Thank you for this," I said when we'd finished. "I needed normal."
"So did I." He collected our plates. "What would you normally do on a Tuesday night? Before all this?"
"Work until eight, go home, heat up leftovers, watch trashy TV while studying Italian or doing homework. You?"
"Meetings until nine, formal dinner, more meetings disguised as social events, paperwork until midnight."
"That sounds terrible."
"It is terrible. Which is why I escape to the stables whenever I can."
"To see Azzurra."
"To be Peter for a few hours instead of Archibald." He met my eyes. "To remember I'm more than just a prince."
The vulnerability in his voice made my chest ache. "You are more. You've always been more. I just..." I stopped, not sure how to finish.
"You just what?"
"I just wish you'd trusted me with the truth from the beginning. All of it. Not just the Peter parts or the prince parts, but the whole complicated mess."
"So do I." He moved closer. "I can't take back the lies, Betty. I can't undo the damage I did by not telling you about the permanent marriage. But I can promise that from now on, I'll give you the truth. Even when it's uncomfortable or inconvenient or makes me look bad."
"Even when I don't want to hear it?"
"Especially then."
We were standing very close now, the kitchen suddenly feeling much smaller. I could see the bits of amber in his eyes, could see the exhaustion in the lines around his mouth, could see the genuine regret in his expression.
I should step back. Should maintain distance. Should not be thinking about how his lips would taste or how his hands would feel or how much I wanted to forget everything except the way my body came alive when he touched me.
"This is a bad idea," I said.
"Probably the worst idea we've had in days."
"We're supposed to be colleagues. Professional distance."
"We're supposed to be a lot of things." His hand came up to cup my cheek. "Doesn't mean we are."
He kissed me with pure need. All the tension that had been building between us and in the careful dance of being close but not too close spilled over into that kiss.
His hands slid into my hair, angling my head for better access, and I made a sound that should have been embarrassing but just seemed to encourage him.
We stumbled backward, still kissing, until my back hit the kitchen counter. He lifted me onto it without breaking the kiss, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him between my thighs.
"Your room or mine?" he managed.
"I don't care."
He carried me, actually carried me, through the apartment to his bedroom, and I would have laughed except I was too busy trying to get his shirt off.
We fell onto his bed together, a tangle of limbs and desperation and six weeks of tension finally breaking.
"We shouldn't."
"I know."
"This doesn't change anything"
"I know that too."
"Then why?"
"Because I need you." His voice was raw, honest in a way that made my heart stutter. "Because you're the only thing keeping me sane right now. Because even when I'm trying to be professional and appropriate and give you space, all I can think about is this."
He kissed me again, slower this time, thorough enough that I forgot whatever objection I'd been about to raise.
His hands moved under my sweatshirt, palms warm against my skin, and I arched into the touch. When he pulled the sweatshirt over my head, I didn't protest. When his mouth moved to my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breast, I just threaded my fingers through his hair and held him closer.
"Tell me to stop," he said against my skin.
"Don't stop."
"Betty, if we do this..."
"Stop talking and touch me."
He smiled against my ribs. "Bossy."
"You like it when I'm bossy."
"I like everything about you. That's the problem."
He pulled back to look at me, and something in his expression made me catch my breath. This wasn't just physical need or stress relief or temporary insanity. This was want mixed with something deeper, something that made the space behind my ribs ache.
"We're going to regret this," I said.
"Maybe." He pressed a kiss to the spot just below my ear that made me shiver. "But I'm done pretending I don't want you. Done trying to be appropriate and professional when all I want is this."
He kissed his way down my body, taking his time, learning what made me gasp and what made me moan. By the time he peeled off my leggings, I was squirming.