Royally Matched(84)

She bites her lip, thinking of her response. She’s come so far since the first time we met—she’s already one of the bravest people I know. And the strongest. And even though this conversation scares the shit out of me, another part is of me so damn proud of her. For standing up, for not backing down or giving an inch—even to me. Maybe especially to me.

“Ask me why, Henry.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck why.”

“Yes, you do. Ask me.”

My throat gets too tight to swallow.

“Why?”

Sarah’s dark eyes go shiny. She smiles as she replies. And it’s beautiful.

“Because if I’m going to be a queen, I need to know how to be the voice for people who can’t speak for themselves. To comfort people, be their friend and their champion. I want to change the world with you, Henry. To take what I know and what I have been given and make a difference.” She blinks, and a tear falls from her eye to her soft cheek. “And I think . . . I think I could be good at it.”

Cursing, I pull her against me, holding on too tightly.

“You’ll be amazing.”

After a time, I lean back and look into her eyes. “If anything happens to you, I’ll die. I’m not exaggerating.” My voice is strangled and wetness trickles from my eyes and I don’t give a damn. “You are woven into my soul and you are wrapped around my heart. And if anything happens to you, both will wither and die and I won’t even care.”

“It’s the same for me.” She touches my face softly. Sweetly. My beautiful, sweet girl. “I guess we’ll both have to make sure nothing happens to us, then.”

I pull her against me, still terrified, but loving her enough to let her do this.

“What a pair we make.”

Sarah tilts her face up and kisses me. “A perfect match.”





Two days later, I have an itch for a new tattoo. Castlebrook doesn’t have a tattoo shop—no shock there—so Sarah and I venture out, driving three hours north, close to the capital. I wear a cap and sunglasses to try and go undetected, but the presence of security men surrounding the shop would give us away if anyone was paying attention. Luckily, the place is empty when we arrive.

I pull up the photos on my mobile and show the artist the one I want. It’s a close-up of Sarah’s face—I took it a few days ago, on her balcony. The sun was rising and we’d been too busy fucking to even think about sleep. She’s looking away from the camera, glasses on, her hair perfectly bed-mussed. It’s the image that comes to mind whenever I’ve thought of her since, and it’s the one I want on my right forearm, so I can gaze at it when we’re apart.

I have the work done in an area cordoned off by a black curtain, while Sarah waits, reading, on the other side. Because she’s especially beautiful when she’s surprised.

And I am not disappointed.

She gasps when she sees her face branded on my body, her pretty hand covering her mouth, making my cock go stiff and hard and aching for her.

I had new details added to the tattoos on my left arm as well. “The words have new meaning for me now,” I say as she rests her head against my bicep, her eyes glinting and her cheeks flushed—because my ink makes her so very wet.

Duty is written beside the royal coat of arms, Honor beside the military crest, and beneath Sarah’s picture, Love.

“Duty, Honor, Love,” I tell her. “But the greatest of these is love. The Bible said that.”

“Actually, First Corinthians says, “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

I shrug. “Well then, I fixed it for them.”

She laughs, her eyes drifting to the wall of tattoo photographs—examples and suggestions.

“I want to get one too.”

“My grandmother is going to have a coronary.” I shake my head. “It’s one thing for the future king to have a tattoo; she’ll see the future queen having one as something altogether different.”

Her back straightens with quiet strength. “It’s the twenty-first century. And that means what’s good for the king is good for the queen. Her Majesty will come around.”

I kiss her forehead. “If you want one, sweets, then you’ll have one, whether the Queen approves or not. Do you have any idea what kind you’d like?”

“I do, yes.” She grins, excitedly. “But you’ll have to wait and see. No peeking.”

She disappears behind the curtain, speaking to the tattoo artist in feverish whispers.

A bit later she reappears, a small white square bandage on her right wrist. She takes my hand and pulls me closer, adorably giddy.