The Dare Collection September 2018. Stefanie London

that he’d find me–that he’d stop at nothing. Then two months of radio silence.

      “He made me promises and broke them all,” I announce. “And for my impetuousness, my mother ensured that I was broken in ways few can imagine. I didn’t escape to rekindle a failed romance. I did it because a mother lets nothing—nothing—not solitary confinement, not interrogation, not hunger—stop her from protecting her child.”

      X’s gaze follows my hand as again I lay a palm over my abdomen, as if the small gesture can protect the tiny spark inside. My now-solitary reason for existence, for having the courage, for risking everything.

      “I see.” And I can tell that in some strange way, this odd man does see. Relief sweeps through me as I feel protected for the first time since being ripped from that hotel room two months ago.

      “Now take me to see him at once,” I snap, recovering the royal imperiousness I wear as a second skin.

      X gives a curt nod. “Follow me, Your Highness. I’ll assemble the royal family in the west wing.”

       CHAPTER FIVE

      Damien

      A SOFT KNOCK sounds on my door, and at first I ignore it. Despite having been home for a month now, the palace still feels foreign—like it isn’t my home anymore. I guess had I not been left for dead in an alley behind the Royal Edenvale Hospital, I wouldn’t have been welcome any time soon. The notion rankles, like lemon pressed to a long-festering wound.

      Whoever is out there knocks again.

      “What is it?” I shout with annoyance, then wince. My three broken ribs are healing, yet still tender.

      When my intruder doesn’t enter, I rise uneasily from the safety of the plush leather chair, put down my book and make for the door.

      “What?” I ask, throwing the door open to find a tall, dark-haired man with a kind smile that makes my stomach turn. Not because I cannot stand his benevolence but because it’s like looking into some sort of funhouse mirror—some semblance of the me I could have been had my life gone in any other direction but the one it has.

      “Benedict,” I say, greeting my older brother, the one who gave up a life in the priesthood for Evangeline Vernazza, an artist from Rosegate. “To what do I owe this brotherly visit? Here to bring me another book? Or to tell me again that I need to give Nikolai time, that he’ll eventually speak to me?”

      I don’t mean to spew my bitterness at Benedict. He’s been nothing but concerned since they found me in the hospital—nothing but caring since I returned to the palace. But I doubt I’ll ever prove myself worthy of Nikolai’s forgiveness. And I can’t say that I blame him.

      Benedict sighs. “No pep talks today, brother.” He looks me over and chuckles softly. “Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but you’ve—looked better.”

      I run a finger down the scar from my temple to chin—the one from the car accident years ago. My beard bristles against my fingertips. I gingerly touch the bridge of my nose, but even that sends pain rocketing to my skull. When it didn’t set correctly the first time, the doctors had to re-break it so I could breathe correctly again. Both my eyes are still rimmed with a mixture of purple and yellow. Then there’s the new scar running the length of my right eyebrow.

      This time I’m the one to laugh, a rare occurrence these days. My hand flies to my side, and I brace the other on the doorframe.

      Benedict places a steadying palm on my shoulder.

      “Are you okay?” he asks. “Should I ring the doctor?”

      I straighten carefully and wave him off. “I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth.

      My brother raises his brows. “You sure are going to be a sight for bitter eyes,” he says, and I detect a hint of amusement in his tone.

      “What the hell are you talking about?” I ask.

      Benedict throws an arm around my shoulder. “Join me in the west wing and you’ll see.”

      I run a hand through my overgrown hair. “I was just starting a really riveting book. I think there are vampires in it. I really should finish it.”

      Benedict urges me out the door and pulls it shut behind me.

      “To the west wing,” he says again.

      I glance at my attire—a falling-open robe, pajama bottoms and suede slippers—and shrug.

      “Lead the way,” I say.

      Benedict walks slower than usual, making sure I keep up. Yet he’s silent the whole way. Whatever waits for us at our destination, Benedict doesn’t seem to want to tell me.

      And for good reason. When we arrive, Benedict pushes open a large oak door that leads to a sitting room, yet no one inside is sitting.

      Standing in an arc facing the door is my father, the king; my brother Nikolai and his wife, Kate, our soon-to-be king and queen; Benedict’s new bride, Evangeline; and in the middle of them all, quite possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, though I am still on some pretty heavy painkillers.

      She gasps when she sees me, and I realize I must look even worse to those who do not see me on a daily basis.

      “Damien,” Nikolai says, the first time he’s addressed me by name since I’ve been home. His voice is laced with disdain. He opens his mouth to finish whatever he wanted to say next, but the young woman rushes toward me.

      “Oh my God!” she cries, then reaches a hand toward my face. I flinch, and she pulls away.

      “What happened to you?” She pulls open my barely closed robe, spots the fading bruises over my ribs. “Damien. Tell me what’s been going on for the past two months.”

      I stare at her, my brow furrowed. Then it clicks.

      “Jesus,” I say, my gaze shifting to Benedict, then my father and Nikolai. “What the hell is the Princess of Nightgardin doing in the Edenvale Palace? Are you all out of your minds?”

      Nikolai crosses his arms. “So you do recognize her. Would you like to explain yourself?”

      I let out a bitter laugh, trying to bite back the pain. But the princess’s hand flies to her mouth. She notices my wince, and I hate that she is perceptive enough to register my weakness.

      “Of course I recognize her. I have read a newspaper or two in my absence—even turned the TV to the news once or twice. Just because I don’t—I mean didn’t—live in my own country, it’s not as if I abandoned all thoughts of home. I’ve kept up with what’s been going on in our enemy nation. Yet now you’ve gone and invited the enemy into our home. Would you like to explain yourself?”

      The princess rests a warm palm on my chest, and I raise a brow. Perhaps this day will prove quite interesting after all.

      “Tell them, Damien. Tell them I’m not a liar.”

      “Tell them what, exactly?” I ask, amusement lacing my tone.

      “About taking me home from the Veil. About our weekend in your Nightgardin penthouse.” She rests her other hand over her abdomen. “About making love to me for three days straight, planting your seed inside me—and then never coming for me like you promised you would.” Bitterness and hurt lace her tone as my head swims.

      I back away, my hands in the air as if someone points a gun at me, which this woman might as well be doing because what she is suggesting could mean an all-out war.

      “Slow down there, doll,” I say. “I’ve seen you in the papers and on TV, but I’ve never met you before in my life, let alone planted my seed in you. What crazy fucking game are you playing?”

      Her beautiful eyes fill with tears, but then