Modern Romance November 2015 Books 1-4. Trish Morey

on him. A beautiful thing, since she had never been able to do that growing up. There had been no one for her to lean on. There had been only herself. The two of them would be much stronger. When the winds blew they could stand strong together.

      That truth, that belief, was suddenly so strong inside her, burning with so much conviction that she could not hold it in any longer.

      “Andres...I need to tell you something.”

      “You didn’t stash your dinner in a potted plant, did you?” he asked, his voice full of humor.

      “No,” she said, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. “Nothing like that. I just need to tell you...I’m looking forward to becoming your wife tomorrow.”

      She felt him stiffen in her arms. “Well, this is a good thing,” he said, “as no matter your feelings on the subject, you will become my wife tomorrow.”

      “I know. But I think that you should know that I want to be your wife. I’m happy here with you. I want to be a part of this, part of this family. I want to have your children. I want to be with you.”

      He stiffened further, pulling away from her slightly. “What brought this on?” His voice was guarded, his expression shuddered.

      “Our time together,” she said, feeling confused. “Things have changed between us. Surely you must see that.”

      “We are sleeping together, if that’s what you mean.”

      “It’s more than that.”

      “Is it? It might be for you, agape, but I can guarantee you that it isn’t for me. I’m a man who has had many lovers, and this is all very run-of-the-mill as far as I’m concerned.”

      There was something off about his tone. It didn’t sound like him. It didn’t feel like him. These words didn’t feel real. She knew Andres. Knew the glitter he got in his eye when he was enjoying himself, knew when his smiles were genuine and when they were forced. This was forced. As forced as any one of his fake shows of happiness and ease. He was trying to upset her, and she couldn’t fathom why.

      “It’s different. What’s between us,” she insisted, “I know it is. It isn’t just sex.”

      His lips curved upward, his expression unkind. “The virgin thinks she knows whether or not this is just sex?”

      “As you said, I’m not even almost a virgin anymore.”

      He chuckled, the sound flat, bitter. Sharp enough to cut straight through her skin. To pierce her chest. “Yes, I may have said that, but emotionally, you are much closer to a virgin than you are to a siren.”

      “Why are you being like this?”

      “I’m not being like anything. This is who I am. This is what I am. I was honest with you from the beginning. You know what manner of man I am. The kind of man who would sleep with his brother’s fiancée close enough to his brother’s wedding that it created a need for that brother to marry a woman he barely knew, much less loved.”

      “Oh.”

      “All that Kairos and Tabitha are going through now? All that strain you see? That pain? That’s on me. They never should have been together. It was never supposed to be the two of them. But I ruined things between Kairos and Francesca. So here we are. Here you are. Because of me.”

      “But I... I’m happy to be here. I love you, Andres.”

      Given the direction of the conversation, she didn’t know what possessed her to make that admission. And yet she hadn’t been able to keep it inside, not for another moment. She did love him, and she needed him to know it.

      Did Andres believe that anyone loved him? She didn’t think he did. More than that, he didn’t love himself. She realized then, with blinding certainty, that he hated himself. That was why he was always telling her how bad he was, why he was always trying to reinforce the fact that he was no good.

      He couldn’t love himself, so she would do it for him.

      This went beyond destiny. Beyond being a princess. Beyond simply being intended for palace life and a marriage to a prince. This was about being a woman. A woman who loved a man more than anything else.

      This wasn’t about running from loneliness or using him to fill a void. This was more than that.

      He was more than that.

      Had her life been full of love, had she been raised in the palace with her mother and father, she still would have needed him.

      He would still have been a missing piece. It wasn’t the palace, the position that was her destiny. It was him.

      “I love you,” she repeated.

      The second use of the phrase seemed to jar him out of whatever trance he was in. “No.”

      “What?”

      “There you go again, questioning everything I say. You heard me the first time. No, you cannot love me.”

      “Yes, I can. Because I do. That is not your decision to make.”

      “It’s impossible. Maybe you have Stockholm syndrome. Or Overly Attached Fruit Basket syndrome, I don’t know. But there’s no way you can possibly love me. You were forced into being here with me. Forced into this arrangement.”

      “I certainly wasn’t forced into your bed.”

      “Again, Princess, that is sex. It has nothing to do with love. Nothing to do with emotional connections.”

      “It does for me.”

      “Why?” he asked, his voice broken, fierce. “Why would you love me?”

      She sensed that this was important. This was essential. That her answer carried with it the power to heal or the power to destroy.

      She closed her eyes, shutting out the people around them, shutting out the Christmas trees, the glitter, the Christmas carols that were being played by the string quartet. She shut out all the beauty. All the trappings that came with Andres, so all that was left was him. Them.

      And she wasn’t alone. Not anymore. She wasn’t afraid.

      “You remember how my childhood was. I lost my parents. My brother. I was so isolated. And I feared sometimes that I would die from it. That the hole inside my chest would one day expand so great that it would swallow me up. That there would be nothing left of me. People were all around me, but none of them touched me. None of them loved me. I have been starving for years. I have been starving for you. It has nothing to do with sex, though I enjoy what we have together. It’s more. It has everything to do with the fact that we are the same. My soul recognizes yours, Andres. And when I met you, I met the other part of myself.”

      He made a derisive, dismissive sound. “We are not the same. Little one, you are an innocent from an enchanted wood. I am the most hardened man whore you could ever hope to run across. I am the man who mothers warn their daughters about. I am the one who makes husbands fear for their wedding vows. I am jaded and cynical. I have indulged in every manner of vice imaginable. Tell me, how is it you think we’re the same?”

      “Because we were alone.”

      He stopped moving then. The music played on, but she and Andres were frozen in the middle of the floor.

      “I have never been alone in my life. I was born in a palace staffed by hundreds of people. I had nannies, more than one, from the beginning. I was never without friends at school. I never go to bed alone unless I choose to. I go to more parties in a year than most people will attend in their entire lives. Even when I was left in my room while my parents went to dinner parties, I was surrounded by people waiting to cater to my every whim.”

      “That is survival, Andres. Not love. Not truly being with people. You were the one who told me that.”

      “No, you mistake me, Princess. I have never once been