Prince Albert(82)

“He called her a cunt,” I spit. My father flinches at the crudeness of the word. I wonder if anyone’s ever said the word cunt in front of the King of Protrovia before. I guess there’s a first time for everything in life, isn’t there?

Some part of me, a warped part, finds that amusing.

I think I might be a little delirious.

“I don’t care what he called her,” my father says. “Did you even stop to think for a moment before you hit him? Prince Albert of Protrovia assaults a guest of the royal family – it’ll be all over the newspapers tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry it’ll distract from the PR pieces about the wedding,” I say.

“I thought the Army changed you,” he continues. “I thought it instilled some sense of responsibility in you. But I can see that nothing’s changed at all. You’re still the same immature, irresponsible boy who has no appreciation for consequences – no appreciation for tradition and family and –“

I stand up, the blood rushing to my head. “What the hell would you have done, if some guy were saying things about mom?” I yell. “I’m supposed to stand there, while some asshole talks about Belle that way?”

“It’s not the same thing,” he roars. “You’re not married to Isabella. She’s barely family, not even your stepsist –“

“She’s my wife!” I yell, rising to my feet, my hands balled into fists at my side. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins, anger surging through me, and I don’t realize what I’ve said until I hear the words, practically echoing in the space between us.

She’s my wife.

Shit.

This is a bell that can’t be un-rung.

My father stands there unmoving, just looking at me. For a minute, I think he’s so angry, he’s going to hit me. I’ve rarely seen my father lose his temper, hardly ever deviating from the staid and steadfast King that he is.

But right now, he’s angry. Really angry.

“What exactly are you talking about?” he growls. His face is crimson. I’ve never seen him this upset.

Yet I can’t seem to stop the words that come out of my mouth. I could take them back. I could simply say that I misspoke. But I don’t want to. I want him to know.

“Belle and I,” I say. “I married her. We are married.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Belle



The back of my head throbs where I hit it when I fell. I’ve insisted I was okay practically a thousand times, yet no less than five members of the royal staff have checked on me approximately a thousand times since I fainted, even though the physician said a concussion was unlikely.

“Unlikely, but twenty-four hours of bed rest as a precaution.”

I’ve texted Albie, but he hasn’t responded. The doctor said that Albie was fine, simply banged up and needed a few stitches.

Stitches.

Because he punched Derek in the face for calling me a cunt.

I’m not sure whether to be flattered that Albie stepped in to defend me, or pissed off that he threw caution to the wind and got into a fight over me in front of everyone.

You’re fucking that spoiled prick.

Your own stepbrother.

Derek’s words echo in my head, over and over on repeat like they’re playing on a loop.

I text Albie again. For a second, I consider sneaking through the secret passageway to go see him, but that would be too risky. There will be doctors and his security and too many people around now.

Instead, I lie against the pillow for a second and close my eyes. Just for a minute, I tell myself.

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

I blink my eyes once, twice, three times, willing the pounding in my head to go away.

Then I realize that it’s not in my head. It’s coming from the door to my bedroom. And there’s daylight streaming through the windows.

I must have fallen asleep.

“Isabella Kensington.” The door to my room swings open, and my mother blows inside like a tornado.

Crap.

My stomach sinks. She didn’t come to see me last night after the doctor examined me. The lecture I expected to get – something about decorum and propriety and how I ruined my own charity event by being at the center of a brawl between my ex-fiancé and my new stepbrother – never materialized.

Instead, I’m getting that lecture first thing in the morning. Before I’ve even had a cup of coffee.

I hold up my hand. “I don’t want to hear it, mother,” I say. “You had no right to invite Derek to the event.”

“Derek,” she says, her voice going up practically an octave. “You think this is about Derek?”

“My head is throbbing and I want to take a shower,” I say, avoiding her gaze. I sit up on the edge of the bed. “Save the lecture. You invited my ex-fiancé who cheated on me to my charity function and I embarrassed you. I’d say we’re about even.”